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thedivinevera · 2 years

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Favor (chapter 2)

Yan! Emperor! Zhongli x empress! Reader

Emperor/empress, concubine, Chinese dynasty, Chinese concubine, concubine/empress, yandere Emperor, a little thirst, sleeping in one bed, kissing, lesbian homewreaker, marriage, harem

Tw : unhealthy obsession, yandere, a little nsfw, lesbian homewreaker(lol), harem agenda, mention of sex, black mailing, forced marriage, mention of cheating

Oof so this is my part 2 of favor. Sorry if it takes me so long to write I am too occupied to write this so yah enjoy.

Pls read this ↓

( I just got a hate for my bad writing I don't know what the au anon is taking about but for now a little reminder I been writing for at least 2 to 1 months now. I been in a process of learning how to write and my mother tongue is not english I am a filipino Still learning how to speak foreign language. So pls if you don't like my fanfics then you can freely block me or just stop reading my fanfics. I don't like hate comments in my inbox. Just like what the rules/pinned rule I am a sensitive person thank you - author )

Reblogs are appreciated thank you

A obsessive emperor and your supposedly enemy concubine who has a crush on you and an entire empire and palace (the forbidden city) to manage seems exhausting right. And if it still not exhausting a emperor named zhongli is now misunderstanding your cold nature as a form of jelousy and the concubine named yinshu wanting to impress you and once again misunderstand your professionality as a jelousy both is convincing you that they don't love each other but in reality you actually want the opposite huh what a tiredful life the empress have

Emperor rex lapis of liyue, warlord morax one of the greatest leader and emperor of the history. Great at wars, affairs and mostly contract but he's also soooo obsessed with the empress its unhealthy but he doesn't see it in that way. Emperor zhongli met the empress in a road. The empress eyes has captured the merciless emperor's eyes for a moment and after that he start "studying" and " investigating" the empress and when the emperor zhongli found out that the empress family is financially unstable he offer a "help" and as a exchange they need they're daughter to be wed to him and ever since that day the "lovebirds" of the liyue has born

Empress l/n y/n. The empress of liyue, the tamer of morax, the lovely empress of rex lapis and the lovely wife of zhongli. She met zhongli in the road a shortcut to be specific. While running for ernard she encountered a luxurious carriage there he met zhongli she doesn't know he's the emperor after all her family lives in the outskirts of the city. Very far from the city and there living peacefully with her family. Not until a suspicious incident happened. Their business suddenly crash and they did not know what is wrong. The customers suddenly disappeared slowly each day but because of luck. The emperor lend them a hand and for the exchange is the hand of their lovely daughter. The people think the empress as lucky person because imagine capturing the emperor and makes him devoted to you ohh how lucky you are. And also the empress is successful in bussines. A lot of people admire her and she become the blue print of the woman in the nation. A lot of woman idolize her but a daughter of a governer felt something different

Concubine ling yinshu the daughter of the governer ling . A great woman and known in the society as the greatest admirer of the empress. She developed a secrets crush on the empress why wouldn't she. The empress is beautiful, smart and a good person she also captures the emperor heart. So she requested for his father to turn her turn her into the emperor's concubine. She knows its a little of bad plan but hear her out if she becomes a concubine she can be close to the empress and if she's lucky the empress can turn her into a student or more better turn her into her mistress someone who can offer some heat when the emperor is in the war leaving his wife in a cold bed without a accompany

Todays night is the wedding of your husband zhongli to his concubine. You're in your seat looking at the book not reading it because your brain is occupied of something. The concubine has a crush on you. You're sure about that or not. But crush or not you will not going to create any deep relationship with that concubine keeping an arm length relationship with her can save her life. You know your husband like a back of your hand after he reveal all his card and wore his heart on his sleeves because of "love" you're confident that if he found out that the concubine is getting all of your attention he will going to execute yinshu in a blink of an eyes just like what happen into your hand maiden. She's a great woman she always make you smile and laugh but the emperor hates that fact so when you comeback after your visit in the temple you did not saw her and lately you found out that she is execute to the crime of disrespecting the emperor. Ever since that day you make sure to keep everyone in a arm length out of guilt

"empress the emperor is here" your maid annonce. You command her to make some tea. "my empress how you been doing? " he Humm how you hate his deep voice its charming and seductive but you will not forget that it's also the voice that order to kill your friends. "you probably met her already aren't you?. How's she?. A lot of people says that she's one of your most devoted fan" Huh that makes it confirm everything "my goddess I know you don't care about my marriage but i wish for you to know that what ever happened tonight you're still my lovely empress" you nod never say any word. You hate him but you can not disagree that you like the pleasure you felt when you see his face in desperate. He's like a kicked puppy "please talk to me. A lot of war I have encounter but you're neglection to me makes me wanna die. Please I need you" you found his head on your shoulder. You can feel some wet drop in your neck. He's crying how pathetic you need to stop this before he stain your dress you turn around and cup his face you look at his eyes you saw some tears your hand traveled to his collar and you slam your lips to his lips he kisses you back. You pull it for a moment leaving him needy and wanting for more just like always. You whisper at his ears "You want some attention right" he nod "but don't misunderstand this as a form of love. I don't love you but I also hate to see the protector of the liyue crying pathetically it destroyed my pride as a liyue citizen" he nod again and pull you for a. Both of you have a heated hours an hour of "love making". You admitted it you enjoy it for a little while he enjoyed it like its his last meal. Little did you know à guest has come to visit the empress but stop when she hear some moan coming from the bedroom ah how absolutely divine your voice are she think. How she wish to become the emperor just for that time but that's only a dream she can't earn

The night has come and the wedding reception is full of red. Zhongli is dressed in gold and red, while the concubine is dressed with red and a little bit of gold her dress is decorated with dragon symbol oh how much he hates to see it in other woman's clothing. It represent the betrayal zhongli has done to his wife. But he doesn't need to worry he doesn't have to see it again right...

All the guests are congratulating the new couple giving them so gift and wishing them a great life. Some even wishes them to have a lot of child in the future it disgust them. The wedding is finally done they both go back in the Palace but despite the tradition that they need to share a night with each other. The emperor refuse "yinshu you are the daughter of the governer but don't expect me to share a night with you. The only woman that I need in my life is my wife. I want to show her that I am loyal to her but because of you. It's all destroyed. Enjoy the night because this is the only time we will going to see each other" he speak in a threatening cold voice. after that he run to the empress palace he searched for the empress. He see your body sleeping but he ignored it and hug you tightly he position himself in your side and keep the tight hug he rather sleep with you than that concubine. He love you so much it's deadly(no pun intended)...

#genshin impact x reader #yandere zhongli x reader #yandere zhongli #yandere emperor #Emperor zhongli #yandere genshin impact x reader #Zhongli x reader #Zhongli x smut #TW yandere #the priestress words

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nickjunesource · 3 years

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Max Minghella is sitting in his backyard in the LA sunshine, his t-shirt an homage to the French filmmaker Mia Hansen-Løve, his adopted shepherd mix, Rhye, excited by the approach of a package courier.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks — the dog, not me — tenderly.

Minghella, who at 35 has dozens of screen credits to his name, is best known as The Handmaid’s Tale’s cunning chauffeur Nick Blaine, a character who it’s difficult to imagine saying sweetheart. In airless Gilead, of course, a cautious hand graze with Elisabeth Moss’ June can pass for a big romantic gesture. In a Season 1 episode featuring child separation and hospital infant abduction, Nick’s major contribution is to trade stolen glances with a sex slave while “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” pumps discordantly along. I ask Minghella about playing the series’ closest approximation to a dreamy male lead against the show’s dark narrative of female subjugation.

“I know this is not the answer you want to hear,” Minghella says with none of Nick’s hesitation. “But I like that stuff, right? In the pilot, I think Nick only had a handful of lines. It wasn't clear that this is what the character would turn into. And it's quite fortunate for me personally, because I'm not a massively sort of intellectual person in my real life. I love Fifty Shades of Grey. That's like my Star Wars. It suits me to play a character like him.”

Minghella surmises that this enduring romanticism is an outcome of nurture. His father, the late British director Anthony Minghella, made grand romantic dramas like Cold Mountain and The English Patient. And there was the young, cinema-mad Max sitting on the living room sofa, absorbing everything. “It’s taken me a long time to understand this,” he says of his prolonged childhood exposure to love stories. “My dad made The English Patient when I was 10. So it was two years of watching the dailies to that movie and then watching 50 cuts of it. And then [The Talented Mr.] Ripley he made when I was 13, and it was the same thing.” These were an adolescent Max Minghella’s alternative to reruns. “I think they did shape my perspective on the world in a lot of ways, specifically The English Patient. That was a complicated love story, and I wonder sometimes how much it's affected my psychology.”

Some sons rebel; others resemble. Minghella’s co-star O-T Fagbenle, who plays June’s other lover from before the time of Gilead, got his first job acting in Anthony Minghella’s romantic crime film Breaking and Entering. “Anthony is one the kindest, most beautiful men that I've ever had the privilege of working with before,” Fagbenle says. “And Max has his gorgeous, sensitive, open-minded soul.”

Though Minghella spent his childhood on the set of The Talented Mr. Ripley, playing an uncredited Confederate soldier role in Cold Mountain, and tooling around with a Super-8 camera Matt Damon gave him, he insists his upbringing was normal. He grew up in South Hill Park overlooking Hampstead Heath in London with his father and mother, the choreographer Carolyn Choa. (Minghella also has a half-sister, Hannah Minghella, who is now a film executive.) Yes, technically, it was London, but that’s not how it seemed. “I feel like I grew up in a very small town. Every school I went to was in Hampstead. I was born in Hampstead,” Minghella says of the small map dot of his life before university. “When I went to New York, I felt I was going to the big city.”

Despite his illustrious surname, movie-watching was far from restricted to the classics. “Beverly Hills Cop is definitely the movie I remember having an unhealthy obsession with. I think I saw it when I was 5 for the first time, and I'd watch it just two or three times a day for years. I'm just obsessed with it.”

Plenty of actors can trace their love of movies back to a love of stories, but for Minghella the relationship seems to flow in reverse. When he left for Columbia University, Minghella opted to study history for its connection, through storytelling, to film. It was during the summers between his years of college that he started taking acting more seriously. Before his graduation, he’d already appeared in Syriana, starring Damon and George Clooney. Soon, he’d make a splash as Divya Narendra in The Social Network in 2010 and be cast in Clooney’s Ides of March. As all young actors eventually must, Minghella moved to Los Angeles.

It’s been over a decade since he last lived on the Heath, but, perhaps unusually for a person who’s chosen his profession, Minghella is adamantly not a “shapeshifter,” in his words. Home for Christmas this year, he started sifting through old journals stored at his mother’s house, “just like scraps of writing from when I was extremely young up through my teenage years,” before coming to America. “It was hilarious to me,” Minghella says of staring at his childhood reflection. “My review of a movie at 7 years old is pretty much what my review of a movie at 35 will be. My taste hasn't changed much. And when I sort of love something, I do tend to continue to love it.”

Which brings us back to his enduring love of romance, born of his bloodline, which is all over Minghella’s own 2018 directorial debut. Teen Spirit is a hazily lit film about a teenage girl from the Isle of Wight — the remote British island where Max’s father Anthony was born — who enters a local X-Factor-style singing competition. (It stars Minghella’s rumored girlfriend of several years, Elle Fanning.) The story is small, but its crescendos are epic.

Minghella calls the movie — an ode to the power of the pop anthem — “embarrassingly Max.” Max loves a good music-driven movie trailer — he’s watched the one for Top Gun: Maverick “many” times. And Max loves the rhythmic beats of sports movies like Friday Night Lights. Max loves movies with excesses of female energy, like Spring Breakers. He likens Teen Spirit to an experiment, his answer to the question, “Can I take all these things that I love and find a structure that can hold them?” The result is a touching “hodgepodge” of Minghella’s fascinations, inspired by the songs from another thing he loves: Robyn’s 2010 album Body Talk (itself a dance-pop meditation on love).

Minghella hasn’t directed any films since, but he sees now how making movies fits his personality — organized, impatient — more organically than starring in them does. Directing also helped him to appreciate that acting is “much harder than I was giving it credit for,” which, in turn, has made him like it more. Besides The Handmaid’s Tale currently airing on Hulu, Minghella appears in Spiral, the ninth installment in the Saw horror franchise and, from where I’m sitting, at least, a departure.

“I do like horror movies, but the thing that was really kind of magical is that I was feeling so nostalgic, right? We talked about Beverly Hills Cop earlier. I was just missing a certain kind of movie,” Minghella explains of his new role as Chris Rock’s detective partner. He was yearning for simple story-telling, like in the buddy cop movies of his youth, especially 48 Hours. It almost goes without saying that a buddy cop movie is another kind of love story. “And then I read the script and it was very much in that vein.” He clarifies: “I mean, it's also extremely Saw. It's very much a horror movie.”

His renewed excitement for acting translated onto The Handmaid’s Tale set, too. Veteran Hollywood producer Warren Littlefield describes casting Minghella in the role of Nick as an effortless choice: “Sometimes you agonize over things. [Casting Minghella] was instantly clear to me, and everyone agreed.” Now in its fourth season, the tone of the Hulu hit is graver than ever. Gilead is more desperate to maintain its rule, and so more audacious in its violence. Perhaps it’s fitting that the show’s romantic gestures finally match that scale.

In one particularly soaring moment, Elisabeth Moss’ June and Minghella’s Nick meet at the center of a bridge and crush into a long kiss. It’s been two seasons since they held their newborn daughter together, and it’s hard to see how this isn’t their last goodbye. Littlefield, like Minghella, is here for the romance among the rubble. “It's spectacular when they come together. In the middle of all of the trauma is this epic love story,” he says. “Max is just magnificent in the role.”

For Minghella, the satisfaction is more personal. He works with good people, he likes his scenes, and he thinks Nick is a complex character. Minghella read The Handmaid’s Tale for the first time in college in 2005. Like all the things Minghella has ever liked, he still likes it. He’s as proud of this most recent season as he is the show’s first. And he watched Nick and June race recklessly back to each other across the expanse of the screen exactly how you might expect. “I watched it like a fan girl.”

#max minghella #the handmaids tale #the handmaid's tale #nick blaine #nick x june #june x nick #osblaine #*

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mintyfrosty · 4 years

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A Prince’s Guide To Reading

"Right?"

Ah, his name.

At least the one he preferred people to use for him.

The guard of the Toppat prince turned his gaze up from the door he had his eyes pinned on, studying the engravings of the wood to try and pass the time. He had to admit, being the prince's guard could be dull, since said prince seemed to take much gratitude in working within a quiet environment. Right didn't mind, of course. Then again, the commoner didn't exactly have a choice either way with what he thought or not. As if he had a choice. He didn't; that was the truth. It had been like that for the month he had found himself being the prince's care. Er, at least he thought it had been a month? Time was a bit weird in the castle. Every day seemed the same.

That wasn't to say he found it unpleasant, however.

Their eyes connected, the guard's gaze quickly descending straight after, since it was discourteous for a royal and a commoner to share a glimpse of their eyes. Well, he wasn't sure on that, but Prince Reginald had acquainted him of such. And he trusted him; a terrifying amount. And Right didn't want to get a stern talking from the king about this, that and something else. Despite clearing his throat before he spoke, Right's voice came up as hoarse and uneven like it always did. "Yes, yer 'ighness?"

Allowing his hand to rest, the royal put the quill in his hand down to table, slightly rubbing it as the chains of writing broke free. Putting his hand through so much work was unhealthy to his muscles and bones. However, much like the commoner, the prince didn't have a choice. Not since 20 years ago when the Toppat Kingdom fell under Terrence's rule. Not the time to think about, he scolded himself, bringing both of his hands down to his lap. He could at least say, however, it was flattering on how the guard put so much effort into trying to learn the mannerism that seemed impossible to understand.

"I wanted to ask you..." Started the prince, bringing himself to standing and tucking his chair into the table that sat peacefully in the halls of the library. "Do you-- know how to read and write?"

...

That came off as slightly insulting. But, unfortunately, forgivable to ask.

Crimson rose to the peasant's ears, gaze crunching as he examined the tile grooving on the floor, trying to, pathetically, hide his embarrassment. The prince was entitled to ask such a question; he was the prince for God's sake. It wasn't uncommon for a commoner such as himself to be illiterate. Many didn't have the money to claim the opportunity to educate themselves. It wouldn't be embarrassing if he said 'no', would it? Because, well, he just didn't.

He was a peasant.

A filthy one at that.

"Nah-- I mean-- No. No, I don't." Forced words of respect came out of the guard, slightly gritting his teeth with frustration as he let his accent slip his words into slang. Ugh. He hated trying to keep up with these stupid mannerisms. It was all so confusing. How the hell was he supposed to remember how to use three forks at a dinner table, wait to speak until spoken to AND not let himself slip into his comfortable language of slang? And that wasn't even the full list. "Er-- w'y do ya ask?"

"Well..." Without finishing the answer, the prince's feet waltzed over to one of the hundred books that decorated the library walls. Gloved hands met the cover a soft covered book; a light read. From where he was standing, Reginald waved an inviting hand towards the guard, taking a seat on the couch that was adjacent to the fireplace which crackled calmly. Swallowing the anxiety lodged in his throat, Right's brash footsteps pounded towards the prince, boots sounded like a wrecking ball hitting concrete. Maybe that was due to his mass. He didn't have a mind to care. With the guard now near him, the royal patted the seat lightly next to him, a smile meeting his face. "...if you can't, I'd like to teach you how to read!"

...

Wh-What?

The crimson turned a shade of magenta, spreading like a virus across his cheek and nose. Teach him? Teach him how to read? But why? Didn't the prince already have his hands full? His gaze fell over to the task assigned to Reginald, surprised to see a perfectly piled stack of scrolls. Was he finished? Wow, that was fast then. Incredibly fast. Eventually, however, the guard let his gaze fall back to the prince, eyes focused on the book in his hands rather than the blue sapphires that dotted his pupils. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, pulling on his collar to let more airflow through his clothing.

In all fairness, he didn't believe he deserved such a privilege.

Being literate was seen as such an honour; only the noblemen and royalty got the joy of being able to read and write. And that same offer to him? Definitely out of the question. He, well, he didn't believe he was worthy of such a gift. However, he most certainly didn't want to make the prince upset over the matter; maybe he could blame it on something. Something like: "Er-- I...Would we 'ave the time? With supper happening soon?"

"Oh, nonsense! We've got a few hours! Two! That's enough, I'm sure of it! You're a quick learner, you know!" It only occurred to Reginald that there was a big difference between the prince wanting to teach him how to read and Right actually wanting to learn how to perform such an act. A quick sound of hesitation came from the prince, excitement in his tone dying as his shoulders fell to his sides. "Of course...only if you'd allow me."

Oh, God. He couldn't refuse now.

Because yes, despite reading being hard to master, Right couldn't be more excited about the offer, yet nothing on his face implied so. Lost on the prince's words, the guard nodded with certainty, holding his hands up and shaking them slightly. "Na- No-- I'd be t' rilled ta learn, ya majesty--"

Dammit, he was committed to it now. No going back. Just be on high alert.

Although the guard took a hesitant seat on his side, the prince couldn't be more excited, a large grin dotted his face gently. Reginald opened the book to the first page, their shoulders touching as he held the left side of the cover, gesturing for Right to take the opposing side. Trapped by anxiety, the guard's breath wouldn't come out of his throat, numbly grabbed ahold with his right hand to open the book. Foreign symbols came into his vision when it was a simple text of English. Jesus, how was going to learn this? He didn't understand any of it. He couldn't learn how to read-- this was dumb-- this was stupid. "Alright...let's start at the beginning..."

Gently, the prince's voice hit his ears, voice brimming with excitement.

...Sigh.

Guess he didn't have a choice.

But, at least, this was better than staring at the door engravement all damn day, waiting for something that would never happen.

The story Reginald had picked out was something about a girl from a village. An oddball herself; she knew how to read. How ironic. Then one day her father got kidnapped at an old castle that belonged to a cursed prince that had turned into a beast. And to save her father's life, traded herself to be the beast's prisoner. But, interestingly, the two fell in love and the curse on the prince was broken.

Huh.

What an odd tale. Granted, probably one of the first that Right had ever heard of but...still so odd.

The prince went slow with the words from the text, running his finger under words and pronouncing them slowly, teaching him what letters made what sounds. Vowels were undoubtedly the hardest; some words could have two of the same vowel yet make different sounds. Of course, he'd been speaking the language his whole life but...now it was different. He could physically see how goddamn confusing the English language was. By the time they got to Chapter 3, an hour had passed, the prince looking up to the guard brightly. "Alright, your turn!"

Right blinked.

...

"...you know...your turn to read!"

...

H-Huh? "Eh?" He couldn't. "I can't--"

"Of course, you can!" Cheered Reginald, the prince moving his gloved hand to underneath the first word, written beautifully in ink. Calligraphy made it hard to discern which letter was which. Gaining his breath back from swallowing the anxiety lodged in his throat, the guard gritting his teeth, a crimson colour rising to his ears slightly out of embarrassment.

"Er-- I still don't get a lot of it--"

"That's okay! I'll help you along the way! It'll be fine, just watch!" No matter how much he tried to stop himself, he couldn't help that redness from his ears spreading to his face in a blush. Dammit. The prince's excitement was contagious; spreading and capturing his heart like some sort of plague. It made him want to try and complete this mission he was destined to fail at. He'd been learning to read for no less than an hour, and now he was going to read on his own? Seemed impossible. But that darn smile was enough to make him want to. Want to try. Want to learn.

Okay. He could try.

Hopefully.

"Er-- alright--"

It was slow. Painfully slow.

The commoner needed more help from the prince than he could read words on his own. Nevertheless, successful. Very slow, but steady, gently drifting his voice across the paper to bring meaning to the written dialogue. Even if he made mistakes and made a fool of himself, he was still having fun. The prince was encouraging, giving him compliments and words of pride at when he could read a full sentence on his own. It was...touching, dramatically so. Crimson on his face turned to a soft, pastel magenta, taking comfort in the royal's presence instead of being on edge. Yes, it was technically not allowed for the two to be so close, despite having their shoulders touching, but the commoner didn't care.

The king and noblemen of the kingdom were still ignorant of the idea that Right had met the prince before the assassin outbreak. Heh; funny that the commoner was just coming for a visit but ended up being roped to be his guard. All because he saved the royal's life in an alleyway.

How curious...

However, it led to one problem; his guard was down. He got too complacent.

Find their shoulders sitting side by side was getting a little too uncomfortable, the commoner raised his, moving closer, then wrapping it around the prince's shoulders. There. Nice and comfy. If the feeling of the royal's muscles tense up hadn't occurred, he would've stayed there and continued. But, of course, life wasn't kind to anyone. Dread settled in his heart, abruptly stopping mid-sentence and pushing himself away and standing. Why did he do that? WHY did he do that!? WHYDIDHEDOTHAT?!

"I-I'm so sorry-- I don't know wot came o'er me!" Stamped the commoner, raising his hands and shaking them as if it were some kind of defence. God-- the king would have his head for this. What was he thinking!? Just, ya know, causally wrap your filthy, peasant arm around the shoulders of the prince of the Toppat Kingdom! No stress! Not one ounce of it! Dammit- Dammit- DAMMIT--

"I-t won't 'appen again-- I was just-- I-- I just--"

"Woah-- Woah! Hey, it's okay, Right!" Exclaimed the prince, quickly rising out of his seat and taking a firm grasp of his hand. Right, still scrambling to find something to say, looked down at their hands, caramel eyes finally connecting with the azure blue pupils that belonged to the prince's eyes. They were holding hands--

This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

A commoner shouldn't have been that close to a prince; let alone even within one meter of him. But to wrap his ARMS around his shoulder!? What was he thinking!? What was he doing?!

Shakily, he exhaled, not making any movement to return the grasp to his hand.

"Jesus-- I'm sorry I-- I just--" Stuck on his sentence, the guard brought his free hand to his face to try and conceal the growing magenta colour that lingered there.

"Just-- this 'ole thin' 'f not knowin' ya. And 'avin' to act like I ain't got a clue who you are or 'o you are aside from all the duties ya got stacked up--- it's kind of-- it's so frustratin'. 'Cause, yer know, ya funny and ya kind-- and ya got this presence about ya. And 've gotta act all manners and other bullshit-- I can't even just sit by ya witho't worryin' that 'm gonna get my head chopped off or you worryin' about 'dis stupid code-- JUST--" The commoner let out a grunt, bringing the hand on his face to his hair, tugging it slightly.

"It-It's just-- I wanna han' out wit' ya-- but-- we just can't. And it drives me bonkers."

A deadly silence filled the room as the commoner let weeks worth of venting material, catching the prince by an immense surprise. Of course, a faint colour of rose pink painted over his cheeks at the brief compliments, but nothing could stop or control the sudden frown forming on his face. In a way, the prince was dreading this. The lack of personal freedom for the guard was probably doing his head in, and the fact that he and the commoner knew each other beforehand probably made the situation much much worse for him. Even if Reginald had nothing to do with it (even though he had everything to do with it), he couldn't help but feel pity. He hadn't had freedom his whole life and, whilst he'd grown used to it, it was terrible in the beginning. Difficult, in other words.

Sympathetically, Reginald raised his free hand toward Right's that clutched against his hair, pulling it down from his face.

"Right...I'm okay-- I should be sorry I'm--" The prince let out a muffled sigh. "Y-Yes...I understand. This whole matter is aggravating. And I do want to spend time with you too! Believe me, I do. Heh, kind of why I asked to teach you to read. It's just-- I'm sorry I...I'm not used to this whole...' being close to someone' thing if you get what I mean? I've never met a commoner before you. And even then, there's all these rules and orders. And yet, you seem so nice and friendly compared to what I've been told what commoners are like. What I'm trying to say is...I'm sorry for my reaction with your arm-- I'm just-- following what I've been told to do."

...

An apology?

Jesus--

Reginald had to be the pure heartiest prince he had ever met if HE was apologising for a reaction that Right caused. In a way, it made his blood completely fire, bringing a low scowl to his face. It made the whole situation worse when you considered how the prince was treated by the king. Like garbage, that's what. And even then, Reginald put himself second to Right, considering his comfort to be more important than his own. Dammit-- that colour was rising back to his face, stifling a cough that rose to his throat.

The guard let out some sort of chuckle. "Heh-- we're both tryna follow rules 'ere-- Ehehe--"

Right didn't laugh a lot, but when Reginald heard it, it filled his heart up. A small smile itself met his lips, sharing his laughter. And only for an impossibly short amount of time, the prince's eyes shot purple, but far too quick for anyone to take note of it. They were both kind of messes; wanting to talk and laugh and NOT do something royalty related. The prince held up a hand. "Okay-- Okay. How about this. If I finish tomorrow and we have enough spare time, do you...want to spend that time finishing this book with me? To 'hang out', as you called it. We'll go out to the gardens; where no one can find us."

...

A smile met the guard's lips, putting a hand to his chest and bowing slightly.

"It would be ma greatest 'onour, my prince." ~~~XxX~~~ MEDIEVAL AU FLUFF BOYSSS!!

Thank you so much for reading this fanfic!!

For those wondering, this takes place in the transitional period between Right’s arrival and Galeforce’s arrival x3

Also, yes I know that Beauty and The Beast didn’t exist yet but shh its cute

Oki have doodle!

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bookfandomtalk · 4 years

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This may surprise some people, but I actually had not read the Harry Potter books in English before, and my last reread in Dutch had been a while ago as well.

But I was writing a fanfic about Percy and I wanted to get Percy's personality at least somewhat correctly, so I decided to spit through my HP ebooks in English to find the scenes he appeared in and wow.

First of all, I already loved Percy's character, and I have never liked the Weasleys treatment of Percy (and honestly, most of the treatment Molly gave her children was pretty unhealthy) but this reread made me feel even worse for him because DAMN.

The was his siblings and Harry view him is ridiculous, and it became ESPECIALLY appearant in this reread.

In the first book, there clearly still was love between Percy and the twins, literally all of their interractions were fuelled by love, and you could tell the twins just wanted Percy's attention, and he was willing to not spend time with his friends in order to give them that attention often enough. Pure sibling relationships there. Of course, Harry, not being used to sibling dynamics thought they were serious and that Percy really couldn't care less about them.

Also, noticed how I said Percy had friends? It is constantly mentionned how Percy spent most of his time with the other prefects and he likes spending time with them, that clearly points to them being friends, and Fred and George know this, but they are younger siblings, and younger siblings like pretending their older sibling doesn't have a life. Again, Harry took their words literally and he started assuming Percy didn't have friends or a life, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary.

And then we get to the second book, and already, Harry is JUDGEMENTAL as HELL in his internal narrarations. Like when he sees Percy coming towards them after they crashed the car, he immediately assumes Percy is there to lecture them, rather than to check Ron is okay...

Then, we see throughout the book that Percy is worried about Ginny, he makes her drink pepper-up potion. Harry somehow sees this as him "Bullying her into drinking it." Which... What? Is looking out for the health of your eleven year old sibling "bullying"?

Later on, when Percy mentioned thaf Ginny was upset over the notion that people suspected Ron and Harry were behind the petrifications and that they might be expelled, Ron manages to accuse Percy of caring only about his chances if getting Head Boy, rather than Percy maybe caring for Ginny, which... again, WHAT?

Also, Harry interprets literally all of Percy's words as said 'Pompousley', 'briskly' etc.

They kept comparing Percy to Tom Riddle because Percy DARED to tell them off for BREAKING the RULES. Seriously, what did they expect?

And then, they KNEW that Percy was close with the other prefects, and somehow people were still surprised when Percy was upset Penelope was petrified? Even if nobody knew the two were dsting yet, it wasn't as if it was a secret that Percy had friends...

Also, friendly reminder that both Percy and Bill went for 12 NEWTS, and that without a time turner, while Hermione needed one just to attend to all her exams in her 3rd year when she tried to go for her 12 OWLS. Seriously, Percy kept being belittled for being proud of his achievements, but he honestly deserved a lot more praise.

And these are just some examples of the first 2 books in which Harry's views on the situation do not align, or directly oppose what any sensible person would think of Percy's actions.

It's not so strange that people on their first read would dislike Percy, as Harry's wording makes it INSANELY easy to dislike him, but I can assure you that when you pay close attention to everyones actions towards Percy, you'll notice a lot of inconsistencies.

#percy weasley #harry potter #the weasleys #Penelope clearwater #chamber of secrets #harry potter and the chamber of secrets #sorcerers stone #philophers stone

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decayandfanfics · 3 years

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The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

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Chapter 8 / Chapter 9

You show me the man and I’ll show you the rule.

Tomura thinks he knows nothing about beauty, but then she proves him wrong.

(He thought her pretty before already, but after seen it…he concludes she’s the most beautiful, terrific thing he’s ever seen. Not that he would tell her that.)

A feral dangerous creature living inside of her with no other match.

No other but him.

Oh...you have no idea...She told him.

It happens so fast. One moment she’s there, sitting in front of her laptop, pretty and quiet and serene. All harmony and light, resting softly under the sunlight, between her dumb succulents and the spices that fill her home. Then he can hear Dabi’s caustic laugh and the wrong words. He’s disrespectful, an instigator, skilled in the art of making others lose their composure like is his favorite game.

He hears the foul words, the berating, and the mocking aimed to him, while she sits wide eyed and impossible flustered by the kitchen table.

Dabi smirks triumphant, like he always does after giving everyone a piece of his drama and Tomura watches him, wincing, reminding himself again that Dabi is supposedly oldest than him and Toga, and yet he does his best to being an annoying brat.

Tomura knows better to just let him bark, his remarks mean nothing to him, he knows what he is, and he knows what he isn’t. He’s a freak, yeah. That too, but he isn’t a child anymore, so he let it slide, keeping his eyes glued to his phone arching an inquisitive brow, ready to just let it die there.

He just forgot about the stupid little stunts of bravery she has this tendency to commit. (An annoying dangerous trait that makes him chuckle with something akin to fondness.)

She’s having none of the bullshit, Dabi’s little remarks had fed her up after a whole week of spiteful teasing, her precious patience has run thin.

“blue eyes are a mutation too, so you are no one to talk about it.”

The moment she opens her mouth, Tomura feels something warm filling the hollow place where his dead heart should go and it’s so foreign to him that for a moment he panics and thinks (very stupidly) that maybe his energy drink-based diet is finally going to kill him, and he (barely in his sweet twenty’s) is having a stupid heart attack.

But the pain never comes, it’s just her, voicing a clever answer, defending him.

“A quirkless little bitch? Seriously, Dabi? Where you raised in a fucking barn that you know nothing but fuck this and bitch that?

He wants to make her shut it, but he can’t find the words. Not when her remarks are sharp and funny to hear. (Besides, her voice sounds so sweet when she’s throwing smart ass angry comments just to back him up.)

It warms him and enrages him equally. How dare she to defend him? He can speak for himself on his own and doesn’t need her to make any back up about an insult he doesn’t care for. Stupid pretty woman. Trying to shut Dabi, putting herself in danger for the likes of him...Is she insane? (later that day, he’ll conclude that she must be pretty fucking nuts to have them all in her home after all, but somehow the thought only makes him like her more.)

“yeah. I know stupid cunt too.”

Dabi likes to cause havoc and now he’s pissed, so he throws a vulgarity aimed at her. Tomura feels the hot pang of anger at the other man, because the offense is not only an insult, but also a lie. She’s not stupid nor a cunt. She's sharp as a knife and kind enough to share with them.

“Dabi, cut it out.” He warns with a grimace, and now the fight has everyone tense in the room.

“I’m sure you do. Pretty useful to describe yourself I bet.” She snarls showing her teeth, an angry frown darkening her features and Tomura swears her eyes begin changing color.

“you sure like to bet, like how you are betting I don’t burn you alive for being an annoying bitch.”

This time Tomura gets fucking furious, something animal revolving inside of him at the idea of Dabi threatening her. But the fight is escalating so fast, he can’t say anything before she answers back.

“Fuck off, Dabi. This might be shocking for you, but you don’t scare me.”

He wants to laugh at this, truly. Feisty little thing she is when angered, all her soft ways and nerd knowledge thrown out the window in a fit of cocky bickering and a part of him is living for the chaos of it.

“now, that’s pretty fucking stupid of you.”

“Dabi, shut up!” Tomura growls irked with the way her hair has begun to float over her shoulders, now completely convinced that she’s not quirkless at all.

“I’m not the one insulting everyone just because I cannot deal with some fucking daddy issues.”

God fucking dammit woman, just shut up. He thinks frustrated, giving her a look worth a stab.

“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT” Dabi snarls before kicking the little table in the living room, breaking one of its legs with a loud crack.

“CUT IT OUT!” she screams this time, standing from her chair “I don’t have to know when it’s plainly obvious you have problems with authority.”

“you really think you are so clever, don’t you?” Dabi states, crossing the living room, aiming to her, so Tomura leaves his place in the corner to stand at her side without even thinking why.

“I know I am, asshole!”

Dabi stops his tracks, looming over her like a monster. His eyes scanning her face before looking at Tomura, who stands by her with his hands open in front of him in clear warning.

The black-haired man looks at her before moving to Tomura, his brows raised in surprise as he chuckles darkly.

Shigaraki hates the way he looks at him, like he knows his thoughts. Like he knows he’s been creeping into her room to watch her sleep and the sinister lustful visions that sometimes plague his dreams after some playful back and forth every time she defies him with some smart-ass comment.

“stupid woman. You should know better.”

And then…he just slaps the laptop out of the table; the computer smashing open against the cemented ground.

Tomura remembers this moment like one would remember the witness of a car crush or a catastrophe. A simple second enough to amaze him for a lifetime.

The way her eyes just ignite into scorching red lights shining like burning embers under her frown brow. Her hair floats free from gravity over her shoulders like a terrible chaotic crown as her mouth flash pearly teeth in a feral snarl.

He watches how she claws her right hand, fingers curling, knuckles tensing and Dabi is suddenly choking under the pressure of some raw power. His limbs twisting painfully in horrific motion and unnatural angles in complete agony.

A second later and before anyone could grasp what’s happening, her other hand pointing pinky, index and thumb to Compress, Toga and himself, keeping them frozen in their place, a strange rigid pressure making him feel like he’s full of cement and any movement will shatter his bones and snap his spine.

He can’t move, he can barely breathe. Feeling like if every fiber of his being, every muscle, every cord is solid hard under his skin, unavailing him to get away.

But he can watch, so he watches her terrified and amazed.

Her quirk is rare, and powerful and dangerous. But she keeps it locked away, sleeping soundly, safely caged inside her ribs, like the best hidden weapon, perfect for torturing bodies and bending wills. Buried deeply under her layers of kindness and humor.

One twitch of a finger, and Dabi’s neck would snap in two and they can do nothing but just watch when little blood vessels begin to burst in the white of his eyes as he pants desperate for air, his veins contorting furiously under the marred skin of his neck and the flames scatter in some random parts of his body without any control.

Tomura swears he can hear Dabi’s bones crackle under the invisible force as his spine bends backwards in a sickening angle.

And, as sudden as it begins, ends.

Her hair falls and her eyes are no longer red. Dabi breathes again falling to his knees and for a moment Tomura thinks he will cry out of pure fright.

For a moment he wonders if Toga and Compress want to cry too because that felt like certain death, but is sweet, somehow. Something within him squirms joyfully with the notion of her own violence. She is as dangerous as him, no damsel in distress, no little girl in need of care, no simple quirkless girl, but a horrifying woman. A dangerous and powerful creature with a quirk made for torment, just like-

He looks at her, just to find a sad disappointed face. A thick trail of blood began sliding silently from her nose, tainting the perfect bow of her lip. Only then he notices the bloodshot eyes and how the color has run from her face.

She stands quiet and bitter watching between her hands and Dabi trying to catch his breath. Her face giving away guilt and self-loathing (two feelings he’s very familiar with.) but unlike him, she is no tormentor, she grasps no joy in watching Dabi suffer, nor do she wish of making them quiver to the sight of her.

She is kind, and brave, and witty. Humorous girl, quick at wordplay and puns; buying vitamins and oranges for them and something about no one getting scurvy under her watch.

He wants to laugh hysterically at her sight because she is magnificent, and for a moment he thinks that the boy with the destructive touch and the girl with the tormenting gaze sounds like a hell of a name for rulers and his heart shivers in excitement, but she is crying and clutches her guilty hands against her chest and ask them to forgive her for using her quirk on them.

She didn’t mean to; she didn’t want to. She likes them all very much, so she promises she’ll never hurt them again, and somehow it reminds him of something, but he cannot place a finger on what exactly.

He feels the sorrow drowning him. A grudge so horrid it makes him want to vomit and scratch his neck raw because something in her resembles something in him, but he cannot really grasp the motive of such connection, only knowing it has something to do with the hands he carries around like a symbol of his own distress and a little black-haired boy crying in some familiar backyard.

The sound of the bathroom door startles him and she’s no longer in the living room, but he can hear the quiet sobbing coming from behind the door.

Finally, Dabi decides to just fall backwards against the cold floor, still panting, an arm over his eyes.

Only then Spinner breaks the dreadful silence and ask the question they all want to make.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.”

Chapter 10

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isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

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Spare The Rod

Summary: “Do you think it’s clever to make mummy cross like this? Do you think that naughty little girls get their own way?” A bratty, disobedient reader gets more than she bargained for when Missy gets her back to the TARDIS.

Warnings: NSFW/18+/Explicit. Nothing too icky but use of ‘mummy’/’little one’ as pet names. Corporal punishment with a cane. The usual unhealthy dynamics/potential consent issues/Missy is her own warning.

Word Count: 6223 (!!!)

NB: Sorry for the Simm GIF but I’m weak for the way she pushes him up against that beam 🥵🥵. Also I can’t fucking believe how long this ended up being.

Missy’s hand is vice-tight around your bicep as she pushes you into the TARDIS, forming a band of pain that constricts down to the nerves and makes your fingers twitch. You don’t need to see her face to know that the set of her jaw spells trouble, and for an instant you curse your own bravery. There’s no doubt in your mind that you have really and truly done it now.

When you arrived on the planet this afternoon, she made it clear that this was a mission of simple reconnaissance; she had to speak to the inhabitants and locate the artefact she needed for her latest plot, and you were to be meek, mild and, above all, inconspicuous.

No chance. Maybe it’s hormones, or something in the air, or just the fact that she looks exceptionally lovely today, but you haven’t been able to control yourself. You’ve been petulant all day, desperately vying for her attention in the hope of working her up into such a frenzy that she’ll take you somewhere private and have her wicked way with you. At last, it seems like you’ve gotten your wish.

The door barely closes behind you before you’re being slammed against it. You can’t help the startled noise shaken loose from your chest by the impact. She’s as close as she can get without climbing inside your ribcage, so little space between your faces that your head is forced upright and back against the door, spine ramrod straight.

“Explain to me,” she hisses, teeth flashing an inch from the tip of your nose, “why you’re being such a recalcitrant little thing today, hmm?”

This is one of those rare instances where she looks truly alien. Her rouged lips are stretched too wide to be comfortable, her eyes too bright, too old for this human face. Her diminutive frame is belied by the raw strength of her grip. She’s incandescent with fury, a supernova funnelled into a body too soft to contain her. It’s breathtaking and it inflames the desire smouldering in the pit of your stomach.

You pout and lean in to kiss her, but she isn’t having it; she nips at your protruding bottom lip hard enough to make you whine in protest at the rough treatment. “I just wanted to play, Missy.”

“Oh, I can smell that much, don’t you worry.” Her thigh slots between yours and presses into the seam of your clothes, insistent even through her purple skirt. You inhale sharply at the contact. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your little game. I have been exceptionally patient with you, but this is your last chance to apologise and start behaving like a good girl, do you understand?”

She isn’t the type to give warnings before she strikes. A mercy like this is reserved for you and you alone, and you know not to take it lightly. It’s clear that the day’s transgressions have not yet been forgiven. There’s danger in her eyes, but feeling her between your legs, so relentless and bold, reignites your courage long enough for you to bite back, “make me.”

“Now now, poppet,” she croons, voice dripping with poison. “You should know by now that if you want to play rough, all you have to do is ask nicely.”

“I know.” You squirm against her thigh, pushing yourself into her through your clothes until you feel the pressure where you need it, your breath hitching. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Her face hardens at your unrepentant teasing. “Do you think that it’s clever to make mummy cross like this?” She grinds into you, bending her knee, turning the relief of her touch between your thighs into sharp, aching discomfort. You bite your lip and try to retreat onto your tiptoes but she follows without faltering. “Do you think that naughty little girls get their own way?”

A whimper; a slight shake of the head. “No,” you admit, in a strained whisper. She raises an eyebrow. “No, mummy.”

“No, mummy,” she echoes, unimpressed, and inches closer, crushing you tighter between her body and the door. “I expect you thought that I would thrash you soundly and fuck the defiance out of you.”

The moment she says it out loud, you realise that the plan has been fatally flawed all along. Missy does not like to be teased or toyed with. Manipulation like this is her forte, and you could never hope to beat the Time Lady at her own game. For the first time it occurs to you that she must have known from the beginning what you were about; her lack of responsiveness to your taunts hasn’t been because she was ignoring you. Each misdemeanour has been carefully noted.

She’s been giving you enough rope to hang yourself with - and you have.

The first flicker of true regret sets in. Fluttering your lashes, you switch on the charm, already suspecting that it’s futile. Your last hope now is worshipful penitence. “I’m so sorry, mummy. I’m ready to be good now.”

Her wry chuckle quickly extinguishes that idea. “Oh, no, little one, it’s too late for that. I gave you a chance, remember?” She cups your cheek in a hand still gloved in supple brown leather. “I suppose it’s not really your fault, after all. A girl like you needs a firm hand.” She emphasises the words with a harsh pat to your cheek, not quite a slap but not far off. “I’ve been far too soft on you, and now here you are, crying out for some discipline.”

You squeak. Her face is impenetrable, giving away nothing of what she’s planning, but you can tell from the sparkle in her eyes that you haven’t won this game. In fact, it feels rather more like she’s changed the rules and taken all of your cards. “But-”

“Shush, now,” she cuts you off with a finger pressed to your lips. “Mummy’s talking.” Your eyes widen in a plea. Your calves and back are beginning to feel the strain from standing like this, rigid on the balls of your feet in an effort to keep your weight off of the leg still pressed between your own. “You’ve been begging for my attention all day, and now you have it, darling. I’ll make sure you get exactly what you need. Come along.”

You drop inelegantly back onto your heels when she pulls away. Her fingers are still hooked around one arm, leaving no room for evasion as she guides you across the console room and down the stairs to its lower level. This is where she works, most days; it’s furnished with ornate neoclassical fixtures, surreal and anachronistic against the bare metal floor and the humming, violet-tinged lights in each wall. She steers you now towards the high mahogany desk littered with blueprints for her newest invention.

Her swirling, frenetic script is a mix of languages you recognise - English, Gallifreyan, Arabic - and some kind of logographic code. It’s totally indecipherable and it gives you a headache to look at it. Noticing your distraction, Missy pulls you to a stop none-too-gently.

“Undress, then.” She says it sharply, businesslike. “And do it neatly.”

There’s a tremble in your fingers that drags the task out. While you’ve spent all day longing to be alone with her in the TARDIS, divested of your clothing, this is not the passionate disrobing you imagined. She’s not even watching, moving away from you as you begin to undress, her attention turned instead to a towering armoire on your left and its unseen contents. Stripped down to your underwear, you tuck your shoes beneath the desk chair and place your folded clothes on its seat.

Shifting nervously from foot to bare foot on the frigid floor, you can’t help but think that there’s something familiar about this tableau; the tidy stack of discarded clothes, the gleaming surface of an antique writing desk, the trembling young woman and her stern, corseted counterpart. You can’t place it, but it sends a shiver up the length of your spine and pricks your exposed skin with goosebumps.

Preoccupied as you are with this thought, her presence behind you goes unnoticed until she slides a finger beneath the band of your bra and pulls, snapping it hard against your back. You cry out and jolt forwards from the shock more than the slight sting. “All of it, dearest. I won’t tell you again.”

You hurriedly slip out of your underwear, wincing in embarrassment at the evidence of your arousal that slicks the fabric of your knickers, and add it to the pile. Despite the chill of trepidation, you’re still burning for her, eager to see what new torments she intends to visit upon you.

The cool leather of her gloved palm lands in the small of your back and your eyes flutter closed, her touch balm to your frayed nerves even now. "Stand up straight, there's a good girl." She pushes hard, forcing your posture until you're standing like a marionette pulled taut, your naked breasts held proudly, the muscles in your core engaged. "Eyes forward." You straighten your neck. "Much better. The first step to being a well-disciplined young lady is good posture, you see?" Her voice is saccharine sweet, close to your ear, her breath fanning warm and seductive across your throat. You manage a shallow nod. All of your focus is channelled into maintaining this regimented position.

Missy strides out in front of you, hands clasped behind her back, and gives you a pointed look. "The second is good manners."

The way she holds herself, so confident and unyielding, isn’t helping you control your arousal. If Victorian governess is what she's aiming for, you think, drinking in the stern set of her features and the angles cut by her jacket’s tapered shoulders and darted waist, mission accomplished. She clears her throat impatiently and you look back at her bemused face, standing frozen in silence for a moment as your mind struggles to catch up. Struck by the realisation, you stammer out, "oh! I- yes, mummy, of course."

“There we are.” Her fingers slip under your chin for a moment to tilt your head a degree further back. There’s an encouraging quirk to her lips; it’s a faint reminder that whatever this is, it’s just a game, and also a reassuring indication that she’s enjoying herself. She takes a sweeping step backwards and inspects her handiwork. You square your shoulders again, blushing under her scrutiny. “Put your right hand out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion but you do as she says, presenting the palm of your right hand at elbow height, held parallel to the ground. She makes a minor adjustment to the placement of your fingers and lets out a small hum of satisfaction before finally bringing her other hand out from behind her back.

When she does, you recoil, gasping out loud as the pieces all fall together in your mind; the polished desktop, the contents of the armoire, the chilly promises of discipline. Her hand wraps tightly around your wrist in an instant, preventing your retreat.

“Don’t make a fuss, poppet,” Missy admonishes, resting the shaft of the cane against your palm. It’s cool and pencil-thin. “I thought you were ready to be a good girl for mummy?”

“I am,” you protest weakly, your voice small. “I am, but-”

“Then take your punishment. Show me just how sorry you are, hmm?”

You look up from the fine strip of wood lying across your vulnerable skin to meet her gaze, and the intensity you find there makes you swallow hard. At once, you see it all - the tender affection, the uncertainty as she awaits your response and, sharp as flint just below the surface, the sadistic way she savours your anxious squirming. Nodding imperceptibly, you straighten up again and resume the position she’s put you in.

“Of course, mummy. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you will be, my dear.” Her fingers unfold from around your wrist. “Keep it there for me.”

You can’t watch, clenching your eyes tight and setting your jaw against the anticipation. The cane leaves your hand and you wince, fighting to keep your breathing steady; she taps it a few times against your palm, picking out a mark just below your heart line.

The noise registers before the pain.

Your chest tightens as if with muscle memory at the sharp crack of wood, and then you feel it, a narrow thread of blistering heat like grabbing hold of a fire iron. Before the cry has even left your mouth you’re reflexively tucking your injured hand beneath the opposite arm, pressing it to the naked skin of your side in an attempt to soothe the welt. Your breath comes short and whining as you turn your wounded eyes on Missy.

Unmoved by the display, she raises an expectant eyebrow. “I told you to keep it there.”

Grimacing, you offer her a strained nod. It takes all of your strength to present your hand to her again, teeth sinking into your bottom lip with the effort. The tendons in your palm twitch as you fight the urge to close your fingers and you squeeze your left hand into a tight fist at your side. The cane comes to rest a half-inch above the pink mark blossoming on your skin.

This time the steadying taps reverberate through the tight, stinging welt, making you hiss through your gritted teeth. With every muscle tensed you manage not to snatch your hand away when the cane snaps down for the second time; the blazing pain has you curling in on yourself, knuckles of your free hand jammed in your mouth and between your teeth to muffle the shriek. Your arm quivers, still extended in offering, and your fingers flex uselessly around the screaming, white-hot stripe of agony.

“Oh, well done, poppet,” she soothes, folding your fingers down into a protective fist. The first touch to your palm draws a wavering moan from your lips, left hand falling free of your face. “That was very impressive.” She tips your chin back up and gently strokes the first tears from beneath your eyes with her gloved thumb. The proud grin on her face makes your heart clench, and you smile back, weak and watery. Something harder stirs in her expression. “Now your left hand.”

Your face falls but her hands are on your body once more, insistently repositioning your back and shoulders until you’re standing up straight again, your right arm tucked against your stomach and your left palm exposed for her. She toys with you less this time; her eyes stay trained on your face, giving you the opportunity to plead your case as she chooses her mark.

The thought crosses your mind, of course. There’s a definite temptation to drop to your knees in front of her, cling to her skirts and beg her to forgive you, to let you atone with your mouth pressed between her thighs instead. You even suspect that she might grant you such mercy.

As the pain in your right hand slowly dissipates, throbbing in time with your heartbeat, you become increasingly aware of how much this thrills you. Adrenaline licks at your veins, turning the warm air of the room on your skin into a thousand cold caresses. Each breath aches down into your stomach and lower, rippling through the sensitive flesh between your thighs that is - you realise now - significantly more slick than it had been.

If the smirk on Missy’s face is anything to go by, she could well have read your mind. Satisfied you have no intention of protesting, she cracks the cane across your left hand.

It could be that the sting in your other palm is enough of a distraction, or, more likely, the jolt that her pleased little gasp sends straight to the centre of you, but it seems somehow easier now. You make a strangled noise behind your teeth and your knees buckle beneath you as if absorbing the impact, the slippery insides of your thighs sliding together in a way that feels entirely too erotic, but you manage to straighten up before she can assist you. She chuckles.

“Very good, pet,” she praises, selecting another area of unblemished skin and knocking the cane against it thrice. “Perhaps you need a few more to humble you properly?”

Her tone is jovial and you suspect that she’s just playing with you, enjoying the power you’ve surrendered to her. Even so, the threat makes you twitch. As much as it frightens you, it’s still a tantalising prospect - you’ll let her flay you down to muscle and bone as long as she keeps looking at you like that.

“If you like, mummy.”

An appreciative look of surprise flashes over her face, but she quickly regains her composure. “We’ll see.”

The cane snaps across your palm again, not quite crossing the first stripe but coming close enough to make you see stars. A broken moan spills from your throat. Despite the scorching pain and the tears biting at your eyes, it sounds pitifully lewd. Missy shivers at the noise.

“Let me see your hands.” She sets the cane aside. You present both palms to her and she inspects each welt one by one, ghosting her fingers across them until the touch of leather on injured skin makes you whimper. When she finally glances up at you, her pupils are blown with desire. “I think that’s enough, don’t you, little one?” She chucks you under the chin and wipes a few more tears from your face. “I may actually need you to use your hands tomorrow.”

The sigh you can’t suppress is not entirely one of relief. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I never said I was finished with you.” She turns away in a whirl of violet fabric. “Clear the desk.”

It’s a struggle to tidy away the debris strewn across the desk with your hands as sore as they are; you work carefully with your fingertips, avoiding touching anything with your palms as much as you’re able to. Rolling up the vast sheets of illegible diagrams proves impossible this way, and you grimace with each brush of paper against the raised pink marks that still prickle with heat. Her hand is firm against the small of your back as soon as you’ve finished.

“Bend over.”

You comply, pressing your breasts and stomach down against the cold wood, resting your cheek there with your face turned towards the mass of knotted cables that hang beneath the console. The glossy surface of the desktop is a comfort under your hands. Her boot slides between your feet and knocks them wider apart, leaving you excruciatingly vulnerable.

“Oh, we did enjoy our punishment, didn’t we?”

Your right leg quivers as she trails her fingers up the back of it, from the curve of your knee to the crease where it meets your exposed arse.

“I asked you a question.”

The first smack of leather against your skin makes you jerk in place, inhaling sharply. It hurts more than a blow from her bare hand; the impact is duller, less of a sting than a deep, throbbing burn. You wince. “Yes, mummy.”

“Masochists are so tricky.” Another slap, to the left this time, making your toes curl and your breath catch. “Still, mummy knows best.” Lower, just on the undercurve towards your left thigh, she strikes again. You rock forwards against the desk with a high-pitched gasp.

She works methodically, unhurried; the placement of each smack is carefully chosen to highlight the spots that you feel when you walk, the areas that take your weight when you sit. The backs of your thighs aren’t spared, either. Within a few minutes you’re panting hard, dizzy and dripping with need, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Such is your state of abject ruin that a thin trail of saliva streaks past your parted lips and slicks the desk beneath your cheek.

“You do look fetching in pink, dear.” She pinches hard enough to bruise at the back of your right thigh, abusing the sore flesh there and making you cry out. “Though I much prefer you in red.”

Your legs start to tremble unsteadily beneath you when she doubles back, layering fresh blows over the marks that already bristle with pain. Your skin feels tight under her merciless hand. She covers the full expanse quickly, turning the dull haze of discomfort into a sharper, more present throb. Your lashes are wet and heavy with tears before she’s finished. Even so, every intimate muscle in your cunt spasms and pulses in time with your heartbeat, clenching uselessly in an attempt to achieve some stimulation.

Missy repeats this whole procedure twice more; a temporary reprieve before overlapping the aching flesh with new, blazing slaps, each one somehow harder than the last. By the time she stops, each sensitive curve and swell of your arse and thighs cries out, the skin taut and burning. There’s a small puddle of tears and spittle under your face but you can’t bring yourself to be ashamed, every nerve consumed with the mingling flames of agony and desperate, overwhelming need.

Her soft wool skirt feels coarse as sandpaper when she presses herself against you, hips cradling yours and thrusting, grinding without consideration for the pain there. A devastated groan rattles from your chest. You can feel the fabric between your thighs, growing slick with your own arousal. Her gloved hands caress your back, your sides, your breasts, in rough and greedy strokes.

“Do you know what this does to me?” Above you, behind you, her accent is thick. “You’re wrecked, my girl, squirming and crying and still so desperate for me.” One hand gropes your breast and squeezes hard as the other slides underneath your stomach, pulling you back against her. Your fingers flex against the desk, stunned by the new and welcome assault. Every breath comes harsh and whimpering.

“If you’d only behaved, I could have fucked you like this.”

She’s gone as suddenly as she appeared, leaving you bucking and whining, spread across the table. She strides out from behind you and runs a hand gently through your hair. “Instead, I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands.” You blink up at her, enraptured, chest heaving with longing to touch her as she takes off her gloves with a snap of leather.

Watching Missy undress is always captivating. She takes her time removing her jacket and hangs it tidily on the back of the chair. Her quick fingers untie the pussy bow of her blouse, leaving the collar gaping just wide enough to reveal the elegant hollow at her clavicle. She carefully untucks the shirt from her waist and makes short work of the buttons, slipping her arms free and folding it with aching precision. The skirt unfastens by a concealed hook near the base of her spine and drops to the ground in a ripple of dark fabric. She bends at the knee, her back held straight by the corset, and places her neatly folded clothes on top of yours on the chair.

When she slides the pins from her hair and leaves it to fall in thick, loose curls about her pale throat you can’t bite back a desperate moan. She’s a vision like this, the thin cotton of her white chemise just translucent enough to reveal the silhouette of her nipples and the thicket of raven hair between her thighs either end of the ivory corset that holds her posture rigid and imperious. The tumbling black waves of her long hair frame her cheekbones like something from a painting.

The adoration is plain on your face when she mounts the desk in front of you, knees drawn back and open, weight braced on one hand behind her as she lifts the chemise to her hips and exposes her dense curls and slippery pink folds. She’s almost close enough to taste. The scent of her fills your mind and you don’t wait for permission, rising on your tiptoes to lean closer to her.

“Oh, no, poppet.” Her boot lands on your shoulder, pushing you back. “You are still being punished.”

Your heart sinks as you retreat, your nose barely an inch from her. She slides her fingers down through her thatch of hair and strokes the full length of her vulva, pale skin and wine-red nails quickly turning glossy with her arousal. Her head falls back with a soft noise of pleasure.

“Can you see how much it excites me?” She’s breathless from her own skilful touches, breasts heaving above the corset. “How wet mummy gets from making you cry?”

You grip the edge of the table in both hands, heedless of the pain. “Yes, mummy.”

“Would you like to taste me?”

“Please. Please, yes.”

She presses two wet fingers between your lips and you accept them greedily, bathing them with your tongue and whining with appreciation at the bittersweet flavour of her desire. They reach just far enough past your tongue to make you gag but you withstand it, impaling yourself further on them, each desperate pulse of your throat making your thighs clench around your own dripping cunt.

“Now, my girl,” she purrs, sliding them free, “watch me come.”

Missy doesn’t tease herself. She presses her fingertips straight to the pert, satin bud of her clitoris and strokes tight circles against it, groaning lustily as she does. You’re hypnotised by the display as her hips rock atop the desk, a pool of sticky-sweet nectar collecting on the surface beneath her, creeping nearer to your parched tongue with every breath.

Every inch of you burns as you watch her, from your injured hands clamped tight around the sharp edge of the table to the stinging, throbbing skin of your arse. You can’t help shifting your hips in time with hers, grinding uselessly against the desk without any hope of stimulation. It’s a Herculean effort not to touch yourself.

She quickens, obscenely wet noises coming from the rapid twisting of her fingers, and arches her back as far as she can. Dark hair hangs behind her as her chest rises as if pulled by an invisible string and you almost weep at the sight of it when she comes with a feral cry, gushing hot and fragrant so close to you. The rapturous vision is almost too much to bear, more beautiful than a hundred stars being born.

Her head rolls lazily across her shoulders as she steadies her breath, stroking herself slowly a few more times while she comes down. You scarcely blink, unwilling to miss a moment of it.

When she offers you her fingers again you pounce, debasing yourself with ravenous licks that clean the slickness from her skin in moments. She chuckles ecstatically and drags them through the puddle beneath her, painting your lips thickly with the taste of her before thrusting them into your mouth.

“Would you like to come, poppet?” The strangled noise you make around her fingers is enough of an answer. “You can, but it will cost you.”

Anything. The word throbs in your mind, howling through your skull, all that you can think. Anything you want.

“The cane.” She pushes deeper, makes you choke. “Six of the best. Count them nicely or I’ll start again.”

She barely has time to pull her fingers free before you’re answering, your voice the sound of ruin. “Yes. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

“Such a brave little girl.” She pats your cheek and hops down from the table with startling grace, heels clicking as she lands. You turn your head to watch her circling you, the chemise rustling about her knees.

“Now,” she’s behind you again, the cane resting across the swell of your arse, twisting back and forth against the stinging skin there, “remember your manners.”

You jerk forwards on your toes with the first stroke, shrieking, instantly regretting your bravery. You throw a hand back to cover yourself before you can stop it. So sharp is the pain that you expect to find the skin broken and bleeding, but your fingers come away dry.

“I’ll allow that once,” she warns, “but if I see that hand again I will break it, do you understand?”

“Yes, mummy,” you manage, bouncing on the balls of your feet in an attempt to divert the sting that’s slowly sinking into your already-bruised flesh. “I’m sorry.”

“Not sorry enough to count, apparently. Stand still.” Her voice is chilly as she taps the cane just below the first welt. “We’ll try that again.”

Determined to avoid another false start, you tighten your grip on the desk until the edges dig sharply into your sore hands. This time you manage a more dignified cry when the wood cracks down, your shoulders curving up from the tabletop. “One,” you gasp, grimacing as the shock of the impact develops into an all-consuming burn. “Thank you, mummy.”

“Better.”

Missy gives you no time to steady yourself before she strikes again, even lower, almost at the undercurve of your thighs. It’s worse here, the acute pain of it making tears spring to your eyes, but it’s also closer to where you’re desperate and aching for her and the sting and throb has you slicker than ever. “Two, thank you mummy,” you breathe hoarsely against the desk.

“Louder than that, poppet. I want to hear you.”

You can’t stay quiet anyway when she snaps the cane against the sensitive crease where your arse meets your thighs. Your eyes and teeth clench tightly but you can’t stop the tears that escape or the loud whine that shoots up your throat and past your lips, one hand slamming down against the surface of the desk, reigniting the sting in its palm. “Ah! Three! Thank you, mummy!” Your tense thighs are quaking beneath you, drawing your attention once more down to your own weeping cunt and the pitiful evidence of your enjoyment.

“Oh dear, that one was sore, wasn’t it?” She taps the welt twice, each time making you twitch. Her voice turns teasing. “Shall we do it again?”

You throw your head back and howl when she crosses the welt with another, the intersection between them blistering with pain. You’re crying in earnest now, heavy, shameless tears rolling down your face and puddling beneath it on the desk. It takes a moment to regain your composure enough to speak. “Four! Thank you. Thank you, mummy.”

“Almost there, dearest.” The cane rests higher, rubbing back and forth as if to sketch out its mark. “I can smell how desperate you are for me.”

She’s trying to distract you, to make you miscount, and you know it. She waits longer this time - until your muscles relax and you’ve let your guard down - before the fifth biting stroke lands on the fullest swell of tender red-purple skin. You lose track of all of your senses, your entire being reduced to pain and desire as you rock forward again and wail out your count, “five! Oh, thank you, mummy.”

“Last one.” Even as ravaged as you are, you can’t miss the breathy excitement in her voice. “Let’s make it count, shall we?”

Teeth bared, you nod as best you can, feeling your rapid pulse in your throat. There’s sweat beading on your brow from the strain and trickling down towards your eyes, mingling with the tears to leave your face damp and salt-bitter. You can’t control the minute twitches of your thighs.

Only as the sixth crack of the cane marks a blazing path across your arse do you realise that she’s been merciful with you so far. The strength behind this final blow is unmatched. Your knees buckle with your cry and you have to grip the desk just to keep from crumpling, every nerve screaming out in protest. Six of these might have knocked you unconscious.

“Well done, my dear,” she purrs, and her hands are on you in an instant, helping you straighten up and rubbing soothingly across the burning ridges left by the cane. Your whimper at the first touch, her skin like ice against your injuries, but she persists with the rough strokes of her palm and it does begin to lessen the sting. She pulls you closer until you’re cradled against her, nuzzling into the swell of her breasts. Her other hand cards through your hair. “You were a very brave girl. Hop up onto the desk for me and show me how much you enjoyed it, hmm?”

She’s already turning you around, pushing you back against the furniture. When the edge of the table digs into your bruises and welts you whine, clinging to her, the chemise soft under your still-aching palms. “No, no, please, it’s gonna hurt.”

“Oh, I know it’s going to hurt, poppet, that’s rather the point.” She takes your face in her hands and tilts it towards hers, still pressing you against the desk. Her thumbs tenderly wipe the tears from your skin. She’s breathtaking, and at last she kisses you, her mouth rough and needy against your own. Your body melts into her, hands roving greedily over her undergarments, charting the curves and angles formed by her corset, her hips, her strong shoulders. She loops an arm around your back as the other strokes down the length of your spine, grasping hold of one thigh and before you know it she’s lifting you, too strong for the body she inhabits, forcing you up and back until you’re sitting on the desk.

The smooth, polished wood could be hot coals for all the comfort it offers when your weight lands on it, irritating the abused skin of your arse and thighs. You groan into her mouth but she presses on, pulling you tight against her until there’s no way of wriggling out of her embrace. Her nails drag down your back sharply. Your breasts are crushed against hers, your bodies sliding together obscenely, her knee parting your thighs.

Missy bites at your lip and snakes one hand down between where your stomachs are pressed together, her fingers slipping through your drenched folds and making you cry out. She nestles your face in the curve of her neck and speaks close to your ear.

“Are you ready to come for mummy?” You nod mutely, kissing her throat, your breath coming in short gasps against her skin. She presses her fingertips to your clitoris and starts up a slow rhythm of firm, small circles. Your teeth graze her neck as you moan and she growls appreciatively. “Come on then, poppet. Whenever you’re ready.”

The need is all-encompassing. You rock your hips into her movements, hands scrabbling for purchase against her back, gripping the laces of her corset and fisting around the cotton of her chemise. Locks of soft, perfumed hair fall against your face and enclose you until your perception shrinks to the scent of her neck, the stinging pain of inflamed welts, the sweet and unhurried pleasure she works into your cunt with deft fingers.

She flicks her tongue against the shell of your ear and you gasp, shuddering in her arms. “Do you need more?” When you nod again she chuckles, soft and teasing. “Oh, go on, pet, ask for it. You know how much I like it when you beg.” Her teeth close around your earlobe and tug gently.

“Please, mummy,” you gasp against her shoulder, planting worshipful kisses as you do. “Please, I need it faster.”

“Good girl.” She speeds up just slightly, just enough to make you jerk and writhe, finally chasing the orgasm you’ve been denied for so long. “You looked so pretty spread over my desk like that, coming apart at the seams for me. I wanted to tear you to pieces.” Her tongue drags along the side of your neck. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” You pull her closer, wrapping your legs around her hips as if you could pull her inside of your abdomen. “God, yes, anything you wanted.”

“Be careful what you wish for, love.”

The shock of her teeth sinking into your shoulder is all that it takes to push you over the edge and you shriek against her, biting down on the skin under your mouth as well, an ouroboros of screaming ecstasy as every cell of you is consumed in excruciating pleasure. You’re flooded with it, soaking her hand, her chemise, the skin of your thighs.

She keeps you close even as you start to come down, sobbing with the intensity of it, totally wrecked in her embrace. Her tongue soothes the deep crescents left by her teeth. “Oh, my girl,” she murmurs. “How naughty you were today.”

“I’m sorry, Missy.” It’s a tearful whisper against her throat. “Thank you for correcting me.”

“My pleasure.” She strokes your hair with a gentle hand. “Did you get what you needed?”

You chuckle weakly. “And then some.” More kisses, adoring and feather-light along her neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, poppet.” She nuzzles against your temple and the brush of her nose at your ear makes you shiver. “Cross me like that again, though, and I promise I’ll give you the full dozen.”

#missy x reader #the master x reader #the master (gomez)#nsfwork #mine #f/f

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felicia-cat-hardy · 3 years

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Max Minghella On 'The Handmaid's Tale,' His Dad, Romance, & 'Spiral'

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks — the dog, not me — tenderly.

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inkykeiji · 4 years

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clariiiii i watched true romance too!!! it was great like ughhh i just LOVE christian slater he’ll forever be my 90’s celeb crush. i noticed that the film had major tarantino vibes(esp in the character’s lines n the plot) and later found out he was actually the scriptwriter for this film so that was fun hehe but the cinematography and the 90’s mood r what rlly captivated me ahh i love love love the vibes from 8-90’s vintage films. overall it was great nd fresh, felt like watching a tarantino-style romance film (which turned out to be actually true but anyways) and that’s rare!!! great plot and dynamics too!

as a film enthusiast/major/filmmaker i have tons of stuff i wanna chat w/ you about eeek <33 but i kinda feel guilty cuz this is not a film blog yanno idk i cant explain it but i feel guilty?!?! but can i ask u if that’s okay? 🥺 do u have any other film recs(cuz both movies u recommended were amaazing)? do u have a fav genre? what’s ur fav film? do u have a fav director? ahhh im sorry i’m like spamming u wif questions i’m such a nerd BAHAHA -🐰

omg i’m so happy i love it so much!!!!!!!! yeah he’s a dreamboat sigh pls i just killed myself typing that ahahahaha but no he’s so attractive AND U KNOW WHO HE REMINDS ME OF, ACTUALLY???? or more appropriately, who reminds me of him??? idk if you watched ratched—i got about halfway through so far but haven’t really picked it back up (ryan murphy n i have a complicated relationship) but oh my god finn wittrock’s character in ratched just reminds me of christian so much (in looks, not actions/personality ofc hahahaha)!!

aaaaah thank you so much for coming back to share ur thoughts with me i’m so happyyyy 🥺🥺 YES he is!! true romance is my favourite movie written by quentin, but reservoir dogs + the hateful eight are my favourite films directed by him <33 okayokayokay LET’S GET INTO FILM STUFF UNDER THE CUT EEEEE!!!

FIRST OF ALL alabama is like, one of my favourite characters ever like i cannot decide if i want to marry her or if i want to BE her. same with clarence—i just love their relationship so much like, it’s obv a lil unhealthy but gosh like you said THE DYNAMICS!!! and the colour palatte for that film is just ahhhhh so so so good, it inspired my current colour palette actually!! i was gonna do that teal blue n bright cherry red but i didn’t like the way the gradients were turning out :(( so i went with blue n purple instead ehehe

YES BUNNY BB YES YOU CAN ASK ME AS MANY FILM QUESTIONS AS YOU WANT!!!!!! we can chat about film any time, don’t feel guilty at all!! film and writing are tied as my two favourite things ever hahaha so any film questions/discussions are allowed on my blog <33

aaaaaah i have a thousand recs ehehe pls i’ll give you a never-ending list if u don’t give me something more specific/narrow it down a lil!! like what’re you looking for first? do you want american films or italian films or french films etc etc etc? is there a particular genre, era or film movement you’re interested in? waaahhhh look u got me getting all excited n stuff eeee i love love love recommending new films to people 🥺🥺 i love watching them with people too—idk if this is gonna sound weird but like, i love introducing my friends/family to new films that i’ve seen but they haven’t and just watching their reactions n stuff, it’s such a special thing to share with them and it’s almost like i get to experience it for the first time again ehehe.

oof you really have unlocked a MONSTER okay okay

do you have a fav genre?

yes!! i love love love horror films ahahaha but i’m also really into dramas/slice of life type stuff.

what’s your fav film?

BUNNY PREPARE YOURSELF BECAUSE I HAVE A LIST. in no particular order:

fantastic mr fox - anderson

the godfather (part 1 + part 2) - coppola

goodfellas (duh) - scorsese

the royal tenenbaums - anderson

the rules of the game (french) - renoir

breathless (french) - godard

the hateful eight - tarantino

reservoir dogs - tarantino

her - jonze

the thing - carpenter

get out - peele

literally ANYTHING from fellini ahahaha but my absolute fave is la dolce vita (italian)

videodrome - cronenberg

true romance - scott

night of the living dead - romero

lost highway - lynch

the silence of the lambs - demme

a clockwork orange - kubrick

the shining - kubrick

kiki’s delivery service (japanese or english) - miyazaki

dunkirk - nolan

once upon a time in hollywood - tarantino (omg my boyfriend and i have decided if i were a tarantino character i’d literally be rick dalton lmaoooo)

no country for old men - coen brothers

burning (korean) - chang-dong

rebecca - hitchcock

rear window - hitchcock

halloween - carpenter

fargo - coen brothers

the empire strikes back <3333333 - kershner

back to the future - zemeckis

the dark knight - nolan

citizen kane!!!!!!!!! - my bby welles <3

midsommar - aster

the lighthouse - eggers

little women - gerwig

the man without a past (finnish) - kaurismaki

good god that’s a loooong list lmao i’m so sorry bunny but i’d say those are my absolute FAVOURITES. i know i’m missing a few for sure but aaaaah yes

do you have a fav director?

i have a few!! for ‘contemporary’ directors, i love quentin tarantino, wes anderson, david lynch, greta gerwig, and ari aster!! for like uhhh i guess ‘all time’ directors (who have passed away) my faves are stanley kubrick, alfred hitchcock and federico fellini!!!

SORRY THIS IS HUGE ahaha but no please don’t apologize i literally love talking about this kinda stuff!!! tell me all of your favourite directors and films too pls!!!!!!!

#bunny i love u <33333 #i hope you had a great thursday!!!!!#this question took me so long to answer lmao i was going through all of my collections n shit #i loved it tho thank you so much!!!!!!#feel free to come discuss film with me ANY TIME <33 #n pls pls if u wanna—narrow down what type of recs ur looking for and i can give u my faves or a list or something!!!#oooh we should make a film tag!!!!!!#okay okay lemme think about it <3 #🐰.anon #clari gets mail

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marshmallowprotection · 3 years

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Hey! I would like to have a matchup for MysticMessenger if possible:)

I have long-black-thick hair and my hight is 5,6 feet’s. I’m also a bisexual Demigirl and my pronounces are she/they.

My favourite hobbies are drawing traditional and digital art (practicing on digital still) while listening to Japanese indie rock songs. I like spending my free time at home rather than outside with too many people. My Favourite season is winter and favourite days are rainy days! I also loove movies, preferably from the mystery genre cause it’s always so exciting to watch and trying to find out the whole mystery with someone else! Sometimes people think I’m a weird person, maybe for listening to them and saying almost nothing but it’s just me analysing the person (my favourite thing). I’m really not book smart but psychologically smart (?) and act on emotion rather than logic which is sometimes problematic haha

I am a VERY pessimistic and easily depressed person after...well- personal reasons. (Relate to Saeran a little) When surrounded by more (close (2 people)) positive people I’d like to do really funny stuff and be more positive if they let me. I am an (a little unhealthy) INFJ who’s the type who wants to first befriend my crush for a few months (aka quality time and physical touch as love language cause hella I’m touch starved and would probably cry-) for a while to know them and analyse what traits they have, what they like, hobbies and more. (if they’re the right person) I AM VERY NERVOUS AND NOT CONFIDENT AT ALL TO CONFESS AND WOULD PROBABLY GO SOO DISTANT WHEN THOSE FEELINGS GET TOO STRONG also easily flustered by small gestures :,)

Small fact: I speak 3 languages, English, German and Persian and try learning more :3

If it’s too much or you don’t want to write one than it’s completely fine!! Also, I hope you have/had a wonderful and not-so-stressful day and stay/stayed hydrated >:))

-🍉anon

I match you with...

Jumin!

You're definitely an introverted person that knows what you like. You don't have to stress about this or that, because you have a good idea of what's too much for you and what's too little for you. You're all about your feelings and the way that you see the world. Sometimes that can make you seem a little standoffish. But it's just that you have a very good grasp on the way that you feel. Knowing that, you've got a few options as far as who would work with you. But the best person is definitely Jumin. Think of it as an opposite attract situation.

You both have the chance to help the other learn more about a different perspective that they've never considered before. You may be ruled by your emotions , and he may be ruled by logic, but when you're together you can make a rational decision that just makes sense. That's why the two of you work so well together. Because you can come to a consensus together and not have to worry that the choice isn't the right thing to do or that it's not going to benefit in some way.

His love language can be very quiet and it can be all so louder. He's really good at being able to read you so it's not really a problem for him to figure out what's too much for you and what's not enough for you. You don't have to rush into it. He's not the type to do that either. With him you can take your time and not worry about getting mixed up in the swing of things. Relationships take time and he's definitely someone who believes in that. But because the two of you have something in common, trying to square away your emotions, you'll be able to call the other out and learn how to work past that.

#mod kait #watermelon anon #ask #matchup

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flowerandthesongstress · 3 years

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rules for requests

Yes to:

* Anything comforting and heartwarming * Fluff, domesticity * Romance, friendship * Healthy relationships * Emotional support, healing, recovery * Mystery! ^_^ mysterymysterymysterrrrrryYY * Mild (psychological) horror * Magical realism * Pining * Dorks in love * Internal conflict, light angst * Comedy, especially satirical comedy No to: * High-stakes external conflict * Action * Heavy angst * Fighting and bickering * Jealousy and rivalry * Yandere and stalking * Violence and gore * Sad/bad endings * The so-called ‘headcanons’

Regarding smut: * Consent over 9000 * Must convey emotions and/or a message * All participants must feel and express boundless respect and unfeigned affection for each other, and be emotionally mature adults * Yes f/m and f/f in any combinations (but please limit to a triad, heh). Editing to add: please, no pure m/m: I prefer to only write what I know, and I lack a penis and a prostate. I can try, if you want me to, but whatever I write will likely be stupid, silly, unlived, unfelt, and untrue (but maybe funny? if you want 100% comedy? then sure. otherwise, I’d rather you didn’t, because I also simply do not enjoy writing what I don't know). *if I perceive anything in your request as even slightly misogynistic and/or unhealthy, I reserve the right to ignore said request.

Editing again to add this important information:

* No longer accepting/filling anonymous requests * I further reserve the right to deny your request for a personal reason I may or may not voice upon replying. * Be as specific or vague as you wish, but in the case of the latter, keep in mind that your request might get ‘butchered’. For example, if you want smut, please don’t be shy, say it outright and specify what exactly you wish to see. If you instead offer a vague idea that might involve sex, I will write plot and feelings instead; it’s not that I can’t write smut—I can, and well—it’s that I find it more compelling to write other things. * It’s not commissions, of course, it’s free. I can’t offer any guarantees * But I can’t and won’t write into an empty void either, I’m not a machine, my spare time is limited, and English is not my native language * So whether you like or dislike the end result, you promise to leave a comment or send a private message where you will honestly and openly, without any coyness, explain your reasoning for either.

I'm not lacking in ideas, to put it mildly... I have a special file that's stuffed with original ideas to the brim, and I will never write even 1% of them. So if you want, it's totally okay to throw the dice and go 'pls write about this thing/guy' without specifics. If it sparks, I'll just launch my hand in the File and pick something at random.

That’s about it.

->back to the main page

#for direct linking only #requests

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thedivinevera · 2 years

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Favor(chapter 1)

Yan! Emperor zhongli x empress reader (x fem! concubine)

Pining, yandere, forced marriage, love triangle but both love one person(reader), sleeping in one bed, kissing, Chinese dynasty au but like not accurate

Mention of death, yandere, unhealthy obsession,

Concubine is not yandere

you are the empress of liyue, wife of the merciless emperor rex lapis and the tamer of the morax. Your husband zhongli also agree in does praise. People of liyue knows how devoted their emperor to you, they never thought that the emperor will going to get a concubine after all the poem he write and praise he sang, the concubine well she seems want to destroy your relationship with him but in the other way

Pls read this ↓

Reblogs are appreciated. thank you

"my empress,my goddess. If you only know how much I love you..." you can not say anything you want to tell him that this is not love this is an obsession the unhealthy one but all the words just die in your throat just like how people die in his hand because of-.. you don't know the only thing you knew is that it has something connected to you. Oh how you wish to not met him if you only take the long walk than walking to that short cut you will not going to meet him and this will not going to happen no life will be loss because of you but the pass is pass and now you're in his lap his head is in your shoulder while his nose is inhaling your smell. You are adorned with jewelry and beautifully hand crafted silk and dress. all is embroidered with dragon reprsenting the symbol of the emperor. "shall we sleep now after all it will going to be a long day for you after all? Don't worry I will always going to love you. They will only going to be married to me because of political reason but she's only a mere mistress but you're my wife. So please don't be angry at me" he shift in his position and place you to his bed you look at him with a dead eyes "don't worry I couldn't careless. Marry as much woman you like until I escape in your hands" he simply smile and approach into your ears as he wispher "you can not leave my graps my empress you shall know that" he kisses your lips and lay in your side he hugs you with all of his might making sure you can not leave after he close his eyes and lose his consciousness, you look at the beautifully decorated walls until you fall as sleep

It's the day you will need to welcome the generals daughter. You expected a fearless woman who will going to look at you with envy and will going to say an oath about surpassing you or something with does line. You couldn't care less after all your marriage is just one sided so why you need to care at all. You already has an experience when it comes to this type of woman a lot of maid and daughters has always say does lines wanting to intimate you and gain the favor of the emperor but all of them just loss their head in the order of their lovely "future husband". But we'll seems like the Celestia has surprise you. You saw a woman perhaps 1 or a half older than you has drop out of the carriage she looks into your eyes and for a second you know what is happening. You recognize this eyes this eyes is the same eyes you saw when you and the emperor met but this is a lot more pure. If you think it's delusional the blush and the pathetic smile explain à lot. She look at you with admiration and crush, heh what a life- you face-palm your self gosh how tireful.

The concubine has start to speak but you shrug and dismissed your self. You want to just sleep this is already a tiring day and it's just 8 in the morning

#yandere zhongli #yandere zhongli x reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli #Emperor zhongli #Yandere Emperor zhongli #Pardon my writing once again #Zhongli x you #Zhongli x y/n #the priestress words

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ghostsofmemories · 4 years

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Writing My Obituary (context on my weird poetry collection)

I realized today that I very casually bring up my poetry collection all the time and a large majority of my followers have no clue what I’m talking about, so here’s a WMO explanation post thing! I should definitely give a content warning though: this book deals with suicide, abuse (both physical and emotional, by both parents and other people), homophobia and transphobia, allusions to major appetite and stomach issues (which while reading sound a lot like eating disorders), toxic relationships, just a lot of really heavy emotions in general. Please don’t read the book or this post if those things could trigger you. This post also ended up super long, so the rest is under the cut.

So. first thing’s first, this collection is being published by Pure Print Publishing this fall (due to covid there aren’t any exact dates available). I didn’t query it, someone reached out to me after reading my poems on Instagram, hearing that they were in an unpublished collection, and basically connected me with their friend who runs the indie publishing house and is an author himself.

A big part of the reason this book is so difficult to talk about in context is because that requires getting pretty vulnerable - most of this book is just me dealing with everything I’ve struggled with over the last 4 years of my life. So if there’s discussion about the book in the replies, please keep it to the content of the book and not the validity of these experiences or details of things that happened to me.

The collection is about me and my journey from 13 to 17, starting with my suicide attempt at 13. There are several poems from around that time in my life, but they’ve changed a lot over the four years of editing. However, you can definitely still see changes in the way I write and the way I approach poetry by the end of the book - which was the goal. The book is centered around learning about identity, about how relationships should work, about friendships, about learning to handle mental and chronic illness, and above all, growing. There’s really no “breaking point” where everything about the way I write changes all at once, so in context, the change is almost difficult to see. So to sort of represent these changes, I’m putting a poem from the beginning, from the middle, and from the end all right next to each other (and some bonus analysis of my own poetry!).

Call me a monster is probably the most stark change from the past to the present. I almost never rhyme my poems anymore and if I do, they’re fleeting and mostly for rhythm. The lines are also extremely short, which I only do now when it really fits - in general, I make an effort to avoid consistently short lines. I like to tell myself that it’s symbolism I did on purpose to represent how all over the place my brain was, hopping from one thought to the next, but I don’t think it’s symbolism. I think my brain was really too jumbled to have more than five words in a line.

I also took my own poems very seriously back then - writing a poem was an Occasion, so the first letter of each of those lines is capitalized like I’m some sort of English classics major. Both stanzas are also the same length (I still do that now sometimes, but back then it was in so many of my poems that I think I thought it was a requirement). Basically, I wrote this like I was going to turn it in somewhere.

Still pretty heavy on the capitalization here, but I definitely got more flexible with stanza length and slightly longer lines (7 whole words, yay!). This poem was somewhat of a turning point for me, basically realizing that I could not only vent through poetry, but still make it poetic and artistic in a lot of ways, and also explore contrast in my own emotions and conflicting feelings. For some reason, prior to this, I thought a poem could only be one emotion at a time, but now I think a poem can be one topic and the way multiple or conflicting emotions revolve around it. This is also one of the first poems I wrote that I was proud of from beginning to end.

This poem isn’t totally representative of the last couple changes I want to talk about (especially line length - for being relatively recent the lines are still pretty short), but I don’t want to use too many poems that haven’t been posted online before and this one has been posted and read aloud on an Instagram live, minus one stanza I added, which I’ll get to. I also wanted to choose this one because it has a direct reference to The Universe In You and several other poems, which gives me a chance to talk about how much I love referencing my other poetry in my poetry. Buckle up, this one might be long.

By this point, I had pretty much realized that there actually aren’t any rules at all. I’ve figured out what I want to say and I’ll say it however the hell I want to - I don’t need to capitalize things unless it suits the form, I don’t have to be totally consistent, I can repeat things as much as I want. I reached back into my 15 year old angst for this one, though, so I could more properly write about the relationship in a way that made sense.

Now, I could honestly write a whole other book about how I reference other poems in each poem, but for now I’ll just break down the ones here.

Sort of a half reference right at the beginning: I have so much to say. I bring that up in different words in so many poems, both about my relationship and my dad. This is probably because, growing up as someone who had a speech impediment (meaning I talked too much no matter how little I said because of how long it took to say it), I always felt like I never had the space to say everything I wanted. It’s brought up in at least 3 other poems.

lost signals: a direct reference to my poem Thread Unavailable:

We’re riding down a dirt road in the middle of a conversation and lost signal. Message failed.

empty spaces: a reference to The Universe In You!! Pretty much the whole reason I included this poem.

burned poems: this one is basically just a reference to all the poems in the collection that are breakup poems, or poems where I directly addressed my ex saying don’t read this, you don’t have to read this, I shouldn’t have written this, etc. Specifically, A Long and Lonely Letter, Tired Eyed (The Homecoming Poem), and The Poem That Shouldn’t Exist.

another July come and gone and I didn’t write about you: this reference is hard to really understand the context of unless you know me in real life, but in two other poems I mention the month of July, in a couple others I reference summer, but there are dozens of poems that didn’t make it into my cut of the collection that talk about July. Basically, in context of the relationship, it was the only time we were actually happy and we split up and got back together over and over trying to replicate that fleeting, 30 day feeling that was overtaken by school, seasonal depression, and our own instability as people. For so long, all I could think about was that one month, and that line was my way of showing how I was done writing about it.

you told me, once, that we’re soulmates: this entire little stanza is directly copied from Tired Eyed (The Homecoming Poem). In order to continue talking about it I’ll throw a piece of that here:

If you want to come back, be sure of me. Be sure of yourself. I don’t want to be a consequence of your impulses.

You told me, once, that we’re soulmates. That once you find a person you want to spend forever with, it feels like nothing else matters. Do you believe that like I do?

That’s just a really short chunk of a really long poem, but basically the re-use of that section goes to say that me truly believing nothing else mattered was not good and extremely unhealthy. I put it there even though the poem was just fine without it because I really wanted to get that message across, especially since most of my target audience falls between middle and high school.

I know love in so many shades and I give it in every color: this references a couple different poems that aren’t in the collection, but in terms of the book, it’s a reference to Red, Like You, which is about color association and love and stuff? I I still don’t totally get it. I say in the poem that I don’t totally get it. No one totally gets it, but all in all I went from loving just one person in just one way to loving everyone in tons of different ways and realizing that those other types of love are just as, if not more, fulfilling to me, and that romance is not the be-all end-all of love and happiness.

All the other references are repetitions so I’ve pretty much already explained those. But anyway, that’s my book! It has 77 poems total, quite a few of them more than a page, and some that are probably several pages once in paperback format because, you know, I never shut up. Since I did my mini beta reading round (I got a lot of necessary feedback but that was so much to keep track of, I’ll probably just get a couple feedback partners next time), I’ve cut 34 poems and added 16 newer ones, edited the crap out of the whole book, and gotten the perspective of a professional editor.

This book, even though there’s a lot of it I’ve grown out of, is super important to me and it’s so hard to let it go. Part of me wants to keep this book going forever and just keep growing until it has thousands of poems, but all of these “character arcs” in my life are finished. I left my toxic relationship and friendships, I figured out my gender and sexuality, I learned how to love openly, I cut off my dad for good. There’s obviously always more to learn about my relationships with these other people and myself, and I do that unconsciously every day. But in all honesty, I have nothing left to say about these people or events that would change the conclusions I’ve already come to - they would only further prove them to be true.

I absolutely always want to talk about this book, so if you have any questions, send an ask! Also feel free to scroll through the poetry tag on my blog and ask me about any poems I have posted there, there are a few that I’ve written since the completion of the collection that’ll (most likely) end up in whatever I write next. Basically, I’m obsessed with poetry and want to talk about it all the time. Please ask me about it.

#poetry #my writing #wmo #writing my obituary #adventures in publishing #shut up august

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lideria · 4 years

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Lost in Yesterday. | Jeno (POV shift)

Request: helllooo!! i just read lost in yesterday and it so heart-wrenchingly beautiful that i must ask; is it possible for you to make the same fic but in jeno's point of view?

Author’s Note: I tried and I’m not mad at it! Keep in mind that I’ve done a write-the-same-fic-but-from-a-different-pov thing for the first time ever in my life, I’m suggesting you take this piece with a pinch of salt please and thank you! Plus, this was kind of hard to write? As in, I had a clear vision of Jeno’s character and feelings but when it came to expressing them it was really difficult. (and that’s on my alexithymia lads)

Important: If you want this piece to fully make sense, I’d highly suggest you read the reader’s pov and the backstory.

Warnings: Swear words, brief mentions of suggestive themes, mentions of war, mentions of heartbreak, mentions of family distress/unhealthy relationship, themes of manipulation, themes of confusion. English is my second language so there might be errors, please let me know if there is more that I should add!

Word Count: 4.003 again, like the first part, idk why but that’s so satisfying to me.

Genre: MUCH ANGST SUCH WOW, royal!au, rivalkingdoms!au, loverstoenemies!au

Hope you all enjoy it, loves! And anon, I hope this lives up to your expectations! Stay safe and healthy, and take care of yourselves for me 💚

Jeno gets done with writing his notes down with an exhausted breath through his nose.

The conference is stretching out and it is only the first day out of the three. There are demands from every monarchy aimed towards him and his rule. Every single letter that leaves his mouth is a step on the mighty thin ice that is the peace between the nations, one that must be protected at all costs, and he recognizes that. And he tries to meet everybody’s needs and wants. Figures that is the least he can do to ensure the continuity of this peace.

But in reality, he knows most people in the room would like to tear his monarchy apart in pieces if they were given the opportunity. That intimidates him even though he tries to hide the fact that it does.

As years go on after the war he expects the requests to get lighter. But they do not— if anything, they get heavier and even more challenging to provide. Even though he gets further into his life as the primary ruler and collects more experience.

And if there is anybody that gives him a particularly difficult time, it is you.

He has to watch you every year. He has to watch you stand up from your seat and take a deep, heavy breath as you link your hands and shut your eyes momentarily before proceeding with your speech. He has to see you do anything and everything to avoid looking at him as you speak up about what the monarchies and the governments must do to ensure the safety of peace the upcoming year, word out your opinion on the political problems that are the agendas for the session and your share of possible solutions that are up for a debate, and see the way you look forward frozen in place as you talk about the matters that regard his kingdom specifically. Even when you talk about the espionage, and the soldier you still could not hand over to his rule since his judicial process was yet undecided, you would not look at him. Never. Not a single time in years.

Yet, he cannot take his eyes off of you. Not for a single second, watching you as you act like the powerful and strong monarch he always knew you would come to be. It makes him proud.

The only thing— person— that pisses him off is the King. The man that took your hand in eternal marriage months, almost a year ago now, that was once your personal guard. The King that was once his friend, the only man outside royalty and his staff that he could share a laugh with, as well as a heart-to-heart conversation. Jeno does not hate him. But he hates the fact that Donghyuck gets to sit next to you and deliver speeches with you in this conference, and he hates that he can do it so well— matching your, a person who was born into the royal world, level of knowledge and confidence after such a short amount of training and education when Jeno had to pave the way for himself with his nails and teeth from day one. He hates that he gets to eat with you and see you from the moment you awake to the moment you go to sleep.

But when he finishes taking his notes and the conference goes into a break with the tired sighs leaving nearly everyone’s mouths, he can see you make your way to the doors opening to the balcony after a couple of words with your husband. Who, to his great surprise, does not accompany you because, to his great pleasure, a representative starts speaking to him.

Jeno knows this would be the right moment to talk to you. To tell you. Because you deserved to know.

So he follows you promptly, grooming his attire before making his way out.

The palace guards open the door for him, and he can already spot you, leaning on the parapet slightly. Your hair sways with the ocean breeze. He takes a second, not more nor less, to watch the way it does, because it is the most peaceful sight he has seen in a long time.

And then he walks over to you with his hands placed on his back. There is a growing tension as he does, he can feel it, but he feels fine. He is in control of every atom in his body. You, not so much. He can basically see the way you stiffen up when he stands beside you.

So he tries to ease you into the conversation. Jeno puts a smile on his face, partly because he finally gets to talk to you after all the years. “It’s a pretty day here,” The contentment is apparent through his words. He does his best at trying to sound welcoming but it still feels weird to be talking to you directly after all this time.

“It is.” Your voice sounds colder than the winter nights he spent traveling through the roads to get to you and your secret meetings. The signal gets across— you do not want anything to do with him. Hell, you sound more enthusiastic in the conference room doing politics.

Jeno knows you do not want to have anything to do with him. If it ever came to your defense, you had made that much sure when you spit the words take your men and never come back with all the disappointment and spite onto his face years ago, on that faithful night that ultimately caused all of this to happen according to the butterfly effect. But he does not give up on the opportunity to speak to you. Even if it will make you feel uncomfortable.

Because he knows how it feels when you do not get the news beforehand.

With a breath for starters, he turns his head to face your profile. You look so familiar, he smiles. “I need to tell you something, if you would hear me out.”

Either his words hold a weight to them heavier than he would ever like to make them out to be or you are so sick of him that you want him out, out of this area of peace or out of this world; out of your eyesight and out of your heart and mind because the way you breathe is almost concerning. That is, if he had not known you like the back of his hand still. You nod, and Jeno sees your eyes fixed on the harbor, where a carrier ship is being loaded. He can remember setting foot onto the pier during the war with his father.

It was the very place his father had smiled to him genuinely for the first time, and had landed his heavy hand on his shoulder, before telling Jeno how proud he was of him and his strength. He remembers having actual conversations during dinner for once, about what they would do with the land and how they would develop the towns and such without his father shutting him up even once. That very harbor was the first place Jeno’s father had listened to him and what he wanted. The first place he had acknowledged him as his son that needs to be heard rather than the Prince who needs to be educated and trained until he is perfect, and it was not even their home.

And then Jeno had given the city up as an area of peace once the war had ended shortly after his father’s passing. It seemed like the right thing to do although he knew his father would not have liked it.

Lost in the nostalgia of everything, the need to look into your eyes grows bigger. “Can you look at me as you hear me out then?”

Although he is very impatient, he relaxes the words as he speaks them out. He wants you to know that he respects your choice, even though love is not prominent in whatever it is the two of you have. And if your choice happens to be pretending like he is not there as you let him speak to you, that is fine too.

But you turn your face to look at him. Like the good monarch you are. Ready to face the past and the present and, as being a monarch demanded, the future.

But he sees something falter immediately. Truthfully, he sees many things falter immediately. He sees doubt and longing and nostalgia that is much like the one he had been experiencing just now. The look in your eyes are like ancient ruins to him: it looks so familiar, he knows what it means, yet it is impossible to make it into what it once was. Jeno chuckles even though he tries to help himself not to, because he sees it.

There is some sort of care in you for him still. Even after everything.

He almost feels this giant lightness, something so big it can swallow him whole, wash over him, but he brings himself back to the world so quickly that it is like the feeling never even existed. If anything, this made things harder to tell.

It is a pity that he cannot bring himself to care all that much, but he internally justifies it by telling himself you had not showed him half the mercy he has been showing you, months ago. “I’m to be wedded this winter.”

Shock covers your eyes. The kind that tells him you are clearly dumbfounded. But that only lasts for a few seconds before he sees it shift into hurt, and your breath hitches as the look in your eyes shifts. “Oh.”

The shaky response pulls a string on his heart only you can pull and it is hard to not give into it; maybe, just maybe, he would have given into it, had you not turned your face away from him back to the harbor before he could. It gets him feeling somewhat angry, though. He was being considerate of you, and he was being considerate of what you two had in the past, and he was being considerate of your right to know. All three of which you had not been considerate of when it was him that should have listened to you, and now you would not even face him after facing him. After showing him you can do it. He cannot understand that. “With all due respect, your Majesty, haven’t you been married for months now? I cannot understand your response,” He calls you out with every bit of frustration in him, laughing lightly in the hypocrisy you seem to be showing. “Especially when I’ve taken the time to tell you about it.”

“Everything was over with, I wasn’t obliged to tell you.” Your attacking defense comes just as he finishes what he is saying, but he can tell that even you do not believe yourself all that much. There must have been a mutual respect. Jeno would like to believe that you too had loved him magically and wonderfully like he feels he had loved you, and if you did, then there should not have been an excuse for him to not know until it happened.

With his own fair share of hurt now, he turns to look back at the town he once ruled, with his once-lover. But he does not dare drop his hands, or his shoulders, or his smile— like his father had taught him. If you stand straight enough, you will be strong. If you keep your head high enough, you will be stronger. And if you smile long and hard enough, nothing and no one will be able to break you, my son.

As he looks down he wonders if the shoemaker remembers him, because he is wearing his shoes today. Actually, he is wearing the pair that used to be his father’s. He had never used them or cherished them the way his son did, whereas Jeno had made sure he wore them until they lost any shape they held.

“Who are they?” His ear perks a bit at your question, and he looks at you from the side of his eyes, smile widening ever so slightly. “A princess,” He figures you would like the answer instantly. “From one of the state kingdoms. You must’ve seen her at least once, but I hardly think you know her name.” Maybe you did, but he would not bother telling you. You would be learning about her soon enough.

“Do you love her?”

Everything stops. You stop breathing, his heart momentarily stops beating, the world seems to halt.

Do I love her the way I loved you? No. Never. That is really hard to do, and for that matter, I do not think I will ever be able to love someone like I loved you. I may have kissed her, but never have I once ever got the same sparkling feeling on my lips or the warm feeling in my chest like I did with you. I may have hugged her, but not once did I feel like she would be able to catch me the way you did if I fell. I may have sobbed in front of her, but I never gave her the key for the lock on my mouth and just let her hug me into her chest as I kept everything inside— sometimes you inside. I may have danced with her, but only because she makes it easy to dance with the way she moves around. I may have let her sob in front of me and listened to her struggles, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not listen to her struggles as deeply as I had done with yours. I may have shared my body with her, and accepted hers, but only because she is in love with me and has told me herself that she is ready to accept me the way I am; once too in love to ever be in love again. But I care about her enough to take her hand in marriage and have children with her, because she might be the only one to love me ever again, and I respect her for it. “I presume we can say that. She’s the bearer of my child— the heir to my throne, after all. That must mean something.”

Jeno only looks at you again because of the deep, aching breath you take and the intense inhaling sound it makes. Your face is once again turned away from him, not even looking at the harbor anymore, just anywhere but him. Your body shivers only for a short amount of time, maybe a few seconds, before it stops and when it does, he can see your eyes from the side.

He knows that look. He would know that look anywhere at anytime, even if he forgot his own name. It is the same look you had given him when you looked at him for the last time. Hurt, broken, betrayed and so, so disappointed. And this time you would not look at him. “We could have been amazing.”

The way you say it, and the way your head tilts slightly in disappointment before going back to how it was, makes Jeno feel like a monster.

Because he feels the same way. You really could have been amazing.

He could have been the one to properly ask you to marry him, because with Donghyuck he was sure you had asked first, even though he once asked you in private, and you had asked him also. He could have been the one to hold your hands at the altar and to tell you he would love you day and night and in sickness and health and would have meant it. He could have kissed you in front of the thousands of guests, he could have been the one prompting the thunderous applause that followed, the one that he had learned from one of his close friends that cared enough to call him to tell him about it— your wedding. He could have cried after seeing you in your beautiful attire.

Jeno could have taken the oath with you. He could have taken a knee before you with the cape around his shoulders and the crown on his head. He could have hosted many royal balls with you, to dance with you again and again until you hated dancing. He could have gotten lost with you in palace gardens to reminisce the old days. He could have imagined the idea of having heirs with you, and he could have grown old with you.

He could have made you happy. He could have taken you to the forests he knew you loved more than anything, he could have played snow fights with you in the never-ending snow, he could have gotten lost in the library countless times with you as you read novels. He could have played guitar to you, and serenaded you with moonlight hitting your cheeks. He could have dragged you to the palace kitchen and the two of you could have made your own meals with all your staff, making them laugh with the way you act— dancing, singing, laughing, smiling, kissing, putting sugar instead of salt, stupidly in love— and at the end you could have had grand meals with your staff and their families. Could have established a festival celebrating your love and the unity of the two of the biggest reigns.

But that is the point. These are things that could have happened. Amazing is something the two of you could have been, not what you were supposed to be. He had his duties, and he had his family, and he had his people that he had to protect. The same went for you. And during the war, your stances were different from one another.

So it was maybe for the best that what once was ended when it did. Maybe, if what could have been actually came to be, it would have gone worse, like his father had suggested him. Maybe the two of you would have used one another, like his father had suggested him. Maybe you would betray him, like his father had suggested him— and you did, because you acted like he never existed. Did not tell him anything, did not look at him, threw your experiences out the window just like that.

Maybe, just maybe, his father was right.

Yet, if he was, why did Jeno feel like the world was against him and he was all alone? Truly, and utterly alone, save for the soon-to-be queen?

He watches a tear run down your cheek, and sees you biting at your lip, and he thinks why? Why are you so upset by this? Are you really all disappointed? Did you have the right to be?

Jeno keeps on smiling. If he smiles long and hard enough, nothing will be able to break him.

The balcony doors open, and he knows who it is that is coming. This scenario has happened many times already, before he was the King but a guard, and usually he would tell you either that he had spotted royal photographers nearby and that you have to move, or that things were starting to get suspicious, anything of that sort. But now he did not know what Donghyuck might say or do, which is unsettling to him.

Without even making his presence known first, Donghyuck places a hand at your waist, and Jeno notices how you do not get surprised. “Dear,” He does not see even a bit of the discomfort on your face that you had on your face when he first approached you. Jeno is incredibly envious of that, and he must be glaring at your husband, because he turns to look at him in such a way. He can feel Donghyuck accusing him of screwing everything up yet again, and he can hear him asking what is wrong with him, what part of ‘never’ do you not understand?

Donghyuck looks at him only for a flash, but Jeno understands what he has to say.

He sees you lean against him slightly. “Shall we go inside? We can go get you something.” No, do not go yet, not now. I want to make things right with you.

If he only knew that he would never be able to do it.

You actually nod at Donghyuck without much consideration, which is almost bad enough in itself, but then you hold his hand, which seems to just emphasize everything Jeno did not like— and everything that once made him feel bad. And it infuriates him to see.

But it should not. Because he does not love you anymore. You cannot break him if he does not love you anymore.

He watches as you leave, wanting to be relieved, yet not quite able to feel that way. And he hates to admit it but there is hope in him, flickering in his chest much like a candle light in the wind, when you turn back around to him with Donghyuck.

“Send an invitation for us, too,” You say to him. Gentle and kind, and strong, despite your disappointment and hurt. Slightly, he sees you raise your chin a little to keep your composure as well, and he thinks of his father’s words. How true they are. “Our monarchs must be better than abandoning each other on their best days. Let us host you in our palace once honeymoon is over, which I hope is enough to make up for my mistake.”

It is not, he thinks. It is not enough. How do you expect me to come to your palace, where so many of our memories of love— kissing, hugging, listening to each other, seeing each other, looking deep into each other’s eyes, whispering sweet nothings and sometimes all that we know will keep the other one going, hiding from the photographers and the guards and your family and anyone who can catch us, adoring each other, cherishing each other, making love to each other, dreaming of the future will haunt the two of us, and be there with my wife that knows I will not love her fully like I did with you, and your husband that you have a deep enough relationship with that you give in to his support? How do you expect me to sit at the same table with you, knowing you told me to never come back and yet you invited me back? Knowing you would not even look into my eyes after all this time no matter how much you try? How do you expect me to look at you and see you when you will not do the same for me and expect it to be enough in return for your erasure of me and our memories?

He sees you smile, and once again you are eye to eye with him. “And if you do not, then I wish all the happiness to you and the queen, your Highness.”

You blow the flickering light in his chest.

Not your Majesty, no. You do not call him that, the title for the Kings and the Queens, and any primary rulers, but instead you call him your Highness. The title for the heirs. The name you would be calling him years ago, before he did any of what he did, before the two of you became what you have become.

You remind Jeno, with a sure and firm voice, that you do not, and you will not recognize the person he is today.

And when you turn your back and proceed with your way inside amongside Donghyuck, he cannot help himself as his shoulders drop— ruining his perfect posture for the first time since whoever knows how long.

Suddenly, Jeno cannot find it in himself to smile anymore.

#nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct x reader #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #jeno imagines #jeno x reader #nct dream #nct jeno #lee jeno #jeno #it's a jeno fic we get it honey you can stop now #donghyuck #lee donghyuck #haechan #nct haechan #fic: lost in yesterday

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