anonymous asked:

Why is choking someone into unconscious normally an assumed death in movies? Don't they have a chance to regain consciousness?

In the real world? Yeah. Killing someone by choking takes a long time. It’s a legitimate way to kill someone, but not an efficient one, and the timeframe you see in most films is a fraction of what you’d need to kill someone. It is worth remembering, this can kill you. This is one of those times where “safe” does not mean “non-lethal,” just that it is not immediately lethal.

In films, choking is an ideal option. In a controlled environment, it’s (relatively) safe. You can get both actors in frame together. You’ve got a lot of options to set up the shots. Finally, it’s incredibly easy to fake. You get the actors into position, one of them, “chokes,” the other without putting any pressure on the windpipe or arteries, and play the scene out.

It’s probably worth remembering, (even if some actors forget this part), that acting is a cooperative exercise. Your job isn’t just to hit your marks, spit your lines, and (occasionally) devour any unattended scenery; you also need to facilitate your fellow actors’ performances. Stage fighting is an excellent example of this. It’s not about actual violence, but it is about working together to create the illusion. If anyone gets hurt in the process, that means you can’t just reset and do another take, so this is something that the production staff and performers really want to avoid.

There are a lot of staples in film and stage violence that do not translate to the real world. They survive because of a few factors: most people don’t know what they’re seeing is unrealistic, it facilitates opportunities for acting, and it is reasonably safe.

Choking is great on film, because it gives both actors plenty of time to do whatever the script calls for. So long as no one is actually having trouble breathing, they can do this all day until the shot comes out right. Characters die from this because the power of plot compels them to, not because of any physiological considerations. Audiences believe it kills characters because, “well, I’ve got to breathe, right?” Without ever questioning how long they can actually go without oxygen. The idea that effective chokes are about cutting off the flow of blood to the brain never occurs to them.

If an actor does screw up, and accidentally starts choking their coworker, you have a lot of time to rectify that. This isn’t true for a lot of stunt fighting, where if someone screws up, someone’s going to take a hit, and all that’s left is apologies, or in some tragic cases, obituaries.

Choking, depending on where you put your pressure can also include some insane stuff you probably wouldn’t think is safe. An example would be the one handed choke that lifts the victim off the ground. You can do this a couple ways, the easiest (without rigging) is to push them up a wall, keeping your thumb and index finger under their jaw (against the bone), you’re actually lifting their head, their throat is completely safe, the airway remains clear, they can breathe, but it looks like you’re going full Darth Vader on them. Even for someone standing right there, it can be difficult to realize the victim is completely unharmed.

Beyond this, front facing chokes, like you’ll usually see in films, are very difficult to use in a real situation. As I mentioned above, they don’t really provide good access to the points you’d be trying to compress, but, they’re also difficult to complete because the victim has a lot of options. There’s a lot of counters to these, that range from simply pulling the hand free, to breaking their arm at the elbow. Wrapping an arm around the attacker’s and dragging it out of position will stop the choke, and tie up their arm.

So, no, this is something that’s used because it looks good on film, not because it has any grounding in reality.


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No Regrets (Part 7)

So I’ve been away for a few days, spending some time with my family. Didn’t manage to update this earlier but here it is now! Hope you like it!

Need to catch up? Here’s No Regrets Masterlist

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Swearing. Some angst. SASSY TONY.

A/N: Ooh, the tension, guys! Also, this gif is so perfect for this part!

Originally posted by starkexpo

You needed coffee today. Normally you’re pretty cheery when you arrive at work but this morning you were snappy and your colleagues noticed. The girls have asked you to nip around the corner to the café and grab you all some liquid caffeine. You were more than happy to do it – anything to get out of the office today! You were getting tired of all the drama. In a way you knew that this will pass in time, you’d just have to stick through it. But logic was not the dominant force today. Today angst and bitterness were having a day out in the life of Y/N…

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Kiwi || Part Four

Hello my lovelies, sorry for the delay, i’m in the final weeks of my first trimester back at uni for the year and so assessments and exams have left me little time for writing. I’m so happy to be back writing, i hope you enjoy this one too. Please don’t be too mad, it’s a bit of a bore this one.. THE NEXT ONE WILL BE GOOD I PROMISE. ALL. THE. DRAMA. 

And here, if you haven’t already you can read PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE||

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that day at Anne’s and apart from him confirming your pregnancy you hadn’t heard from him. Total radio silence. Your patience was wearing thin, not that you had great patience to begin with but pregnancy hormones had managed to deplete what little patience you had left, and now Harry keeping his distance when he said he’d be in touch was pushing you over the edge. 

Gemma could sense the lack of patience in you, and so to keep you from driving yourself crazy three days ago she took it upon herself to pack a bag full of clothes and move into your very small apartment with you and camp on your couch. You would have offered her half of your bed, but with the bump growing by the day and the big ass maternity pillow that was a requirement in order for you to get any form of sleep, the couch would have to suffice. It was fun having Gemma around, she took it upon herself to enrol you both in some pregnancy classes, today had been pregnancy pilates. She insisted on joining you, donning her best lycra clothes. She looked odd with her slim frame standing in a room full of heavily pregnant woman, but her confidence didn’t fail her. To be honest, you loved having her around.. She was quite the good distraction. When the two of you finish up, you walk home making a quick pit stop to the bakery down the road on your way to grab a pretzel. The bakery down the road had a great range of pretzels handmade by a sweet little old German lady. You had tried the whole menu at least twice over during the last three weeks, but today you gave all the weird and wonderful flavourings a miss choosing to go with the plain salted one you’d grown to crave. 

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Stupid Idiot

Chris Jericho/OC. For Anon: Reader has a crush on another wrestler. In hopes of impressing this dude she agrees to a threesome he wants, but she gets terribly left out and ultimately leaves. Chris finds her all tearful in the elevator and gets a clingy earful when he tries to find out if she’s okay. She doesn’t believe him when he says what an idiot this dude is, until he makes her believe it back in his room.

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anonymous asked:

Will we get a Hail Mary update soon?? Claire need to get back to Jamie and set things right!! :-)

Hail Mary

Premise: What if Jamie and Claire had 1) been more openly affectionate, and 2) not *had* to get married? 

Part I  Part II  Part III  Part IV

Part V

It was eight days later that I rode into the courtyard of Castle Leoch, just as dawn was breaking.  

I could have gotten there sooner, certainly, but I had kept off the main roads to the greatest extent possible, taking no chances of falling into the hands of strangers. I’d had quite enough of that, thank you very much, and while my stint with one highland clan had turned out rather well on the whole, I had no desire to try my luck with another, let alone the English army. 

And, despite the danger and the fatigue of the journey, my heart had been light and ready to burst for all eight of those days.

…’Rather well’…

Understatement to the extreme.

It had brought me Jamie.

As foolish and romantic a notion as it perhaps was, I had found myself many times on that hopeful, frantic journey wondering….was it fate that I had come through the stones? That I hadn’t been able to get back to Frank?  Had some bizarre destiny planted the fascination with wildflowers in my mind that morning so that I could be brought to Jamie, and him to me? Or had it all been mere luck? Could chance alone truly have resulted in this wonder? Could I honestly believe that mere odds should have allowed two people— so exquisitely attuned to one another, and yet separated by centuries and custom and country—to find one another in a dangerous, lonely universe?

But even as I had wondered endlessly in the long hours and days and nights on the Highland tracks, I knew it didn’t matter; made no true difference why or how by what means I had found myself in this place, this time. What mattered was the burning in my chest as I swung down from the horse; the need of him singing out from my heart; that he was the only thing my bleary eyes sought among the dozens of faces that gaped staring—glaring—at me from around the mist-laden courtyard.

“Mary, Michael, and Bride–CLAIRE!”

It was not Jamie but Mrs. Fitz barreling toward me from the kitchen dooryard, eyes wide…and wary.  

So, my suspicions had been right, then— the rent party had come directly back to Leoch. Part of me had hoped against hope that they would have continued further north, upon the secondary loop that Ned had pointed out to me that night upon the map. If they had, I would have arrived well before them—giving me precious, valuable time to convince Colum of the perfectly logical (and fictitious) explanation for how I had been so tragically and unexpectedly abducted from Ned and Murtagh and the rest and then escaped. It would have worked, I thought; as long as Jamie kept his silence. Would he?

I care for you, Claire.

My mind snapped back into awareness, back to the cold, stark realities of the present. I hadn’t arrived first, and thus the entire castle knew of my desertion.

Nonetheless, Mrs. Fitz had genuine affection in her voice as she clasped me hard to her bread-and-herb-scented bosom. “Oh, m’dear,” she said, sniffing, and voice tremulous with emotion, “they said—Och, child, they said such terrible things—!“

I returned the embrace, feeling affection flood my heart, even in the same moment as fear and dead-panic. “What—what have they said about me, Mrs. Fitz?”

Forewarned is forearmed, after all. 

She pulled back to stare searchingly up into my face, whispering each word so as not to be overheard by the many watchful onlookers. “That ye’re an English spy—and that ye made off in the night wi’ no warning—and that ye came among us tae do the Mackenzie harm wi’ the knowledge ye’ve gleaned in our midst…”

Well, all things considered, I suppose I couldn’t expect fairer than that. I’d carefully formulated my story, rehearsed the details forward and back—all I could do was pray that Colum would buy it. And that I could talk to Jamie at the first possible moment.  

“I’m not a spy, Mrs. Fitz,” I said, as confidently and reassuringly as I could, bending to kiss her warmly on the cheek. “I can assure you, it’s all a dreadful misunderstanding.”

Lord knew I was not a grand actress, but Mrs. Fitz gave an enormous exhale of relief, looked both flustered and pleased as she took both my hands in hers. “I didna wish tae believe it of ye, m’dear—Such treacherous behavior, I couldna—No, I DIDNA myself believe it, child, but Dougal said–”

“I understand perfectly, Mrs Fitz, truly I do. I promise that I’ll explain the truth as soon as possible to Colum—I mean the laird. In the meantime,” I was literally swaying where I stood, “might I—trouble you for some food?—and perhaps a basin of water to wash? Before I attract more attention?”

The water would be pleasant, but it was food that I needed desperately. The bannocks I had filched from camp were long gone when I reached Craigh na Dun. Having no skill as a hunter, I had had to make do with what roots and berries and other edibles I could forage along the roadside. I had made it to Leoch on stubbornness and hope alone; but the reality was that I was very close to spent from hunger, and was having trouble keeping my legs and my vision aright.  

“Of course, of course!” Mrs Fitz said, already guiding me toward the kitchens. “Sweet child, starved and half-frozen.” She stopped sharply as we reached the doorway, looking apologetic. “Of course, I will have tae send word tae Himself at once that ye’ve arrived, Claire….given….weel….”

Given that I was still a presumed English spy who had just sauntered back into MacKenzie Clan HQ.

“Of course, Mrs. Fitz,” I said gently, “it’s the right thing to do.”

While she commissioned the boy known as Young Alec to take the message to the laird’s cambers and deliver my few belongings up to a spare chamber, my eyes swung once more around and around the courtyard. No Jamie.

Ten minutes was all I needed—ten minutes to explain how wrong I’d been to run; that everything I’d spat at him that night had been a dreadful, vicious lie; that I missed him; that I wanted him; that I wanted to stay. And failing that, even one minute just to be in his arms; to lay my head against his chest and feel his arms pulling me safe and warm against him. One minute just to hold him, and tell him with the gentle softness of my touch, with my eyes, that he hadn’t misjudged my affections; that he hadn’t been…’mistaken.’

Come find me, Jamie, I prayed upward into the walls of Leoch. Find me. Let me tell you what’s in my heart. What was there all along.

I followed Mrs. Fitz inside and down the familiar corridors to the kitchens. She ushered me—ignoring the stares and whispers from the kitchen staff—into a small room behind the kitchen hearth that I had never noticed before. Less than a minute later, I was gulping a mug of thick beef broth (“Drink slowly, m’dear, ye dinna want griping  in yer wame, aye?”), while she and a teenage girl drew me a warm bath in a small wooden tub before the fire. While I had protested that cold water was perfectly sufficient, the warmth of it and the sweet scent of the chamomile soap were together as comforting and bracing as brandy to my weary body. She helped me wash and rinse my hair, then wrapped me thick towels with a second mug of broth as she conjured a clean gown, shift, and stays for me, and then helped me herself to dress.

She sat with me by the fire as I inhaled porridge with honey and a small loaf with soft cheese. Her manner was still kind and sympathetic, but her eyes remained sharp and leery.

“I willna hide from ye, Claire, that the laird is no’ likely tae speak your name with kindness. Dougal was cursing ye roundly tae anyone that would listen—Old Mr. Gowan has scarcely ceased wi’ shaking his head and bemoaning yer actions— and wee Jamie, weel, he’s barely spoken, hasn’t he?”

That jolted my heart into a frenzy. “Has he?” I said lightly, not meeting her eye.

“Jamie? Och, aye,” she said, nodding gravely. “He must ha’ been sore affected by it. I suppose ‘tis only right, wi’ his loyalty to his uncles, ken? But my Laoghaire— she was sae glad tae see him return (she carries quite the torch for him, ye see)—but he’s been silent and lifeless as a stone these past days—Has scarcely given her as much as a ‘Good day.’”

Perversely, that made my heart leap. He doesn’t want Laoghaire, not even for comfort. He doesn’t want just any woman. He wants…

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Fitz.” Young Alec’s head appeared around the door. “The Mackenzie requests Mistress Beauchamp’s presence in his study at her earliest convenience.”

I didn’t have the balls to ask Mrs. Fitz for a heaping four-finger glass of whisky, but Jesus H. CHRIST how I needed one.

‘Her earliest convenience.’ Which was to say, immediately. Which was to say my fate was to be decided at once. Which meant that if it were the laird’s pleasure, I would be expelled from the castle before I’d had the chance to even lay eyes on Jamie. Which meant—

Dammit. God bloody fucking dammit.

“Will ye do me the honor of sitting with me a time, Mistress Beauchamp?”

I sat in the proffered armchair across the broad desk from Colum MacKenzie. The laird of Castle Leoch was—outwardly, at least— as serene as ever, his appearance decorous and tidy, despite the earliness of the hour. Despite my earlier need for a stiff drink, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the glass he’d had a servant bring me.

He sat there surveying me, that quiet, wry smile playing at his lips. I lowered my eyes and waited, looking awkwardly around the room by way of distraction from the tension in the room. The laird’s study was just the same: luxuriously crammed with its beautiful furnishings befitting the MacKenzie’s station and wealth. His birds cheeped and chirruped eagerly, apparently not at all sensible of the tension pervading the room.

“Déja vu,” Colum said at last.

“What? I mean—“ I stammered, trying to recover from his startlingly calm non-sequitur. “I beg your pardon, my laird?”

“Déja vu. It’s French,” Colum said evenly, eyes twinkling. “It means, ’already seen.’ But surely—“ he said, gracefully arcing an eyebrow, “you, having family in France, would know that?”

I returned his level gaze with one of my own, though I smiled sweetly. “I do apologize, my laird, I simply was taken off-guard. Yes, I do know what the word means.”

“Aye, verra good…excellent.” He nodded sagely, lacing his fingers together on the tabletop, not breaking eye contact. “Then you’ll perhaps know, too, why I should be experiencing such a phenomenon at this moment….”

I knew precisely what he was getting at, but I feigned polite ignorance, waiting for him to continue, to make the first move. 

He did. “You…in my study…playing the harmless ingénue…after appearing on clan lands under highly suspicious circumstances.” He raised his eyebrows. “It does seem—to ring a certain bell, does it not?”

My heart was racing with adrenaline, but I smiled a smile of simple regret and opened my mouth to speak—I had rehearsed this all the way from Craigh na Dun, after all—but a pounding on the door made me all but jump out of my skin. 

“Enter,” Colum said, not seeming in the least bit surprised by the interruption. I regained my composure and remained facing forward. 

There came the squeal of hinges and the unmistakable snort behind me. “So it’s true then,” Dougal MacKenzie’s voice said said, low and hissing, “the prodigal wench has returned.”

My mind was a constant stream of all the curses I’d ever learned, in every tongue, and I’d played with street urchins in countless countries.It shouldn’t have surprised me, now that I came to think of it—Dougal was Colum’s right-hand, after all, and I had officially been in his charge when I’d made my escape— but it did. I had prepared for Colum, for his savage cunning masked in level-headed civility; I was equipped for that: for the turn of phrase and the traps of language and logic. But Dougal was another matter entirely—I couldn’t trust myself to remain calm and collected in the face of his pugnacious and irreverent manner. But I had to bloody do it, prepared or no. 

I didn’t bother to turn around, just said simply, “I’m not a wench, Mr. MacKenzie. And yes, I have returned.” This exchange was too important to let him raise my ire. 

“Prodigal liar, then,” he said, appearing to my left and coming to stand next to his brother, arms crossed and eyes blazing as he glared down at me. “Conspirator. Agent.”

My gaze was still cool, my voice still polite, but I could feel the shards of glass in it, dangerous to both of us. “I swear to you, Mr. Mackenzie: I’m none of those things.”

He laughed, cruelly and vicious, bending at the waist to put his face mere inches from mine. “Ye expect us to just believe the mere word of a lying, filthy wh–”

Will ye tell us, Mistress Beauchamp,” Colum said, his sharp tone a silent warning which Dougal must have comprehended at once, for he stepped back from me, and came to stand at Colum’s right hand, his own hand resting on his dirk handle.

Colum continued. “Will ye tell us what it was, exactly, that made ye suddenly choose to leave the rent party….and just as suddenly return?”

I took a deep breath, ready. “You will certainly recall, my laird, that since my—“ (Filthy, barbarous abduction). “—Arrival— with the Clan MacKenzie, so shortly after the death of my husband, it has been my desire to reach Inverness.”

The laird nodded. 

“It was my intention to join with friends there in hopes of beginning a new life among those I trusted. It was to them that I went the night I departed from the rent party. My longing for familiar faces had grown so strong, that I could no longer bear to wait. That is why I left. The simple desire to be among friends once more.” 

Dougal made a sound of deep derision, but Colum only nodded. “Would ye be so kind as to share with us their names?”

“Reverend Reginald Wakefield and his wife, Catherine, both old friends of my departed parents. I was a child, the last time I met with them, but there was no doubt in my mind that they would receive me. However–” I heaved a deep breath, pleased to feel a lump in my throat that lent emotion to my voice as I revealed the ‘sad’ news. “Upon arriving in Inverness, I learned that the Wakefields had taken ship for the Indies three years ago, to begin a Presbyterian mission on the island of—”

“How daft do ye think we are, woman?” Dougal growled, with a gesture so violent I shrunk back instinctively into my chair. “Ye dinna have friends in Inverness and ye NEVER did. Else you’d have written to them upon your first arrival here.”

I straightened once more and did my best to appear innocently perplexed. “What makes you think I didn’t write to them, Mr. Mackenzie?”

“Because—“ Colum interjected, his calm—earlier, such an asset to my nerves— now terrifying. Not a hand of clemency: a razor-thin knife,“—I make it my business to be aware of all correspondence in and out of the castle. Oh, not necessarily the contents,” he said, seeing the shock and disapproval on my face, “just who is writing to whom while enjoying my hospitality—as is my right as laird.” He folded his hands. “And there has been no letter to or from a Claire Beauchamp at any point since you arrived on MacKenzie lands.” 

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a soft, “—And if ye did manage to communicate with them… it does make one wonder…” He gave me his most piercing gaze yet, stealing my breath, “—why a woman with nothing to conceal should go to such lengths to do so…undetected?”

No. No no no no no, this was slipping so quickly away from my control.

“I do appreciate how all this must appear on the surface.” I could feel my heart racing with panic as I grasped at straws, desperate to remain calm and failing miserably. There was an audible quaver in my voice—damn it, damn ME!—“All I can do, my laird, is swear that I mean you and your clan no ill will, I have no ties or contact with the English government, whatsoever and I am willing to attest to those truths on anything you wish to name. The simple fact, however it may appear, is I saw a chance to reach Inverness and I took it. That is all.”

“Liar,” Dougal hissed. “Admit it: You’re a paid informant for the English. Ye left our company ten days ago to report our goings-on to your superiors, and now you’re back, despite your sweet face and claim to innocence, wi’ fresh orders and OPEN EARS.”

I was panicking. “That—that is simply not—”

He was looming over me again. I could smell his breath and feel it hot on my forehead. “Admit the truth, woman, and we’ll perhaps show ye some mercy. SPEAK!” 

A cacophony of sound filled the room and startled the birds. 

Dougal’s violent snarling: “Liar! LIAR!”

A whimpering sound. Me? 

Colum’s sharp, commanding, “I can think of no just reason—”


“—that a woman wi’ nothing to hide, should—” 

“Please—please—you must believe–”

Dougal’s hands on the arms of my chair. 

My eyes closed, the colors roaring in the dark. 

Stop. Just make it stop. Stop.  



“—Loosen your tongue–”


I felt his voice jolt through my body like a wave of electricity and I whirled my head to see him standing in the corner, arms crossed. 


I nearly sunk to the floor in abject relief. He must have entered with Dougal, remaining silent. But he was here. HERE

Jamie. MY Jamie.

Floor be damned: I wanted to leap out of the chair and fly into his arms—those strong arms that had held me and warmed me and kept me; Wanted to feel his skin against mine. Wanted—wanted so badly it felt like physical pain in my chest—to kiss him and feel his fingers in my hair. To talk. To tell. JAMIE. 

I forced myself to remain still, but inside I was thrumming with relief and joy. Everything would be alright, now—Jamie was here.

Tell them, Mistress,” he said, and the coldness in that voice was so shocking I blinked as though struck. 

He had stepped forward a pace or two, so I could see that his eyes, too, were hard and icy, revealing none of his usual bright eagerness. Even more disturbing than this, they held an alarming intensity, some silent meaning I couldn’t comprehend. “It’s alright, mistress. Tell them the truth of why ye fled.”

Another jolt, and I could do nothing but stare, my mouth gobbling open and shut. The truth? 

For one wild, ludicrous moment, I was screaming: ‘how does he know I was trying to get through the stones?’

But he didn’t know; he couldn’t know; he could never know that truth.

“I….CAN’T.” I finally said, teeth gritted and voice tight. (Because I don’t know what in bloody hell you mean, you damned, wonderful—)

“Ye can,” he said, walking around to my right to stand with his uncles. “Go on, Mistress. There’s less shame in it than being mistaken and hung for a spy.”

“What’s this about, Jamie?” Colum demanded, his eyes flashing.

Dougal, too, was mounting in his own brand of fury. He took a menacing step toward his nephew. “D’ye mean to say that ye had further knowledge of her departure—Information that you chose to withhold??”

“Aye,” Jamie said, his eyes downcast. “Though it wasna mine to disclose, before.”

Dougal gave a guttural roar and made as if to lunge for Jamie behind Colum’s chair, but before he could say another word, Jamie raised a hand and looked directly at me with that same hard eye as before. “With your permission, Mistress?”

I saw it now, what that look meant.  

It said: be silent.

I nodded and dropped my eyes to my lap, seeing the three of them behind the desk only from the upper periphery of my vision.

“Mistress Beauchamp fled that night…because I spurned her advances.”

I couldn’t have spoken a word if I’d tried. If I could have, it might have been a gut-punched, ‘…Jesus.’

He went on, quiet and careful. “I begged her to forgive me—Told her truly what a fine, beautiful lady she is, and how much I admired and respected her—but that—my allegiances lay elsewhere.”

He placed a hard emphasis on that word, and I thought I saw a shifting, enough so that I chanced a glance upward to witness the significant look Jamie was sharing with Colum. To my astonishment and relief, I thought I saw something dawning in the laird’s expression. Jesus Christ…this was going to work!

“And—being, as we all know—a verra strong-willed and reckless sort of woman, Mistress Beauchamp departed in the night—” He turned his gaze to me, “—too hurt …and vexed to remain…That’s how it was….aye, Mistress?”

I felt myself nodding but I was still staring down at my hands . I could see him in my periphery, his image blurring and distorting as the tears gathered. My throat was burning. With shame.

That’s how it was. Despite his phrasing, he wasn’t asking me. He was telling. Hurt and vexed—the mildest words possible for what I had done to him. His eyes told me the truth: Furious. Heartbroken.

God, what a fool I was. I’d come back, free in my own heart, ready to sing out a ‘ten-minute’ apology, then throw myself into his arms with hardly a thought for just how deeply I had savaged him with my words, my rejection.

His eyes were on the floor, now, and I wanted to tear my own guts out. 

Beauchamp, look at yourself.

I was.

And I saw—vividly—how I had ground his heart into the dirt when he’d handed it to me so tenderly and freely.

I had had my reasons at the time, yes. But God, how I had twisted the knife in his flesh. How I had ripped him.  

He’d made me a gift of himself and everything he would ever be, and to his eyes, I hadn’t even glanced at it before flinging it into the fire.

I did, Jamie! God, I DID glance. I looked and looked and it frightened me because I WANTED it. And I ran because I was married—because of Frank. But he’s gone now. He’s gone and I want YOU. 

Can’t you see that in my face? LOOK, Jamie. Find me, here.

“Well… that does seem to explain things.”

I looked up at Colum in surprise, wiping my eyes, which had been streaming. Apparently my regret and shame over what I’d done to Jamie was playing off rather nicely in support of the narrative that I was the lover that had been spurned. Even Dougal’s hostile posture had softened, though his look of distaste had not.

Colum, however, was not done. “Though it doesna altogether account for your return, this morning. If it was our Jamie’s disregard that prompted ye to flee…why come back?”

“I knew almost immediately,” I said quickly, marshaling my tremulous voice and picking up the narrative from Jamie, thanking him silently for handing me a lie with a fighting chance of success, “that it would look dreadful—as it indeed does, I am well aware—to have forsaken my word to the MacKenzies on a mere affaire de coeur.”  

I met eyes with Jamie and lost my breath for a moment. He seemed to sense that my looking at him disrupted my train of thought, and he casually began pacing before the bookshelves, moving to my right and slowly out of my line of sight.

I carried on. “Upon learning that my friends were unreachable, I did consider going south to England—or to Edinburgh or some other place I might have cause to use my skills as a healer, but my honor prompted me to return–”

“Honor,” scoffed Dougal.

“—and to beg the forgiveness of the laird and permission to remain in his service. Which I do now, humbly, under whatever terms you demand.”

Silence reigned, interrupted only by the chirping of the birds.

Colum and Dougal  leaned their heads together, sharing a heated, whispered conference. I wanted desperately to turn in my chair and look at Jamie, touch his hand, thank him, but I forced myself to stay still.

At last, Colum straightened with a look of decision, and surveyed me intently for a long moment before saying, “You may remain at Leoch, Mistress Beauchamp.”

My sigh of relief was far louder than I’d anticipated. “Thank you—THANK YOU, my laird.”

“BUT—” he said, firmly, “you will confine your movements within the walls of the main castle. And an escort will be reinstated until you have earned my forgiveness. And my trust.”

I nodded. “That is—more than fair, sir. I will respect your wishes.”

We made our farewells and I rose, taking the time to give my deepest, most respectful curtsy I could muster, but turned the very first second I was able, tuned so that I could see Jamie, ask where we might go to talk, alone.

But all I saw was the swish of a vanishing plaid.

[[Next week they talk, I promise]]

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anonymous asked:

You don't need to respond I just needed to say a thing. I find it a little childish for so many people to assume that dan will/should come out. As far as I've read into it I feel like he's "come out" as much as he ever will. He's talked about attraction to all genders. I feel that he's made it clear that his sexuality is what it is and he's going to be attracts to someone no matter the gender. People think he needs to make a video about being bi/pan but really he's made clear that he's existing.

the question i receive more than any other on this blog is some variation of “when/how do you think dnp will come out/tell us about their sexualities or their relationship?” and i’ve never answered it. for a number of reasons, but primarily because so many people in this space operate under such a specific definition of what coming out means and what it should entail. i’m wary, always, of subscribing to a uniform standard for what queerness looks like and how it needs to present itself in order to be taken seriously or treated as valid, and i think the discourse and speculation and constant obsession about dnp’s potential future coming out process does exactly that. in my view the culture around coming out as it exists right now is a relic of cultural norms in which queerness was differentiated and encoded into law and language and social thought as explicitly and intrinsically Other. the socialized obligation to not only categorize and label one’s sexual/romantic preferences but then to announce them to the world at large is only cast on queer people specifically because, unless announced otherwise, society’s working assumption of a person is that they are cis/straight. queer people need to tell the world they are queer precisely because it is different, because it is a deviation from a socially enforced “norm,” and the term “coming out” itself denotes that someone was once hiding themselves and now they aren’t.

for some people (many people) labeling and coming out make a lot of sense. we’re not in a post-heteronormative world. the stark reality is that people DO operate with ingrained cis- and heteronormative frames of thought and it can be tiring to deal with people always making assumptions of your preferences that don’t fit who you are and what you like. labeling your preferences and making sure people know them is a way to avoid those mistaken assumptions. it’s also a way to find other people like you, to ally yourself with a community that is still so marginalized and oppressed in myriad ways, and join in the movement and the fight and take pride in an aspect of yourself that many people would try to deride or malign. but an alternate school of thought is that the gender you prefer having sex with or that you fall in love with is no more a part of your identity that merits announcement and discussion than, say, your preference for masturbating three times a week or your preference for only having sex in the missionary position or any other personal detail about what you do w your genitals in the privacy of your bedroom. it doesn’t have to have a bearing on identity in the most nuclear and concentrated sense of the word, it doesn’t HAVE to be labeled and addressed in a way that automatically reduces and categorizes it and neatly packages it as an object for the public to talk about and weigh in on. the notion of labeling your sexuality and then “coming out” is a construct in the most literal sense, and for some people, who perhaps don’t feel the need to correct everyone’s heteronormative assumptions of them, or who don’t feel the need to find other people with non-hetero preferences, or who think the reality of the life they live since they blatantly/openly share it w someone of their same gender is already pretty suggestive of their preferences, coming out widely and publicly isn’t a priority or a necessity (and in some cases can obviously also be a discomforting, stressful, scary, or even dangerous prospect!!!) for literally thousands of possible reasons.

we can guess that dnp align themselves more closely to this latter outlook. in both of the recent times that dan has discussed sexuality explicitly he talks about not wanting to label it for a public audience. in his diss track he directly addresses his own comments about attraction to more than one gender (j law –> evan p), and then says that it’s hard to put him in a box because he keeps “it” (his sexuality) so blurry. he’s bluntly saying that he doesn’t want to be categorized. in an interview with the sunday times in late 2015 promoting tabinof, the interviewer directly asks dan if he’s gay. dan references tom hardy’s answer to the same question and says that he and phil do not believe that their sexual preferences are something the public has any business knowing–he then delineates the purpose of their role as public figures. they are entertainers and what they seek to offer their public audience is the content they make. that’s it. looking to tom hardy’s actual quote sheds even more light: “I’m under no obligation to share anything to do with my family, my children, my sexuality — that’s nobody’s business but my own…It’s important destigmatizing sexuality and gender inequality in the workplace, but to put a man on the spot in a room full of people designed purely for a salacious reaction? To be quite frank, it’s rude. If [someone] had said that to me in the street, I’d have said the same thing back: ‘I’m sorry, who the fuck are you?’”

as far back as 2009, both dnp were talking about attraction to men and following it with the refrain that they don’t like labels. and that is VALID. it’s transgressive, even, to take a look at all the heteronormativity out there, all of the assumptions that people make about sex and gender and everything else, all of the demand that straights place on queer people to announce their otherness as loudly as possible and categorize themselves as being different, and then to say no, reject all of that pressure, and turn your back on it. refuse to comply with everyone’s expectations and just be happy in liking what you like and loving who you love. just existing, as anon put it so beautifully.

but if a queer person chooses this outlook, chooses to shirk labels and a formal/public statement of their preferences, the default assumption SHOULD NOT be straight. heterosexuality shouldn’t be an assumed sexuality for anyone, regardless of the statements they may or may not have made, but it especially should not be the assumption for two men who did publicly label at one point as bisexual, and who have repeatedly voiced attraction to men. in an attempt to move towards a society that doesn’t make assumptions at all, a world in which coming out is completely obsolete and unnecessary and people stopped giving so much of a fuck about the genders people have sex with, it’s on all of us to change the way that we think about sexuality and unlearn our own biased thought. the burden shouldn’t fall on dnp to correct our thought or go out of their way to tell us that they fuck or that they’re in love–doesn’t that cheapen everything that they are? doesn’t that demand something of them that they’ve said over and over they do not want to give? and haven’t they done enough to tell us about how they experience attraction? it’s on all of us to take those comments seriously and to validate and acknowledge their experiences as they relay them to us, and to contextualize them in the complex textures and nuances of who they are as people.

who they are and what they’ve already chosen to share with us is pretty damn radical in itself: they’re two boys who have shared and built a life together for nearly eight years and who rely on each other on so many levels. they’re two boys who speak of the love and respect they have for each other in numerous ways, perhaps without stating those words specifically, but making it clear through actions and stories of their time together instead. they’re two boys who don’t know how to be without each other, who don’t merely coexist and work together but who have consciously interwoven their lives to the point that all of their experiences are shaped with and through each other. the argument can be made that they’re “out” in the sense of not hiding who they are from us, in the sense that both of them, and dan especially, have taken conscious measures to talk about how much they like boys. the argument can equally be made that they still hide to some degree–they won’t hold hands or hug, they’ll separate beds if they’re showing us the inside of their hotel room, they’ll not say the words i love you in front of us. but to me none of that even incrementally eclipses the glowing reality and warmth of the life they share–it’s as much info as i think they will ever feel okay giving us and it’s more than enough, for me at least, to look to them as models of deepest mutual love and respect (yes between two men!!) and of the comfort that can arise when you find someone to just exist with, outside world and their asks of you be damned

Penthesilea [Part 3]

Title Page & Disclaimer

Sasuke is constantly exhausted, and yet sleep eludes him every night.

For months, he tries to occupy himself with battle strategy in the moments before sleep – running number in his head and trying to outthink the plans of his rival. Uzumaki is a bit of an idiot, but he has Nara Shikamaru at his side, and the shadow manipulator is known to be a genius.

Itachi was able to keep up with his ploys with ease, but Sasuke struggles. He is not a logical or anticipatory thinker, preferring to react to problems as they present themselves. That kind of strategy is fine when it’s only himself, but with so many lives dependant on his own, he can’t rely on such personal approaches.

As time goes on, however, Sasuke’s ruminations change in a bothersome way. Defensive strategies and possible promotions give way to imagining the clear brilliance of green eyes and a mouth curved into an impish smile.

This, more than battle strategy, keeps him awake at night, and he hates himself for being so weak and fallible as to be distracted by a woman of all things.

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anonymous asked:

32 McHanzo if you'd like to <3

sorry, this is,,, so late. but in my defense, I had an idea and had a really hard time bringing it to fruition


32. “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

In his rough, calloused hands, Jesse McCree held an elegantly curved bottle, filled with a soft, pink liqueur.  It was why he had come here.  It was a plan that had been germinating in his mind for days now, warming him right from the centre of his chest every time he’d thought about it, until finally he’d had a free day to get off the Watchpoint and make the long, hot trek down to the city.  While the intention had been clear though, not once had Jesse given it much thought.  It was just what he wanted to do, and Jesse was good at doing what he wanted.  It was only now, staring at it, did it reveal the nebulous complexities hidden within its pink bubbles.

Now he thought about it.  And the more he thought about it, the more he could feel his heart pound and sweat gather on his palms.  The thoughts wouldn’t stop coming and the future gaped at him like an ravanous, fanged maw.  The hopelessness of this situation, the terror of this situation, had snuck up on him, leapt past all his defenses, and had him firmly in its grasp – he hadn’t even realized how dangerously close to this edge he’d been running, until it had suddenly made it self obvious.

All the good thoughts, all the hopeful outcomes of his plan were disappearing like the little popping bubbles in the pink drink and cold, stark reality hit him hard in the chest.

He put the bottle down.

Well, it had often been said that Jesse McCree was a damn fool.  At least he had caught himself this time.

He went, instead, to a shelf filled with decided brown bottles. He bought one of these instead.


It had been several hours and no one had the faintest idea where McCree had disappeared to.  Winston had called for a meeting to discuss a couple budding ops that might be worth Overwatch looking into, and despite repeated announcements and a thorough search of the base, one seat at the meeting table had remained conspiciously absent.  Morrison had simply rolled his eyes and shaken his head and advised Winston to carry on with the meeting anyway, this was simply the irresponsible, flighty nature of Jesse McCree.  Tracer, though less nasty about it, also seemed to suspect that McCree had just wandered off to spend what they had all thought was a free day doing something off the base.  Ana had remained strangely quiet, thoughtful, and it did nothing to settle the strange sense of concern twisting in Hanzo’s gut.  Because where in the world would Jesse go?  To sit in the trees?  He made it no secret that he was not a “forest-y” sort of person – cities or deserts were what pleased him and he was happy to leave the “leaf admiration” for folks like Zenyatta and Genji.

It was only after more time passed and there was still no sign of McCree, that people began to get a little more concerned.

And so here was Hanzo, on what was supposed to be his day off, trying to find space to park one of Overwatch’s jeeps on the main street of Gibraltar, simply because it was the last reasonable place that they hadn’t checked.

These efforts would, eventually pay off.  After wandering aimless around the streets of Gibraltar, Hanzo had finally been confronted by a man who, with a rather wry expression, asked him if he had lost a cowboy.

“How… did you know?”

The man gave his clothing a very pointed look before saying, “Lucky guess.”

Hanzo bristled at the snide comment, but before he could say anything the man put a hand on his shoulder, spun him around, and pointed down a different street, given him very explicity directions.  It was like this, that Hanzo eventually found Jesse McCree sitting against the wall of a store.  He glanced upwards.  It was a liquor store.  He glanced down.  There was a bench approximately five steps away from where Jesse was slumped.  Hanzo sighed.  It was no secret that Jesse had a habit of imbibing more than he should from time to time, especially not with the way Angela, Ana, and Lena would subtly attempt to keep an eye on him when the drinks came out after a bad mission.  He had been doing so well though, and yet all signs were pointing towards this being a Problem with a capital P.

The nearly empty bottle in Jesse’s hand didn’t help bolster Hanzo’s estimation of the situation. Wearily, he approached the felled cowboy; he wasn’t sure when Jesse had become him problem exactly, but he knew right down to his soles that this was his responsibility to fix.  Or at least patch up as well as he could.

(Possibly it had started being his responsibility when their nosy colleagues had figured out that he and Jesse had developed a concerning habit of falling into bed with each other.)

(Probably, though he shrank away from this thought, it had started being his responsibility when he had started caring. He was a damn fool.)

“Hey,” he said, nudging Jesse with his foot.

It took a moment, and then Jesse glanced blearily upwards, using the lip of the bottle to push his hat back.

“Howdy,” he said.  He sounded miserable.  Or at least drunk.  They were often interchangeable; Jesse could be a very melancholic drunk, an unsettling counterpoint to his usually upbeat attitude.  

Hanzo felt a flicker of worry in his chest – what had brought Jesse all the way down from the Rock, just to get drunk on some liquor?  Heck, it was practically Watchpoint tradition to raid Reinhardt’s stash when emergency alcohol rations were needed – what drive for secrecy or privacy and made Jesse go so far out of his way?  It was at least an hour’s walk down the mountain, and Jesse hadn’t had access to any of the Watchpoint’s vehicles which were kept under lock and key unless assigned by Winston.  That meant whatever had driven him to come down here was serious.  

And yet everything had been going so well and that was perhaps the most frustrating thing.  Hanzo didn’t know what was wrong, and he didn’t know how to fix it.  The last time, at least, Hanzo had known to expect it before it had even come – Jesse had been put in command of their last mission and it had gone pear-shaped when Talon had anticipated their ambush and gotten the jump on them.  Lena’s chronal accelorator had taken a bad hit, and that had slowed her down enough to receive a sniper’s shot to her shoulder blades.  It had been dicey for a while, but though the mission hadn’t been completed they had all pulled out safely, with Angela and Winston working together to get Lena back on her feet.  It hadn’t mattered, of course, how much everyone had assured Jesse that he’d done nothing wrong, that he couldn’t have expected this, that sometimes that was just how missions went; Jesse had brushed the concern off, insisted it was fine, he was just glad that Lena was okay, and had then promptly gotten sloshed that evening.  Hanzo had been there though, from the first bottle cracked open, until Jesse had been drunk enough for Hanzo to pry his last one from his hands and put him to bed.  This though… this was worrying, if for no reason other than the fact that it didn’t appear to have been triggered by anything.

“Gotcha this,” murmured Jesse, pressing the nearly empty bottle to Hanzo with enough misjudged force that it slopped over the lip of the bottle.

Hanzo took it tentatively, mostly because he wanted it out of Jesse’s hands and, more importantly, away from his mouth.  He gave the bottle a cursory glance.  Whiskey.  Not surprising.  Jesse had terrible taste in alcohol.

“…So kind,” said Hanzo, dryly. “And I see you have tested it first, so considerate.  Come now, up, you have had enough.  Time to return.”

He tucked the bottle into a pouch on his waist, and then turned back to Jesse with the intention of hauling him back to his feet.  It took him by surprise though to find Jesse staring up at him, with the most heart-breakingly miserable expression that Hanzo had ever seen.

“Y'don’t like it,” said Jesse. “Knew it, stupid…”

Hanzo blinked.  “…I didn’t say that.”

This time, it wasn’t only Jesse’s expression that fell, but his whole head, dropping against his chest. To Hanzo’s horror, he swore he could hear a sniffling coming from where Jesse’s face was half-buried in his serape.

“Made a mess of it,” slurred Jesse.

This was… not the sort of thing Hanzo was made for.  Emotions were big and complicated and frankly rather intimidating things that Hanzo preferred to skirt around the edges of.  Normally Jesse seemed more than happy to follow him in that careful dance around their feelings.  This, of course, was not “normally” and a drunk Jesse was hard enough to deal with when Hanzo knew what the problem was.  Here, he was left adrift.  Now, more than ever, he wished he’d accepted Genji’s suggestion that he join his brother in his search for McCree rather than splitting off to cover more ground – his brother had always been better at feeling things.

“The only thing you made a mess of is yourself,” said Hanzo, and then, realizing what the sounded like, amended with, “I appreciate your gift very much, Jesse.  But I’d like even more to get you back to the Watchpoint and make sure you’re well.”

“Got the wrong one,” Jesse continued, as if Hanzo hadn’t spoken.  “Meant to get the flower bullshit one.  Got scared.  Stupid.”

“The… flower one?” said Hanzo, baffled.  “What scared you?”  Perhaps that, at least, could provide answers.

When Jesse only snuffled to himself, Hanzo sighed and sat right down on the walk, tugging Jesse down against him so that his face was pressed against Hanzo’s shoulder rather than his cloak.  With vague memories from decades ago, of comforting Genji when he’d turned up in Hanzo’s bed, shaken with nightmares, Hanzo kept one arm gripped tightly around Jesse’s shoulder and, shifting the hat, ran his fingers through his hair.

“You don’t need to be afraid, I’m here,” he said, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” murmured Jesse.

Hanzo’s heart stopped.  Only with the practiced control of a sniper, did he force his chest to gently exhale and inhale once more.  Jesse was… afraid of him.  Alright. Alright.  At least now… at least now he knew the problem.  

Why. After everything why… how… how could Jesse be afraid of him?  At the beginning, yes, it was understandable surely, back then he had only been Genji’s killer to McCree, but now, after everything that had happened, everything Hanzo had tried to prove to Overwatch and to himself… did he truly deserve such a condemnation?


This shouldn’t take him by surprise, and he hated himself that it did, but he still felt stricken.  It was surprisingly… distressingly easy to put your guard down around Jesse McCree, and perhaps this was what came of it.  He longed to ask why, what had he done, what had he said, what had he not said, but now, when Jesse was drunk and vulnerable, was not the time, so he let the words sit and rot on his tongue.  Instead, Hanzo simply kept breathing and stroking Jesse’s hair.

He should have brought Genji with him.

“Would you… like me to leave?  I can call one of the others to…”

Jesse recoiled like Hanzo had shot him.  He stared at Hanzo with a wet, bleary face, expression distraught and twisted, framed by mussed hair.

No,” cried Jesse, fists bunched in Hanzo’s robe.  “N-no, I’m so sorry, darlin, I’m so…”

“Jesse, wait, stop,” Hanzo said desperately.  He didn’t know how to stop the tears.  Without really thinking about it, his hands rose to cup Jesse’s face, thumbs brushing at the wet tracks down his cheeks as if that could force the tears away.

“I wanted to get you the flower one,” Jesse insisted, gesturing so desperately and clumsily at the liquor store that he nearly smacked Hanzo in the face.  “For the holiday thing.  'Cause… ‘cause I thought, 'Hanzo’d like that’, but I didn’t.  I wanted to.  Swear I did.  But then… Then all this.  An’ you…”

Hanzo stared at the liquor store, as if willing it to shed some sort of light on this situation, when he caught sight of something through the window, arranged neatly on one of the shelves.  There was a display set up of a sparkling wine.  It was light pink, and he could just make out the word SAKURA on it.

He had been talking with Genji about how hanami, the cherry blossom viewing festival.  The recollection of it was sharp and sudden, an old conversation that had faded from his mind not long after he’d had it.  He had mentioned to Genji that it would surely be starting soon. They’d been talking about how they both missed the cherry blossom trees back home, how spring felt strange without the air being full of delicate pink blooms there to welcome it.  Yes, he could recall that Jesse had been there, but he hadn’t thought he’d been listening, never mind that he’d think to do anything about it.  It had been an idle conversation.

His heart felt hot and tight in his throat.  He didn’t know what he was feeling, only that he felt a lot of it.


“Thought you’d like it,” Jesse said.  “Know what it’s like t'be homesick an’ thought…”

“I would have – I do.  Thank you.”

“Didn’t even buy it.  Chickened out,” said Jesse, letting his head thump back against Hanzo’s shoulder.  “Thought, hey, I’ll buy this for Han, no biggie.  But it is a biggie.  It is.  Big.  'Cause it’s you.  Why’d I come all the way down here for a stupid drink for some guy?  Why’d I do it, Han?”

“I…” said Hanzo.  He stared fixedly at the sidewalk, not quite able to bring himself to look at Jesse, to think about what he was saying.

Jesse kept talking though.  “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified,” he whispered hoarsely.

Genji chose that moment to show up with Winston.

“There you two are.  You guys okay?” Genji called, jumping from the passenger seat of the jeep the two of them had taken down the mountain shortly after Hanzo had.

Hanzo wasn’t sure if it was Jesse’s very evidently inebriated state or his own horrified, gaping expression that convinced Genji that things were definitely not okay, but he was next to them in an instance, lifting Jesse up into his arms like a child.  Hanzo felt the loss of Jesse’s weight, his warmth, his presence so accutely he was surprised the feeling didn’t swallow him whole. Instead he stood, and clung to Jesse’s hat.

“You’re drunk, cowboy,” he heard Genji tell Jesse in a jovial tone.  “Angela’s gonna kick your ass so hard when we get you back.”

A groan came from Jesse as he was packed away into the vehicle.

“You coming back with us?” Winston asked, leaning out of the driver’s side window.

“I… That is…”  He considered sitting next to Jesse, still drunk and handsy, in the backseat of a jeep with the weight of what had just been said sitting between them.

Neither of them had ever brought love into the equation before.  It always just been… something.  And it had been more than enough, more than Hanzo expected or probably deserved.  He had never quite wanted to risk more.  But now that the feeling had been named, it was suffocating.


“I should drive the other jeep back,” he mumbled.

“Mm,” said Winston, giving him a look that seemed just a little too knowing.  “Alright then.”

“See you back at the Point, brother,” Genji called as the jeep pulled away.

Hanzo did an about-face turn and marched directly back into the liquor store.


Jesse was very hungover.

His mouth felt like something had gone to the toilet in it, he was nauseous, and none of it had been helped by the fact that Angela was a strong believer that a lecture about one’s health was best delivered when even light seemed too loud.

He did not feel good.

But he could also accept that, just maybe, he deserved it.

Okay, he absolutely deserved it.  He had made an ass of himself and he knew it.  The previous day came back to him in patchy little clips, each one more horrifying to consider than the last.  It said something that the least embarrassing part had been when he may or may not have thrown up on Genji.  At least that had happened before and both of them were broadly used to it, if not entirely thrilled about it.

What had never happened before, was him confessing the helpless, desperate love he felt for Hanzo Shimada.  While completely drunk out of his mind and crying into said man’s shoulder.

Oh god.  Maybe if he asked Mei nicely, she could arrange to have him frozen for the next fifty years or so, until this all blew over.

And this was, of course, when there was a soft knock of his bedroom door (one that rebounded like sledgehammers in his head) that moments later opened to reveal Hanzo.

Jesse was not ready for this, but apparently this was ready for him.  All he could do was run with it and pray it didn’t completely ruin things between him and Hanzo.  Maybe if he was lucky it wouldn’t even get brought up – Hanzo had seemed happy with their arrangement before and maybe… maybe things could stay the way they were.  It wasn’t like he and Hanzo weren’t both experts at ignoring feelings that got in the way of things.

“Look…” he started, because he felt like he should say something.

“Jesse…” said Hanzo at the same time.

Both stopped, both fumbled, both insisted the other go first.  Finally, when the impasse couldn’t stretch on any longer, Hanzo fidgeted with the paper bag in his hands and said, “How are you feeling?”

“Like an incontinent cat fell asleep in my mouth,” said Jesse with a weak smile.  “You?  I hear I sent y'all on a merry goose chase.  Sorry 'bout that.”  

Hanzo fidgeted more.

“It was no problem.  I’m glad you’re alright.  I… what do you remember, from yesterday?”

Jesse shrugged with desperate nonchalance.  “Oh, nothin’ much.  Remember getting miserably drunk in the middle of the day, and somethin’ about throwing up your brother.  Apologize to him for me, will ya?”

Hanzo gave Jesse a weak smile. “After living with him through his teenaged years, I can’t help but feel that that is just desserts.  No, I don’t mean… about that.”

“Ah.  Right.  Well, I remember… I remember that too.  But look, everything I said, we can just forget that, yeah?  I got drunk, got stupid, ran my mouth, you know how I get…”

Very carefully, Hanzo put down the paper bag he had been holding, and drew out a bottle of pink sparkling wine.  It was placed on the little table beside Jesse’s bed with a decisive clink.  It was a small, fragile noise, very much like the feelings both men were trying to work out.  It seemed appropriate.  It also seemed very brave, which was a strange thing to think about a bottle of wine, when these were two people who routinely through themselves into firefights.  But brave it was.

“I… am not very good at this.  But I would prefer not to forget it,” Hanzo admitted.


“ When I was at the university I did loads of acting bits there and dropped out and went to drama school and suddenly it became a stark reality. I started doing semi pro stuff for Edinburgh festival and then obviously going to drama school was a real turning point. I had the bug from somewhere, I’ve no idea but it was there.“ (x)

Gifs: James Norton talking with interviewers, 2014-2017

When Scotland Leaves: English Nationalism

As a proud Yorkshireman and Englishman it saddens me to say that our needs have often been overlooked and ignored at the expense of minority groups even from our own borders. Since the start of devolution and now with an impending vote on Scottish independence the main political parties have tried their utmost to pimp themselves out in a vain effort to win support in the Highlands for a “No” vote and maintain the Union as it currently stands. Scotland is a parasite on the mother nation of England that has become far too comfortable with it’s current position, their arrogance will cost them dearly in the coming years. 

The West Lothian question not withstanding I firmly believe that it is time for Scotland to go and be allowed to wallow in their own country, content that their fate as a Celtic people is entirely in their own hands. No doubt when things start to fail and the messianic vision that Salmond has promised drifts from view, the stark and harsh realities becoming too much for many former British subjects I will be the first at the border to turn them away. England has been strong alone before and will be strong again. 

A new wave of English nationalism will erupt as we once again fly the cross of St George, high and mighty, above our island nation. Safe and secure in the knowledge that we are indivisible and the Scottish problem will plague us no longer, no more will Westminster have to pander to Scottish blackmail from afar. Threatening the menace of independence, playing on emotional and historical ties in order to extract tribute from London and the richer Home Counties. Theirs is an uncompromising form of hard nosed political manoeuvring that seeks to hide the truth in a web of shadows and misinformation, all while a self-serving cabal of Scottish liberal socialists scheme to engineer the downfall of Britain and the continuing appropriation of funds from a Westminster government that is all to ready to give in to Salmond’s demands. 

We will obviously have a lot of trouble in the immediate future but once the native Scots have been returned north of the border and an elaborate series of border checks and controls have been established then England will be able to assert our own national identity once more. No longer will be have to be ashamed of being English, ashamed of flying our flag and our history. 

anonymous asked:

He had thought it was the perfect solution. The most powerful ego of the group, once he had control of Wilford he would be able to eliminate the competition and finally take over. He hadn’t accounted for what mixing their two influences might create. Days after the initial explosion of chaos, he found himself hidden away in the last safe place, his own power keeping it at bay, but for how long? It was only a matter of time before he was found. (1/12)

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door suddenly swung open, a horrific creaking screeching sound filling the room. “You asked me to do it!” Wilford shouted, his voice wavering slightly but echoing with power, distorted and raw. Dark breathed a short sharp breath, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he scrambled as far back as he could manage. The walls rattled and groaned in protest, dust spilling down as debris fell only to be suspended in mid-air by an unseen force. (2/12)

The air buzzed with a disturbing pressure as Wilford moved to close the distance.“You told me to get rid of them!” Behind him through the doorway there was nothing. Pure blackness and void. Dark’s breath hitched and his eyes widened slightly, mind fully processing the magnitude of his error. “I…Please…” His voice faltered, not used to begging for his life. He was used to inspiring fear rather than being on the receiving end. (3/12)

As he gazed at Wilford’s pained but furious expression his heart clenched slightly, legs trembling as he braced himself against the wall.A pair of hands rushed forward, gripping onto his shoulders with such force he could feel his muscles screaming in protest. His mouth went dry as suddenly Wilford’s face was directly in front of his, so close he could feel the man’s hot shaky breaths against his skin. (4/12)

A heavy pressure pushed against Dark’s entire being, coming in waves from the figure in front of him. Their eyes locked and Wilford stared back at him, expression crazed, filled with anguish and fury. Dark opened his mouth to speak but the words never came. He clenched his eyes shut, willing the world to spare him from his own viciousness. The fingers already clenched into his shoulders dug in even deeper, threatening to rip him apart at a moment’s notice. (5/12)

Dark’s heart beat faster and faster, the feeling lodging in his throat and for the first time in his life, Dark wished for nothing more than to have Wilford back. He had created a monster. He breathed deep, preparing himself for his inevitable end, body tensing and his shell cracking, his despaired fury echoing out into the room.“It was an accident” Dark’s heart stopped at the words. He kept his eyes stubbornly closed, breathing for a moment before he dared to open his eyes slightly. (6/12)

He stared. Wilford was no longer looking at him, eyes cast downward, expression defeated. Tears slowly began to drip down his cheeks and the hands on Dark’s shoulders shook. A rush of cold was the only warning Dark had before Wilford suddenly collapsed against him, Dark’s own influence finally rejected and expelled back to its owner. They both fell to the floor gracelessly as debris clattered around them. (7/12)

Darks eyes stared wildly at the dishevelled figure in his lap who had instinctively curled in on himself the moment they had hit the ground. They remained there Darks heartbeat once again pounding in his ears as he tried to recall how to breathe properly whilst Wilford rested still in his lap for the longest time. Dark watched him closely, like a dangerous animal that could strike at any moment. (8/12)

As the moments passed, Dark slowly began to regain his composure. He stared in disconnected wonder as the body in front of him began to shake slightly. Slowly, Wilford’s whole body began to tremor with barely contained grief. The ugly sound of muffled sobbing escaped his crumpled figure and Dark stared, his mind slowly processing the scene before him. After a short time of just observing, without a word, he brought his arms up and gently rested them around the trembling figure before him. (9/12)

He softly pulled the man into an embrace, hand moving slowly to rub comforting circles against his back. Wilford continued to hiccough and shudder against him, eyes clenching shut and face burying into Dark’s shoulder. Unsure of what to say, unsure that there was anything he could say, Dark continued to comfort him in silence. As the tension began to slowly drain from the room, Dark rested his chin down against the top of Wilford’s head and brought a hand up, cradling him gently. (10/12) He stared idly at the disarray and destruction within the room, eyes coming to rest on the doorway. The encroaching darkness that had previously been pushing its way inside was receding, glimmers of life beginning to appear as it released its hold on the world outside. Dark watched as slowly colour and warmth began to return and things began to revert to how they had been before he had foolishly tried to force his will upon the bubbly reality bender. (11/12) His fingers idly stroked their way down the back of Wilford’s neck as he buried his own face in the man’s hair. He had thought himself capable of controlling this chaos but confronted with the stark reality of his own limitations he silently vowed to never make the same mistake again. In his mind he acquiesced to the seemingly frivolous man before him, settling for sharing power. In the face of the events of that day, he realised with a hint of frustration, he never really had a choice. (12/12)

(Oh my god?? What a great thing to find in my inbox on a rainy morning!!)

Not Sex      By: Y. Black

Sex….. Can I really call it that? Its hard to say because this right here. This right here is an experience. Any nigga can slide a dick in and out. Most niggas will boast and brag on what they stroke game is like. I… I’ll take the ladder. And if you follow me you’d probably say otherwise. You know the way these words tend the flow, the depth in my voice. You’d say I probably talk supreme shit. And maybe so. Hell sometimes I even wonder if I can deliver on all that my mind conjures. Pick you up legs over shoulders. Hike ya skirt up anytime anyplace. Eat ya from front to back. At times I amaze me, is that crazy? Shit I’m probably all talk. Can’t even half way walk the walk. Yeah it sounds good in theory. I can’t be that good, that nasty, and that astute about pleasing a woman. Or can I?

But why question me? I merely have planted the seeds. Which in turn piqued the question, who is YB? Is he that sweet heartfelt gentlemen. Is he a savage who at any given moment is ready to ravage? Will he bring me flowers and open my doors? Is it possible he would massage my feet after a long day? Or is he the bedroom bully that will have me hoarse from screaming his name. Will he leave me sore and satisfied? Will his words be a stark reality? Can he really fuck me like “Art of War”? Maybe like “Missing Daddy” or “Chai Tea”? Mmmm…. Maybe I can be his “Confession”? But really, I want an “Hour Lunch”. Better yet we can make our own story, cause I want to inspire him to create some shit just for us.

Sex… I am not sure I can call it that. I don’t boast, I don’t brag. I plant seeds to make the inter-workings of you mind ponder. Your mind will run amuck with the ways I can please. Mere thoughts of me will become a tease. Unclench your angelic thighs, let her breathe. Let me answer all that your loins query. Don’t let the mess your mind made between your legs trouble you, no worries. I plan to clean you up twice, maybe three times over.
Yeah this is not sex… This is a journey.

What I’ve discovered

This is a long post… but I think its worth reading,

Here is what I have discovered while having a dumb phone in the midst of a technology addicted world.

I often feel alone.

 While most people are stuck on their phone I am sitting here by myself. I can be in the living room with my family (cousins, sisters, brothers, uncles etc), yet not interaction occurs between anyone because they are on their phones. Not to mention the TV volume is cranked.

When I go out to eat with people, I find it hard to hold a conversation not from a lack of topics or slightly awkward silences, but because what was a dinner for two, has now become a dinner for three. The uninvited smartphone dominates the conversation.  

When in the car, i cant help but notice the number of swipes my passengers make to distract themselves from whats happening around them. The fear of being seen, or seeing things as they really are. 

Ive seen children be ignored, because a facebook post was more important than what the child was asking, or trying to show the parent. What they learn is a phone has more value than they do. Eventually a child will stop sharing pieces of their life when they grow older, and the parents asks why? From experience. this is why. For me, it was a football game, or TV show. They were more valuable than how my day at school was, so much so, I was told to be quiet. If you asked a parent though,they wouldn’t say their Iphone is more valuable, but that’s whats lived. Actions speak louder than words.

People are terrified if they cant find their phone. Terrified. Frantically throwing things in search of their lost lover. The one that constantly demands attention, but never gives, always takes.

Often, in conversation I have to repeat myself a few times because the focus from my listener was shifted to that new tweet, or the alert banner making sounds on their phone. Sometimes, people ask me a question, and look at their phone, forgetting the question they ask. I watch them as they stare at their phone, while I answer, and they look up, saying, “Good” or they dont even look up or say anything.

Ive found there is no such thing as silence. Someone is always on the TV, Radio, or phone. There is always noise, constantly! I have gotten in the habit of separating myself to my room just so I can listen to the nothingness of space and time. The birds outside, or the winds in the trees. Or, nothing at all. With the sound of my heart and breathing. Its in these moments I can reflect on the stark realities of life and see whats happening right in front of my eyes. When I silence myself, I can hear the voice of Him who speaks stars into existence. 

People usually only talk about stuff that they read or heard on Facebook (or the news). I rarely hear a conversation asking someone how their day is, beyond “Its good”. Because that’s what we want to hear, and the person saying “its good”  knows we don’t really care about the terrified, scared person inside screaming for attention, who doesn’t know what job to take, or what school to go to. We just go through the formality. 

Its honestly been very difficult to cultivate real conversations and friendships, with anyone. I think that’s why I have been feeling so alone lately. Everyone else is in a different world. 

I got rid of a lot more stuff, and all of my books. All 145 of them. its a long story but its a good one. Maybe Ill tell it sometime. I’ve spent a lot of time laying in my bed looking at the ceiling, working in my greenhouse, or staring out the window. I spend more time on tumblr through my laptop than I would like. I almost got an iphone today. it was so tempting. Snapchat is so fun, I love doing those filters and they make my selfie game soar to the top. But that’s all it is. A selfie, me, trying to make myself look good. its about myself. All of a sudden I remembered what it was like to panic over my lost Iphone, or see people not talk to me because I was addicted. To watch my siblings be sad because I was reading a facebook post and they wanted to play cards. All these things I see happening are all things I did. I don’t want to live in that. its so exhausting. And I know as you read this there is a part of you, maybe its loud or maybe its small, but there is a part of you asking, “What would it be like if I got rid of my smartphone, or even just took a short break”. Im not saying to do it. But I am saying, we miss a lot. A LOT. We miss our children grow up. We miss beautiful sunsets, and rainbows. We miss hearing birds wake up in the morning singing to greet the day. We miss emotional healing conversations with hugs and redemption. We miss reading a book, and letting the words dance in your mind evoking thought and imagination. We have forgotten how to truly imagine things. We miss what it means to dream. We thing if we aren’t connected digitally we miss whats happening in the world, but the truth is, we miss whats happening right in front of us, and the beauty it hold, the limitless possibilities. 

I plugged my Samsung Evergreen in to charge it. The battery lasts three days by the way, its pretty rad. My old Iphone 6 lasted about 4 hours. 

Concluding this post I will say this. Seriously consider the negative effects of the lifestyle that is lived addicted to the digital age, then do something about it. I cant explain it, but I have fallen in love with silence. Its so healing, and freeing, and life giving. When the Spirit of God and I sit, and do nothing but be with each other. Man, that’s good stuff.

If you don’t believe in God, or have any faith so to say, I still implore you to consider what I said above. Regardless of belief, there is a lot being missed.

I pray this post ignites something in your heart that will help you remember your dreams, and push you to pursue them. 

“Human relationships are rich and they’re messy and they’re demanding. And we clean them up with technology. Texting, email, posting, all of these things let us present the self as we want to be. We get to edit, and that means we get to delete, and that means we get to retouch, the face, the voice, the flesh, the body – not too little, not too much, just right.”
Sherry Turkle



Wandering Hearts (15/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century.
Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna)
Rating: M (triggering for everything. if you like happy things, stay away)
A/N: I have nothing to say. This is a thing. I have been trying to update it forever. Sorry I take so long. Sorry this is not proof read, but I can either post it now or not for another two weeks and so yes. I guess I had something to say. 


[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ]

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What Would You Have Me Do?: Pt. 3

What Would You Have Me Do?| Mark Tuan

Pt. 1| Pt. 2| Pt. 3| Pt. 4| Pt. 5 


A/N: So I just checked how long ago I wrote the 1st part and I am so sorry guys holy shit I didn’t realise how bad I am at keeping a regular posting schedule.

It was too warm, too quiet, too dark. Your breathing was too heavy, your skin too clammy, your eyes too dry. Everything was just too much. That’s probably because you had given up. What was the point in pretending any longer? What was the point in making an effort anymore? It didn’t amount to anything and it never will. So why bother? Why not just lie in bed until everything passes you by?

A sigh tore past your lips. You wrapped your arms around your waist in a pseudo-hug and curled in on yourself. You knew that you needed to get out of bed eventually. You needed to shower, eat, drink and catch up on all the work that you have by not going to your classes. But the thought of being human made tears well up in your eyes and you refused to cry again so soon.

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Sleep Comes First (Zico Smut)

You’re aware of two things as your mind drifts into consciousness: a sweet soreness between your legs, and the soft drag of fingertips along your back.

Sunlight is coloring your eyelids a dull orange and you know it’s late enough that you should get up, but drifting there, in that soft, lulling space between sleep and awake, warm and relaxed and slowly taking in the memories of the night before, you’re reluctant to open your eyes. You can feel him, the body heat he’s throwing off behind you and the subtle movements of his chest as he breathes, and of course, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on your skin, and your body warms with the knowledge of how intimate you’d been last night.

Neither of you had been virginal, but in the stark reality of Zico’s very public profession and your cautiousness after a string of bad experiences, it was a mutual decision not to rush into bed immediately. You’d let the time come naturally, until his touch made you feel cocooned in safety and care, until he leaned over you and the look in his eyes made you shiver down to your toes, and it had never felt more right to be connected to someone else before. It was slow and unhurried, learning his body as he took you in and held you so close you could hardly breathe. And now you can still feel him everywhere, his hair in your fingers, his hands everywhere at once, his mouth tasting the salt on your skin. You press your thighs together discreetly; it’s almost as if he’s still resting there, his weight pressing into you, hip to hip, although you’ve felt very empty inside ever since he removed himself from you just hours before.

“I know you’re awake.” His breath tickles your ear, voice a slow, sleep-ragged drawl mumbled right against your skin. Even knowing you’ve been found out, you do your best to play it off, stretching languidly as if you’re only just stirring. “You can’t fool me,” he hums, winding a strong arm around your middle and pulls you back against his chest, and you press your face further into your pillow to hide your growing smile.

“Of course I’m awake,” your voice trembles with a yawn as you struggle to turn over and face him. “You keep touching me.” Zico’s head is pillowed on one toned arm, looking sleepy and satisfied and sweetly admiring as he watches your face come into view.

“Can I help it if I can’t keep my hands off you?” As if to prove his point, he eases one hand under the sheet that covers you to just above your chest, your skin prickling with goosebumps as his warm palm swipes over your belly and around your waist. His eyes are a fathomless this morning, watching your face with disarming intent as you subtly react to his touch with a deep sigh and small shift toward his body, and when his plush bottom lip gets caught between his teeth you can’t fight the urge to get your hands on him either. You let your fingers travel up the length of his arm to the solid expanse of his broad shoulder, and with some surprise you feel the faintest of indents there, four small crescent moons marked in his flesh, left by your fingernails when you’d clutched at him for dear life as you shook through your orgasm. You glance back up at his face, where he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you for a second, where his lips are dark, bitten pink and a little shiny from chewing them, and your stomach gives a fluttery roll at the memory of him using those lips to take a thorough inventory of your body, until there was hardly an inch left on you that he hadn’t christened with his mouth. Zico’s hand tightens on your waist before it slides around to your back, fingers splayed wide over your spine as he flexes his arm to drag you closer to him, the pound of his pulse in his throat and the rake of his eyes down to where your sheet has slipped enough to glimpse the rounded tops of your nipples, you know you aren’t the only one reminiscing about the night before.

“Zico…” you don’t know what you want to say, only that you needed his name on your tongue as your hand moves to stroke through the messy hair behind his ear. He follows your example and utters your name, every syllable dripping with the honey of his voice, and your body draws even closer to him, your covered chest pressing to his bare one, your legs tangling together until one of his is between yours and you realize for the first time how aroused he is.

“How long have you been awake?” You whisper, afraid to burst the sacred bubble surrounding the two of you, and his mouth quirks up at the corners, his eyes taking another cursory tour down your body before he answers.

“Long enough.” His eyes stay where your breasts swell just above the sheet, and with a turn of his wrist and a tiny tug, your chest is revealed to him. You watch his pupils dilate, his tongue dart out to wet his lips, his Adam’s apple bob in his throat when his hips press forward enough for his cock to find some friction against your hip.

“Long enough for what?” He cups your breast in one large hand, his palm warm, fingers squeezing and feeling the weight of it, spreading warmth through your whole body. Zico’s eyes flicker up to your face and then back down to his prize as he leans closer to you.

“Long enough to think of all the things I wanna do to you.” You feel his breath on your skin moments before his mouth closes around your nipple, teeth grazing the hardened nub and making you mewl and press closer to him.

Zico pays your breasts ravenous attention, all while his hands are fondling you, gripping at you, squeezing hard on the firm flesh of your ass to bring your hips that much closer, until, even through the sheet still between you, you can feel the heat of his length rutting up against your core. It’s so different from the night before where everything was soft, measured kisses, exploration and being as close as possible; now he’s so urgent, sucking at your skin like it will bring him enlightenment, holding onto you like he’ll never let you out of his arms.

You don’t know if it’s you or Zico or both of you who does it, but suddenly the sheet is being kicked away, down your bodies until it’s piled uselessly by your curling toes. Cool morning air makes goosebumps rise over you, and then your skin prickles even further with restless and lustful energy as Zico pulls away from you to cast his gaze down your body, taking in your bare form for the first time in full daylight. His mouth falls open a bit, and if you hadn’t been dizzy from his touch already you’d have felt self conscious under the intensity of his eyes, but as it is you can only feel a stronger pull towards him, only a desire to give him everything you have to give. He runs the backs of his fingers along your skin from collarbone to navel and back up, and your soft plea of his name makes him look back up at your face.

You cup his jaw and he moves towards you as if entranced, hand tightening around your hip and eyes drifting shut as you trace his cheekbone with your lips, down to his jawline where his stubble grates gently against you. Your thumb strokes his cheek, fingertips drifting to the downy hairs by his temple and tucking them back behind his ear. You feel out the lobe of it with your lips to his chin, down the long, sturdy line of his neck and back to his shoulder, to where you’d first found the marks you left on him in your pleasure last night, and then you lay your palm over where his heart beats strongly in his chest, his ribcage expanding and falling more rapidly by the second. Zico seeks out your mouth, his lips closing around your top lip and running his tongue against the edge of it until you tremble and sigh against him.

You reach down and take into your hand what’s been pressing insistently into you since you turned to face him;, and Zico’s sharp intake of breath, his choked grunt of your name, travel straight down to the pit of your stomach. You stroke him twice, your grip steady but light, and he nearly turns to puddy against you, eyes clenching shut, muscles taut, hips rocking into your hand. You squeeze him lightly at the base and he kisses you so hard that he pushes you right over onto your back, clamboring over you all frantic limbs and desperate, sloppy kisses and cock leaking pre cum over your fingers.

“Baby, baby…” You tighten your grip on him, twisting your hand to let your palm encircle the sensitive head of him, and his arm shakes with the effort of holding himself up above you as he reaches between the two of you and grabs onto your wrist. He pulls your hand away from him, not even giving you a chance to complain about it before his tongue is back in your mouth and he’s pressing your hand down against the mattress beside your head with his own, squeezing it in his need. “Have to…need to taste you again.”

Zico wastes no time in making his way down your body, leaving wet kisses in his wake on his descent. Between your legs he spreads your thighs further apart, his eyes intent on the apex of them where you’re nearly dripping wet for him, and then he’s leaving soft, suckling love bites against your inner thighs and making you writhe impatiently under him. Gratefully, he doesn’t tease you for long, too eager to have your taste in his mouth, and the first long swipe of his tongue is enough to make your hands come down onto his head and twist in his hair. He licks through your folds with the wet tip of his tongue, rolling it up underneath your clit and then down to your entrance. He cups and squeezes your thighs in his hands, holding you in place while he nuzzles his face against your pussy to get better access to every wet inch of you, and you can hardly keep yourself from biting straight through your lip as he makes you shake down to your toes.

“Z-Zico,” you gasp, nearly screaming the last syllable of his name when he spreads you open with his thumbs to slide his tongue inside of you as far as he can, and feeling the sleek, agile muscle curling up against your upper wall has you arching high off the bed, your muscles starting to clench as an orgasm draws near. You pant and look down at him, at his mess of slept- on curls nestled between your open thighs, his head moving rhythmically as he slowly tongue fucks you to the point of forcing all reason out of your head. Your hips buck up against his face, you can’t help it, you’re growing so close and you need him closer, you need more, and Zico’s eyes are nearly black, heavy lidded and lustful when he finally opens them and glances up your body to watch your face. They’re telling you silently to ride his tongue, and ride it you do, a ragged moan bubbling from your lips as you toss your head back, losing yourself in the nerve-sizzling pleasure he gives you while you roll your hips against his mouth.

He pulls off suddenly and you nearly start to cry, rearing up to find out what on earth he’s doing, but you can’t find a word to say when you see his pillowy mouth glistening with your juices. Two slender fingers replace where his mouth had been, sliding up into you and reaching places his tongue couldn’t, and you can’t hold yourself up anymore, falling back against the pillows, but you think you see the hint of a smirk on his swollen mouth right before his head descends back over you and your clit encircled by his tongue and sucked between his lips. Zico holds his arm over you to keep you still this time, and with good reason; with the combination of his long fingers pumping and curling inside you and his hot, wet, skillful mouth on your clit you have no hope of self restraint. Your mouth opens wide in a silent scream, stars swirl behind your eyelids as you cum, your body wracking in time with the waves of pleasure coursing through your body. He nearly has to weigh you down to keep your hips from bucking wildly against him, and your fists white knuckle the sheets and his hair.

He releases your clit with a soft moan and heavy breath, his fingers slowing but never leaving you as you lay shaking on the bed, and he watches as you blink your hazy eyes at the ceiling.

“I could eat you out for hours,” he confesses, his voice gone even more hoarse as he ghosts soothing, shivery kisses over your thigh and along your hip. You can only whimper as you struggle to hoist yourself up onto your elbow, letting the hand that had been clenched in his hair cup his cheek and trace that incredible mouth. Holding your gaze, he kisses the pad of your thumb before he sucks the tip of it, much like he’d just done to your clit, swirling his tongue around it before letting it slip from his lips. “Think you could cum in my mouth one more time?” Your brain is still fuzzy from your first orgasm, muscles twitching, and yet your pussy clamps down onto his fingers at the very sight of him and the husky, heated quality of his voice, and you can only nod, giving him a breathy ‘yes, Zico’.

Of course you can. Your body obeys his commands without effort or question, like an instrument to its player.

Every nerve is tuned into high frequency, and the quick little laps that he gives your clit are almost too much to bear. It’s wonderful as much as it is excessive, sharp electricity traveling down your legs in little jolts. You’re still so wet from your first gush that you can hear the obscene sound of his fingers working at a maddeningly steady pace, a third finger teasing at you before it slides in to join the other two and stretches you even further. You moan out loud at the new intrusion, your hands flying up to grip the headboard above your head as you writhe with breathless apprehension. Mindful of your sensitivity, Zico gives your clit a short break, tonguing and sucking your lips and around the tight ring of your entrance that stretches around his fingers, and when he hits that lovely spot inside you that he’s been grazing dead on, you give a shout, voice gone rough and keening. He gives a pleased hum against you, proud of himself for finding what he’s been looking for, and presses harder against it. You pant his name, grab at him, your feet thrashing and digging into the bed as Zico works you towards another orgasm you weren’t sure would even happen and he gives you his hand to grip. Your fingers squeeze until his circulation must be cut off, because he’s returned attention to your clit, giving it shallow sucks and flicks across and up and down and you feel like you explode, a loud cry leaving you before you can even think to stop it. He gives a quiet rumbling groan as you clench around his fingers again, coating them with another generous rush of your cum, and it isn’t until you’re a trembling, useless heap above him that he finally moves away from between your legs, one hand and the lower half of his face glistening.

You feel as if you can hardly move as Zico props himself back up over you, but that doesn’t stop you from wrapping yourself around him as his hips come to rest between your thighs. Peering up at him, Zico looks like the picture of an ardent lover, mussed hair framing his flushed face, lips swollen and still wet, body taut with arousal and restraint. Your hands find themselves at his waist, drifting down over his slim, fleshy hips and around to his backside where you squeeze at him. His response is immediate, a hard buck of his hips into yours, driving his cock, which was already heavy and craving attention against your lower belly, against you for friction, his eyelids fluttering as he takes in a hard breath through his nose.

“Zico,” you sound wrecked to your own ears, even as you reach for his face and bring him down to kiss the mouth that brought you to such dizzying heights. You fight against the sluggishness in your limbs and draw your legs up higher around his waist, causing your hot, drenched center to drag up against his needy erection, and he shudders against your body, a low whine rising in his throat. “Fuck me, Zico.”

When he enters you, he holds himself there inside you, buried to the hilt, his hips flexed against yours as he tips his head back, back bowing as he lets out a loud groan. Your legs clamp tighter around him, fingers digging into the firm muscle on the backs of his arms; he’s hot and rigid and so deep inside you that you can’t find a single sound to make when you open your mouth.

He lowers himself down over you, pressed flushed against your body as he claims your mouth in a searing kiss until your lips are sore and beyond that, pressing his forehead to yours to fix you with his darkened eyes. One hand grips your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he ruts into you, fucking you with deep, deliberate snaps of his hips that make your already sensitized nerves go haywire, no hint of the sweet and gentle lovemaking that was last night. The bed squeaks and rocks with every thrust, his steady grunts and humming moans coming every time he drives himself home.

You don’t feel as if you could cum again so soon, but the way he feels filling you up and pressed against you is more than enough. You clutch at him, holding him to you, breathing his breath as he breathes yours and trying your best to meet his powerful thrusts. Zico’s face falls to your neck, his mouth devouring the skin there and making you buck underneath him and moan into his ear. He rears up then, your legs finding themselves in the crooks of his elbows, your body bending to his whim as he maneuvers you into a position to drive deeper. Your nails scratch at his back and sides, your breath panting out of your lungs as you watch the sweat bead on his brow, watch his face set in pleasure and determination.

“Come on, baby, fill me up,” you encourage him, wrapping your arms back around him, clutching at the sweaty skin of his back as he arcs down over you with a curse. “Cum for me, Zico. Cum inside me.”

He surges into you once again, and with a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper of your name, he spills himself into you. Three good, warm spurts burst from him, filling you up as you squeeze and milk him for all he’s worth.  The muscles in your legs are sore when he lets them go, and Zico crumples over you in an exhausted, sweaty heap that smells of sex. Of course, you likely don’t fare much better.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He mumbles into your neck, hands trailing slowly down your sides and over your legs as if to scan for injuries. “Was I too rough?”

“No,” you shake your head so vehemently he chuckles, stretching contentedly as much as you’re able to with him still on top of you. “It was amazing.” You smile and peck his cheek. “Please don’t hesitate to fuck me like that again.” Zico’s mouth is all smirk as he raises up to watch your face.

“Well, if you insist.” You share another languid, tongue filled kiss, his soft laugh shifting into a deep, satisfied groan that you feel in your own chest. “Mm, that was….incredible.” His hands come up and cup your breasts again, giving them each a little squeeze and a soft kiss. “You’re incredible.” You feel your face warm in a happy blush, smiling at him and brushing dampened strands of hair from his forehead.

“Ditto.” Zico only drags himself off of you when you push at his shoulders and complain of being squished, and even then you nearly have to roll him over yourself. You’re happy to bring the sheets back over the both of you and mold yourself up against his side as he flops his long arms around you for a cuddle.

“I’ve got no control when it comes to you,” he says on a long breath, as if he’s admitting something he can hardly believe. “Not now that I know what it’s like to be with you.” He tucks his face against your shoulder again, nosing at your collarbone and the crook of your neck, and your heart swells with so much affection for him it’s hard not to spill your every feeling and secret to him as you rub his back slowly.

“You don’t need to control yourself with me.”

“I’ll show you how crazy you make me.” Zico huddles you close to him, encased in his arms as a huge yawn takes him over for a second. “But sleep comes first.”