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roomsofangel · 4 days

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LOVER, PLEASE STAY. . .

chapter two

synopsis you and wooyoung have been best friends for as long as you could remember, always overcoming everything in your friendship even after a few bumps in the road and confessions in the past. you could always trust that no matter wooyoung will always be there, right?

wc 1.9k

chapter warnings scene where wooyoung is intoxicated but its only mentioned, he’s asleep through most of that scene tbh.

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there was certainly subtle signs, you realized in retrospect, that you had simply been oblivious to. little things, perhaps, that seemed harmless at the time, but were in fact an ominous portent of what was to come. and then, the massive punch to the jaw which would knock you into reality. it was as if all the warning signs you had missed were glaring out at you now. you had to accept the truth, the cold harsh truth that jung wooyoung was no longer someone that you could call at two in the morning just because you needed a voice

jung wooyoung was no longer the one you could listen to for hours on end, and not get bored. he was no longer intertwined with you.

and you were afraid. you were completely and utterly afraid more than anything your mind could fully comprehend at that moment. wooyoung was all you knew, all you wanted to know, and this sudden revelation threatened to overwhelm you with fear. the possibility of losing him was insurmountable. you desperately wanted to cling to his every word, latching onto the hope that somehow this would all turn out alright.

but deep down, you knew better.

you weren’t sure why you stayed.

seonghwa breathed a sigh of relief when he opened the door and saw you standing there. “finally, you're here,” he said, his relief evident in his voice. “he’s on the couch, he didn't even make it there himself. i had to drag him after he passed out on the floor.” he sighed again as he led you inside the familiar home, your gaze taking in the surroundings as you tried to assess the situation.

you frowned as the imagery in your mind clashed with the reality in front of you. wooyoung was there, passed out on the couch, curled up in a blanket. his lips were slightly parted, and soft snores were coming from his mouth. everything about this sight reminded you of the old wooyoung, the one you had fallen for. it was as if this sight was frozen in time, the only disturbance being the slow rise and fall of his chest indicating his breathing.

every part of you wanted to linger here, to simply stay in this moment with wooyoung. as if this was proof that he hadn't changed, that deep down the same man was still there. the small motions of his body were like comfort to you in this dark time. all you wanted was to stay here, to observe him as he slept, and forget the world outside.

“he was drunk off his ass,” seonghwa broke your thoughts

"but when is he not at this point..?" you heard him mutter, shaking his head as he leaned against one of the walls, arms folded over his chest. you glanced at him, suddenly acutely aware of your own ache. you felt as if you were responsible somehow, as if you played some part in the pain wooyoung was in right now. your heart squeezed tight in your chest, feeling like it didn't fit inside of your body.

just a little longer. that’s all you needed, just one more moment of denial. could you really let go of the last vestiges of innocence that made you happy in this situation? maybe just for one tiny little moment longer, you could pretend everything was okay. you wanted to beg the universe to let you have that just for one miniscule second.

sighing, you took the first step towards wooyoung, gently shaking him. “woo.. come on, let’s go..” you said, trying to wake him up. the exhaustion in his demeanor was almost palpable, like a thick fog hanging over him and covering his eyes.

“go away..” he mumbled, his words slurring ever so slightly as he tried to turn over to get more sleep. he was intoxicated, although not to the same extent that you had presumed before. however, he was still not in a state of coherent thought, and he was still clearly not lucid enough to carry on a proper conversation with you.

you could hear seonghwa sigh from behind you, "i’ll help you get him into the car," he said calmly. he pushed himself off the wall and walked towards you, and a sleeping, grumpy wooyoung who was groaning about the fact you two cared about him so much. why was he being this way? when had he become so closed off and resistant to your care?

you frowned, "thank you, hwa," you whispered. he gave you a small nod in reply, understanding the situation. you struggled to keep hold of wooyoung’s left side, having to bear his weight as he resisted your care while seonghwa had control over the right side and was doing his best to help support most of it.

it was difficult to get down the long hallways, especially while trying to keep wooyoung propped-up and steady. yet, determination was what made the two of you succeed in getting him in the backseat eventually. after all the effort, you had finally managed to lay him down, though you couldn’t help but worry. the entire trek to your car had left you exhausted, anxious, and filled with a strange sense of relief yet regret.

“you sure you’ll be able to handle this?" seonghwa asked, looking at you with an expression that was full of uncertainty and hesitation. you could see the debate going on in his mind, as he debated whether he should let you go or not.

"it's wooyoung." you said the answer that you thought he needed, almost as if you were trying to convince yourself of anything. the two of you remained in a stare-down, your heart racing faster the longer he doubted you. it seemed like he was on the verge of saying something else, until he finally gave you a small nod and backed off.

he sighed, looking back at the backseat one last time and catching a glimpse of a passed-out wooyoung through the window. he repeated your words, "It's wooyoung," with a more sorrowful tone in his voice. he was concerned about you, knowing just how deep your devotion to wooyoung was. he knew that you'd do anything for him, go through any lengths to ensure his safety and comfort, regardless of the risks or consequences.

he also knew that it wasn't a healthy dynamic, and he couldn't help but worry about you. he was caught between caring for your well-being and letting go of the fact that he couldn't always protect you. it seemed like it was one or the other, and both options terrified him.

"i’ll text you when I'm home, okay?" you tried to reassure him once more, leaning slightly against your car as you spoke. your hand on the roof of the car, you looked at him one final time, wanting to assure him that everything would be okay and that you'd be careful.

seonghwa looked at you a bit longer, "you better." he said back to you with a softer tone, as if he was hoping you would, for his own sanity's sake. he wanted to believe that you would be careful and keep yourself safe, despite the fact that he knew the answer could be far different. it was something that he could never truly grasp, just hope that you'd choose the better option.

getting into the car, you settled in and started to put your key into the ignition. "are we going home?" you heard wooyoung’s muffled voice as he shifted in his seat and moved, laying his head on his arm. he had a slight squish look to his face, and his lips were parted from the way he was resting, looking almost like a pouting child.

you glanced at him through the rear view mirror, adjusting yourself before humming. "yeah, we are." you said, giving one more final look at seonghwa who stood at his front door, watching you with a small and worried expression. he remained on his front lawn, standing firmly as if he wasn't sure of what to do with the current situation.

he stood there, looking back at you for a few more seconds before stepping back, his hand lifting in a little goodbye gesture. though, you couldn't see his expression, you got the sense that he was struggling to hide his worry. he tried to smile and wave as you started to drive off, but the tension was palpable. you felt his gaze on you even as he was no longer in sight, and you couldn't help but worry about him as well.

the next morning, wooyoung woke up, tangled in his bedsheets as he felt a pounding headache and his heart beating rapidly. he wondered how he got here, remembering how he stumbled to seonghwa after getting into a fight at the bar. he recalled seonghwa scolding him for being reckless, and he recalled the fight itself, as well. all he could think of was your face, and the disappointed look on it. even in his half-drunken state, his mind kept going back to you.

he glanced over at the two pills sitting on his nightstand, the realization suddenly sinking in as he froze. he could recall you and seonghwa trying to lift him out of the car and you crying as you drove him home. he remembered pretending to be asleep, trying not to hear your sniffles and cries as you drove. the pills on his nightstand were a sobering realization, and he remembered now what had happened last night.

he took the pills as they were, not chasing them down with water, and he pulled himself out of bed reluctantly, staggering with half-open eyes as he walked to the living room. he searched around hoping to find you, his feet dragging on the floor with every few steps. he was still in a half-drunken state from the night before, but your presence or even just a glimpse of anything that would belong to you would have brought him some comfort.

"yn..," he called out, his voice rough from the previous night. he coughed a bit, walking around as he tried to look for any sign of you. he was slowly becoming more alert and attentive, though he hadn't quite reached the clarity that would give him the ability to see clearly just yet. he stumbled around a bit, trying to stay focused on trying to spot you.

then he saw you on the couch, curled up in a small blanket with your soft and peaceful snores leaving your parted lips. you had seemingly fallen asleep unintentionally, and the remote was still in your hand as the television remained on. he couldn't help himself, standing there for a moment as he watched you rest, seemingly more peaceful than he had seen you be before. it almost made him feel guilty, knowing that you were only unhappy when he was around.

it almost felt like all time stopped, as he realized that all he had done was make you sad. he could see the hurt and unhappiness that he had caused you, not wanting to think about the fact that he was the one who had caused it. it was a sobering realization that he struggled to face, as he felt all of the guilt come crashing down on him.

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taglist @special4u @vampzity @jwone @dulceeed

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itsmaferart · 7 months

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SPY x FAMILY x CHAIR Vol. 7~8~9

SxF Vol 7 · Damian Desmond - Willow Chair

The Willow Chair was designed by Scottish architect Charles Rennie Mackintosh in the early 20th century. The chair was originally designed for use in The Willow Tea Rooms Company, a cafe and tea room that Mackintosh also designed in Glasgow, Scotland. The chair was part of a larger collection of furniture pieces designed for this company.

The concept of tea rooms was popular in Victorian and Edwardian times, and was considered a meeting place for the upper middle class.

The design shows a progressive approach to design, suggesting that the chair is at the forefront of creative thinking and is sleek, modern and curious. It stands out for its simplicity in geometric patterns. The chair features straight, minimalist lines in its structure, with curved wooden elements at the top to provide head and neck support.

A distinctive feature is its triangular backrest, which extends upward from the arms at an acute angle to create a sleek and elegant silhouette. The seat also features an elaborate lattice pattern, made from hand-woven wicker, which adds texture and dimension to the chair.

I’m Damian, scion of the Desmond family! I’ll be a politician one day and protect this country!

I love the way the dimension of the chair in disproportionate to Damian's body, who is clearly a kid with a very big precedent behind him, a very big ego and pride in possessing the last name Desmond, and it projects very well the way it makes Damian look more imposing for his age while giving you a look that continually judges you, adorably.

Damian is someone who projects himself from greatness, and his constant yearnings to be a recognized figure such as his family, even so, his childlike soul continues to exist.

However deep down, behind all the Desmond pride (Reflected in the chair) are his yearnings to really have fun and enjoy his childhood wanting to play with his balls, read manga, play with dinosaurs. He is definitely a little boy with a lot behind his shoulders.

SxF Vol 8 · Franky Franklyn - Eames Lounge chair & Ottoman

The Eames Lounge Chair and Ottoman were designed by Charles and Ray Eames in 1956, an American designer couple.

It was created from the idea of a "comfortable as a glove" chair, with an ergonomically molded seat and back shell combined with a plywood base. It was originally designed for the Herman Miller furniture company.

It was designed to provide comfort and relaxation, elegant and attractive that will complement any living space. The chair features clean, simple lines and a minimalist structure that emphasizes its elegance and ergonomics. The base is made of plywood, bent in several layers and smoothly polished to give it a smooth, refined finish.

Can we talk about how relaxed and cool Ostania's best informant looks? I love how the combination of this chair reflects Franky's relaxed but refined personality, a genius at his job even if often not properly appreciated. However, we can see his details, a bit messy, his taste for money, some good cigars, some confidential envelopes.

It's interesting when you remember that Franky seems to hate the handsome, moneyed show-offs who seem to be very lucky, even though he wishes he was one. He is simple and laid back, with a classy side and a profitable bottom line.

SxF Vol 9 · Becky Blackbell - Coconut Chair

The Coconut chair was designed by architect and designer George Nelson in 1955 who was the design director for Herman Miller.

The chair was inspired by the designer's tropical landscape during his visit to the Fiji Islands. Nelson observed a group of children playing with one half of a coconut shell and realized that the shape and curve of the coconut shell could be harnessed to design a comfortable, modern chair. It was created as a highly engineered piece of furniture that offered a high level of comfort.

Although originally designed as a lounge chair, the Coconut chair is suitable for any space, from offices to homes. The stainless steel tripod base is an attractive design element, its fine details such as the apparent stitching on the upholstered

"You and I should be best friends"

I like how both the Coconut chair and Becky could be described as elegant, sophisticated, avant-garde and with a lot of personality. Despite her young age, we know that Becky has a very definite personality, sometimes with a very volatile and fanciful imagination.

Unlike many Spy x Family characters and their respective chairs, the elements are usually placed at the back or bottom with respect to the chair, always covered by some slight shadow, reflecting those elements that characterize the respective personality.

However, all of Becky's things are clearly displayed and stacked with bright colors. We know that it refers to all the riches and luxuries Becky has, as well as her passion for fashion and shopping.

But also, it's a way of expressing how authentic Becky is and how she's not afraid to show her true personality without having to hide it.

You can read the previous review here!

You can read the next part here

#spy x familyxchair #spy x family #spy x family manga 71 #twiyor #loid forger #yor forger #loid x yor #yor briar #twilight #anya forger #spyxfamily twilight #sxf #becky blackbell #franky franklin #damian desmond

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venus-haze · 2 years

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Can’t Help Falling in Love (Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: You wake up in a hospital room surrounded by unfamiliar faces, unable to remember much besides your own name. Elvis, your husband, is devastated at how close he came to losing you and at your amnesia as a result of the car crash you survived. The road to recovery is long, but he stays by your side as the two of you fall in love all over again.

Note: This is based on an anonymous request. Reader is a woman, but no other descriptors are used. I had so much fun writing this, and I hope everyone enjoys it (I feel like there’s a lot of crying in it, though. Which I guess tracks considering the plot). I’m not a medical professional so don’t take what I wrote in this as medical advice or expect a ton of accuracy. Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4.8k

Warnings: Depictions of amnesia and physical injuries as a result of a car accident. Do not interact if you are under 18.

The day you woke up from your three day coma was bright and sunny, but you couldn’t tell because the curtains had been drawn in the room that was crowded with people you didn’t recognize, expressing varying degrees of concern and surprise when you began blinking and shifted a bit in the bed. Your eyes moved from person to person until you had no choice but to focus on a man who had practically thrown himself into your lap, crying uncontrollably. Another man rushed out of the room, shouting for a nurse.

You had no idea who the dark-haired man sobbing into your hospital gown was, but you obviously meant a lot to him if you elicited this kind of reaction. He looked up at you, eyes red from crying, and lack of sleep as you’d later find out, heartbreak written across his handsome face at the realization that you didn’t recognize him.

He was mumbling incoherently, his voice muffled, but you felt the urge to comfort him. Slowly, you reached over and stroked his hair. He looked up at you, kissing your palm as he continued to weep. Still confused as to what was going on, you tried to give him a sympathetic smile.

The other man from before returned to the room with a nurse and a doctor. The nurse immediately began checking your vitals, rattling numbers off to the doctor who made note of them on the clipboard he was holding. You were acutely aware of the various tubes hooked up to you, presumably what had been keeping you alive for however long you’d been out for.

“Can you tell me your name?” the doctor asked.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you answered.

The crying man squeezed your hand gently, sniffling.

The doctor nodded, writing something on his clipboard before looking at you again. “Do you know your birthday?”

You answered that to his satisfaction. When he asked if you knew what day it was, you didn’t have an answer. He continued asking you similar questions and taking notes, but you felt distressed at being the only person who had no idea what was going on.

“I’m sorry, why am I in the hospital?” you asked. “What happened?”

“You were in a car accident. Neither driver was at fault, just one of those freak things,” the nurse sighed. “You’re lucky you didn’t suffer more damage than you did.”

“Yes, we can’t discharge you just yet, we want to observe you for a few more days—get you started on physical therapy and see what level of occupational therapy you may need,” the doctor said. “You’re also showing symptoms of amnesia, and we’ll need to monitor that as well.”

“How do you know I have amnesia?” you asked.

“When I asked you your name, you responded with your maiden surname, not your married one. I assume you have no idea who the man next to you is.”

You looked at him, an apologetic smile on your face. “No, I’m sorry.”

“You might be the only person in the world who doesn’t,” the nurse quipped.

“It’s me, darlin’. Elvis, your husband,” he said, voice shaky.

“Elvis,” you repeated, seeing if that would jog your memory at all. “Elvis. My husband’s name is Elvis.”

The doctor and nurse spoke among themselves, while Elvis introduced you to the other people in the room, explaining they were friends the two of you had known for a long time. You didn’t recognize any of them, but they all expressed how glad they were that you were awake. It felt a bit overwhelming, and your head started to ache.

“Do you mind if I speak with Y/N alone?” the doctor asked.

“Not at all, doctor,” Elvis said before turning to you. “I’ll be right outside, baby.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

After everyone left the room, the doctor explained your condition to you. While you hadn’t been comatose for too long, your memory had obviously been affected, and he recommended occupational therapy, as he expected you’d have to relearn how to do various day-to-day tasks. It’d take at least six months to a year of physical therapy to get you back to your full range of motion, but he couldn’t give any definite timeline as to when or if your amnesia would go away. Your leg broke in the car crash, and even after the cast came off, he figured you’d still be on crutches as you built up your strength again. Some of your ribs had also cracked, but the doctor didn’t expect any complications with physical healing.

In the hallway, Elvis paced back and forth as he spoke to Jerry and Red, his eyes glancing at the door every few seconds. He hardly had any rest since he arrived at the hospital, but despite the fact that he should surely be exhausted, your waking up sent a rush of adrenaline through him.

“Tell the Colonel to cancel it all—shows, concerts, records. I’m not doin’ a thing until Y/N is better,” Elvis insisted.

Jerry nodded. “He’s gonna be pissed, but I’m with you EP. Y/N needs you.”

“That sack of shit can do whatever he wants. My wife—” he choked up, taking a moment before he could continue, “my wife is in there, and she don’t even know who I am. I almost lost her. I can lose everything, but I can’t lose her.”

“You won’t EP. We got this,” Red assured him. “Sonny’s back at Graceland, so you say the word and he’s on it.”

“You guys head back to Graceland, get some rest. I’m gonna stay here with Y/N,” Elvis said.

“You sure? You’ve barely slept the past few days. You should be getting some rest too,” Jerry said.

“I’ll manage,” he said. “Hey, when you get back to Graceland, will you have someone make Y/N’s favorite and drive it over? Maybe it’ll—I don’t know, do somethin’.”

The doctor walked out of your hospital room, his clipboard at his side. A different nurse from before went into the room. Elvis waved off Jerry and Red to go as he worriedly approached the doctor, who gave him the same rundown you’d gotten.

“I’ve got my people on it,” Elvis assured him. “Whatever she needs, it’s done.”

“Yes, your wife has more resources at her disposal than most. I’m optimistic about her recovery, but money can’t buy time, Mr. Presley, and that’s what she needs most of.”

Elvis considered the doctor’s words, thanking him before returning to your room. The nurse had already left, but she put the TV on for you. You smiled at Elvis, but there was little recognition behind your expression. It made his heart ache, you were everything to him, his best friend, but now he was a stranger to you.

He took his seat next to your bed, and you reached out for his hand. The two of you sat in silence as you watched TV, some comedy show on that made you laugh, but you winced when your ribs ached. Elvis hurriedly changed the channel, looking helpless as he didn’t know how to comfort you. Just then, the phone in your room rang, and you reached over for it.

“Hello?” you answered.

“Hey, Y/N. How’re you feeling?” Jerry asked.

“Hi Jerry, I’m okay,” you said.

“That’s good. You’ll get through this, we’re all here to help. Can you put Elvis on?”

“Sure,” you said, handing the phone to your husband. “Jerry wants to talk to you.”

“Thank you, darlin’,” Elvis said before getting on the phone with Jerry.

You didn’t pay much attention to their conversation, instead studying the hospital room that was previously filled with people. There were flower arrangements, gift baskets, and balloons shoved into corners and on top of shelves and even medical equipment. Were you really that important?

“I gotta run out real quick, darlin’. I got a surprise to bring up to you,” Elvis said, snapping you out of your daze.

You nodded, and he gave you a forehead kiss before leaving the room. Grabbing the TV remote, you flipped channels until landing on a news station, hoping some current event they’d mention may jog your memory. You caught the last half of the weather forecast, warm and sunny through the weekend. The station cut to a news anchor behind a desk, a large photo of you and Elvis next to her head.

“Good news from Graceland,” the woman said, “Y/N Presley, wife of rock n’ roll icon Elvis Presley, is awake after being in a coma for nearly four days following a car crash in Memphis less than a week ago. Elvis has announced an unprecedented career hiatus to support his wife’s recovery. The two met on the set of his 1961 movie musical ‘Blue Hawaii’ and their wedding in 1966 was one of the highest viewed live television events in history. We wish Mrs. Presley all the best. In other news—“

Your furrowed your eyebrows. Getting married on TV seemed kind of tacky, but maybe it was what you wanted at the time. From what the anchor said, though, you’d known Elvis for over ten years, yet you couldn’t remember a thing about the man who was such a major part of your life. You were frustrated, tears welling up in your eyes as you figured you could at least remember your wedding day, but it all came up blank.

“Y/N, darlin’, what’s wrong?” Elvis asked as he returned with the container of food.

“Why can’t I remember you? The lady on TV said we’ve been married for six years.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “I love you no matter what, no matter how long it takes you to remember, or even if you never do.”

“Thank you,” you said with a weak smile.

“Here,” he said, handing the container of food to you. “It’s your favorite. I had it made special for you.”

As soon as you took a bite, your face lit up and his did too. While it didn’t bring on any old memories, it at least tasted familiar and delicious.

“What’s Graceland?” you asked through a mouthful of food.

“It’s our home. You’ll be goin’ back there real soon,” he said. “The doctor says that with your amnesia, it’d be good for you to have your physical therapy there, since it might be familiar to you.”

“Yeah, he said even after the cast is off, I’ll be on crutches for a while.”

He nodded. “I’m gettin’ that all taken care of, got a bedroom on the first floor made up for us until your leg is better.”

About a week later, after some physical therapy sessions and brain pattern monitoring, the doctor cleared you to go home. Elvis had informed him that he arranged for physical and occupational therapists to come by a few days a week to follow the plan the doctor had laid out for your recovery.

A car drove you and Elvis to Graceland from the hospital, and as it approached the mansion, you knew your eyes were practically bulging out of your head. Hundreds of people were crowded outside the gates with signs of well wishes for you and Elvis, some of them crying as they banged on the car windows and shouting incoherently. You knew by then Elvis was famous, but you had underestimated how much.

Though you didn’t remember Graceland, it felt like home. From the furniture to the decor, it was familiar enough for you to feel comfortable there. Some of the people from the hospital were already inside, waiting with even more flowers and gifts than were in your hospital room. Again, everyone was glad to see you. You hung around the living room with everyone before getting tired, and Elvis announced the two of you were going to bed for the evening.

“I’ll wait out here while you get changed,” he said, letting you into the bedroom.

“Okay,” you said.

When he closed the door, you picked up the sleepwear that had been laid out for you, a nightgown that was easy to slip in and out of so as not to strain your muscles. You could tell it was a guest room by the lack of personal decor, and found yourself observing the small details of the room before being startled by a knock at the door.

“You alright in there, baby?” Elvis asked.

“Yeah, sorry,” you said. “You can come in.”

He opened the door, scratching the back of his head. “I guess I could have waited in the bathroom, but I didn’t want you to feel—well, I don’t know. It’s just nice to have you home, darlin’.”

“When I watched the news the other day, the lady said we met on a movie set. Was I an actress?” you asked.

“No, you did hair and makeup. I found every excuse to sit in that chair and talk to you,” he laughed. “One day you caught me messin’ up my hair before I went over to talk to you.”

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

He grinned. “That’s exactly what you asked back then.”

“Guess it all worked out, huh?” you smiled.

“It sure did.”

He gave you a kiss on your temple. You were thankful you were at least going through all of this with a husband who seemed to really care about you. Being around Elvis put you at ease, and it was easy to have conversations with him and the whirlwind of people who were in and out of Graceland.

When you weren’t busy with physical therapy or doctor’s visits, you and Elvis would spend a lot of time listening to music or watching old home movies together. The music seemed to jog your memory a bit, but there were no significant breakthroughs. The home movies were bittersweet; you and Elvis looked so happy together in all of them, carefree and in love, but you couldn’t remember any of it.

For a few weeks, when you couldn’t sleep, you’d sneak out of bed and watch the home movies in hopes of recognizing something. Every time Elvis found you like that, he would get upset, not at you, but toward the situation the two of you had ended up in because it just wasn’t fair. Eventually you stopped, not wanting to see him so distraught.

About two months went by with major progress in physical and occupational therapy, but your memory was hazy at best. Still, even if you couldn’t remember all your relationship with Elvis, you knew you loved him, becoming more affectionate and trusting with each day. As you built your strength back up, the two of you would spend more time outside, walking around Graceland and even talking to the fans who seemed to keep vigil outside of the place night and day.

You and Elvis had developed a routine of sitting on the lawn to watch the stars at night, weather permitting. He’d bring a blanket and a radio, and the two of you would talk until someone started yawning, usually, it was you.

“Well, it is about nine, don’t wanna keep you up past your bedtime,” he said one night, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You stepped out of the hair and makeup trailer to see Blue Hawaii’s star running his hand through his styled hair, pushing it any which way so that it was wildly out of place.

“Now what are you undoing all of my hard work for?” you asked, a smile on your face as Elvis looked at you like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Guess I gotta find a new excuse to talk to you,” he said.

“Or you could just talk to me.”

“How about tonight?” he asked. “The beaches are real pretty at night, the way the moon reflects off the ocean. Not as pretty as you, though.”

“Don’t lay it on too thick, Presley.”

He laughed. “Alright, I was askin’ for that. Just meet me on the beach later, please?”

“What time?”

“Nine.”

“That’s past my bedtime.”

“Y/N, you’re killin’ me.”

“Elvis! They need you back on set!” a production assistant yelled.

You walked over to Elvis, using the comb in your hand to get his hair looking decent enough for filming, as if he needed to try anyway. “See you at nine,” you smiled.

“Im’a hold you to that,” he said before running off to redo whatever scene he had been shooting that day.

“I said that to you on the set of Blue Hawaii,” you said excitedly.

He laughed. “I can’t believe out of all the things, you remember me makin’ a fool of myself.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too.

“I think I fell in love with you that night,” he said. “By the end of filming, I had you workin’ on all my movies. The Colonel said you were a distraction, but I didn’t care.”

The Colonel. A name you’d only heard referenced with tones of disgust by those around you. You couldn’t remember anything about Elvis’ manager, but from what Jerry had told you, when you begged him to clue you in on what everyone else seemed to know, you were glad you didn’t. After all, it was his idea for you and Elvis to get married on TV, a decision that the two of you detested, according to Jerry.

“How many movies did you make?”

“A lot,” he said, “so we spent plenty of time together, believe me.”

“Good, I like spending time with you.”

“I’d hope so.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing him playfully. The two of you went to bed for the night not long after that, and as the next few months went by, bits and pieces of your memories would come back, mostly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it was progress. After several appointments with your doctor, you and Elvis had come to terms with the fact that your memory may never fully recover. Despite that, your relationship was strong, and when you told him you loved him for the first time since you woke up from the coma, he cried so hard he almost couldn’t say it back.

The next day, he bought you a bouquet of your favorite flowers, almost an apology of sorts, even though he had nothing to be sorry for, you thought his reaction was sweet. He was always around, but it never felt suffocating, and your physical therapist even commended him for how well he helped you on the days she wasn’t there and you practiced the exercises on your own.

Your occupational therapist was similarly pleased with your progress and began encouraging you to do Elvis’ hair and makeup again in your free time to work on your fine motor skills. The first time you did so, your hands were shaky, and you stayed the hell away from doing any eye makeup, but you found styling his hair relaxing. As you built up your confidence in your skills again, you carefully applied the eyeliner to his eyelids. The result wasn’t perfect, but as you practiced more and more it was like your muscle memory began to kick in again. If only your brain could do the same, you lamented to yourself as you dabbed eyeshadow to Elvis’ eyelids, a look you found he had mostly kept early on in his career, but you liked it.

“When are they gonna let you make the movies you wanna make? You’re Elvis Presley for crying out loud,” you said, applying makeup to your boyfriend of going on three years. His latest movie, Girl Happy, was yet another movie musical, when he’d been wanting to star in more serious dramas for years.

“People don’t wanna see movies where I don’t sing,” Elvis shrugged.

You sighed. “Maybe you could make something with one of those independent directors. They’re doing really amazing things in New York. I mean, that one director–”

“C’mon, baby, what’s this about.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“As long as I’m with you, I’m happy,” he said.

You bit the inside of your cheek as you smiled. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

You liked to watch when Elvis filmed his movies. You didn’t think he was a bad actor by any means, but you wished he got to work with serious directors on more dramatic roles like he wanted to. Still, he had a knack for comedy and his natural charm made his chemistry with his co-stars stand out. You never felt jealous or insecure; you figured if he wanted to try something, he wouldn’t bring you along to every movie set with him.

After filming was over for the day, he asked you to walk on the beach with him. This time, being in Los Angeles, meant most of the Memphis Mafia had to tag along to make sure you two got some privacy without fans hounding him. Most of the time, he didn’t mind, but tonight was different. He was fidgety, and you knew something was on his mind.

“You alright?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just thought it’d be a lot easier to do this.”

“Do what?”

He took a deep breath, digging into his pocket and pulling out a small velvet box. When he got down on one knee and opened it to reveal a gorgeous diamond ring, your hands flew to your mouth.

“Y/N, I always thought soulmates were real, and meeting you only made me sure of that. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you choked out, practically tackling him in the sand as you threw your arms around him. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

You dropped the makeup brush you were using, to Elvis’ concern.

“You feelin’ okay, darlin’?” he asked. “Should I call the doctor?”

“Yeah, I just remembered something is all,” you answered quietly.

“What was it?”

You smiled. “When you proposed to me.”

His smile matched yours. “I had the ring for weeks. I was waiting for the right moment, and that was it. Just like that first date in Hawaii.”

It was nice, finally remembering some of the more significant aspects of yours and Elvis’ relationship. As the months passed, you were almost completely physically recovered from the car crash, and you didn’t need to do physical therapy nearly as often as you did when you first got back to Graceland. Still, Elvis was overly cautious, not that you could blame him, but sometimes you needed to remind him that you weren’t made of glass.

The two of you started going out more too, mostly to different restaurants in Memphis or to see shows, but you felt almost normal. Maybe you would never be the exact same person you were before the car accident, but you were happy with the progress you’d made and especially that you’d woken up to a husband who didn’t hesitate to drop everything for you. You felt a bit guilty that he was putting his career on hold for you, but it didn’t seem to concern him or anyone else very much. In fact, it seemed like everyone was enjoying the ‘time off’. Well, almost everyone.

Jerry rolled his eyes as he heard the voice on the other end of the line. The Colonel had been a pain in the ass the previous few weeks about Elvis getting back to performing, insisting enough time had passed for you to be fine on your own at Graceland. As much as Jerry tried to stall the Colonel and make up excuses for why Elvis couldn’t come to the phone, it got to the point where the man wouldn’t stop calling.

Finally, Elvis answered, fuming at the Colonel’s audacity. “What? What do you want?”

“It’s been eight months since you’ve performed a show or recorded a new song. You’ve had your time with Y/N, but you have a job to do,” the Colonel said.

“It can wait until she’s better,” Elvis said. “Hell, people still show up every day with their signs and flowers for her.”

“My boy, I understand your sentimentality toward Y/N—”

“Sentimentality? Like Y/N is some girl I keep around and not my damn wife? I knew you were low, but this is somethin’ else,” Elvis raged.

“You’re at risk of violating your agreement with the International Hotel. Need I remind you the debt you owe Jamboree Entertainment. I’m not above taking legal action to get what’s owed to me.”

“How’s it gonna look, some lyin’ old bastard tryin’ to put a man takin’ care of his sick wife out on the street? Do what you want, you’re out. For good this time,” Elvis spat, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders as he hung up on the Colonel.

“‘Bout time, EP,” Jerry said with a grin.

“You’re damn right, Jerry,” Elvis agreed.

For what felt like the millionth time, you found yourself flipping through your wedding album on your own. It was beautifully made, and the photos were just what you’d expect from one of the most widely covered weddings at the time. There were dozens of them, but a photo of you and Elvis at the altar particularly caught your eye, and you pulled it from the album to get a closer look.

Your wedding day was a fairytale. Everything exactly to your taste as you married the love of your life. It was also, however, nothing short of a public spectacle due to the insistence of the Colonel that if Elvis was going to break millions of hearts across the country by getting married, he may as well make money off of it. You felt like it cheapened the whole thing, and you knew Elvis did too, but for some reason he never wanted to push back against the Colonel. It was the biggest source of tension in your relationship, especially as the wedding got closer.

The day of, though, you weren’t going to let anyone ruin your day. The whole world could watch if they wanted to, but the wedding was for you and Elvis, let them cry into their cake at home. As soon as you got to the altar, you and Elvis broke into tears upon seeing each other, and he pulled you in for a hug that you welcomed.

‘I wish there were no cameras, nobody else here but us,’ Elvis whispered, kissing your cheek. ‘The honeymoon is gonna be completely private. I promise.’

‘It better be,’ you sniffled. “I want you all to myself.”

“You got me, baby. Always.”

You dropped the photo, feeling all of the emotions of that day flooding into you. It was almost overwhelming, the love you felt for him. You didn’t even notice him walking in to find you sobbing over the book.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, you don’t have to remember,” he assured you.

“I do remember. Oh my god, it was beautiful. Even with those stupid cameras, it was the best day of my life,” you cried.

“Mine too,” he said. “The reception was great. You remember how Charlie was cuttin’ it up on the dancefloor?”

“I don’t know if I want to,” you laughed.

It’d been a little over a year since the accident, and while your memory wasn’t completely back to where it had been, you remembered enough, especially how much you loved Elvis and he loved you. It was the push he needed to reevaluate his life. He began considering his career again, touring in a way that wasn’t as physically demanding as his previous schedules had been, and he sure as hell would never step foot in the International again.

The most important part of it all, however, was you. Music was his passion, and he wanted to get on stage again and connect with his fans, who’d been unbelievably supportive of him and you through his career hiatus, but he’d only do it if you were on board. He was a bit apprehensive when he sat you down to share his idea, but you were encouraging, reminding him that he could tell you anything.

“Now, this is just an idea, and it completely depends on you, but I was thinkin’ of tourin’ again,” he said, a smile spreading across his face at your excitement. “I’m not goin’ without you, though, so whenever you’re clear with the doctor, we’ll start plannin’.”

“That sounds great,” you agreed. “I’d absolutely love that.”

“Before we do that, though, I was wonderin’—I know our wedding wasn’t exactly what either of us had in mind. I was thinkin’ maybe we could go to Hawaii, just us, back to where it all started and renew our vows,” he said, almost as if he was nervous, that for some reason you’d answer anything but yes. “Whattya say? Finally have the wedding we both wanted?”

You couldn’t help the tears that began streaming down your face as you nodded, throwing your arms around him to give him a sweet and tender kiss. “I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” he whispered, kissing you again.

Taglist: @eliseinmemphis @kittenlittle24 @crash-and-cure @im-lame-irl @loudwombatmugkid @rxsesss @roseymary04 @queendelrey @jovialladyaurora @positivitylane112 @moonknightswif3 @holy-minseok @datsavageavenger @21bruhs @luckyevansstan @djsjs13949 @butlerslut @ash-omalley @powerofelvis @sad-bisexual-bitch

#elvis x reader #austin!elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #austin!elvis #elvis 2022

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wing-ed-thing · 6 months

Text

Foul Creature (Tobirama x Reader) Part VI

Synopsis: You would say that you grew up together. From children, to teenagers, to young leaders, you did nothing but be who you were and Tobirama would forever name his love for you as the reason he hated the Uchiha.

Word Count: 6k

Tags/Warnings: Warning for dark themes ahead, including physical child abuse, violence, and non-con elements. Fem!Uchiha!Reader. Please consult AO3 for more specific warnings.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

Notes: IT IS HERE! YES! i purposefully make it long and full of drama to make up for the amount of times I pushed the release back. I also put a lot of my own thoughts in the end author’s notes so please enjoy! I most definitely could not have written this content a year ago let me tell you—

The memory of you struck him like lightning, electrocuting him to his core with panic and disgust. He revoked his touch from you as you began to sit up on the riverbank in acute panic.

He just stared at you. Tobirama had no idea how he remembered you, yet he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Yes, you were older, but as he considered the shape of your face, he could see the unmistakable look from the forest back then. You had the same nose, such a familiar laugh, and your eyes… even without your sharingan.

He had thought of you as a foul creature.

That morning when he first saw you in the woods.

Tobirama had come home much earlier that day in defeat. He hadn’t wanted to stay and train after his encounter with you. He tried to continue, to find another spot to collect himself, but he ultimately couldn’t help but feel that you were still there, watching him. Knowing an Uchiha lurked around in the woods, it was probably best that he didn’t go off alone for his safety.

He remembered how his father stormed toward him when he returned to the compound. Butsuma’s jaw was clenched as tightly as ever, battle-toned arms swinging with each step of his furious gait. He swooped in on his son, grabbing Tobirama harshly by the arm. Tobirama was tugged along awkwardly, his legs too short for the angle at which Butsuma dragged him.

“Where have you been?” his father scolded lowly between gritted teeth. He paid no mind to the Senju meandering down the same dirt road, and they paid no mind to him in turn.

The question nearly made Tobirama’s heart drop in his chest, the memory of you spreading terror like wildfire across his skin. He looked into Butsuma’s gaze with wide eyes, wondering how his father could have possibly known he had made contact with an Uchiha. His fingers unconsciously rose to the space under his right eye, almost trembling. He was sure that his father could feel the tremor through his hold.

“Training, Father,” Tobirama answered earnestly. He almost crashed into Butsuma as his father stopped suddenly, the child only tripping for a moment before he was pulled into a nearby stable.

“Tobirama, where have you been?” Butsuma barked, repeating his question more harshly. He jerked Tobirama away by the grip on his arm, allowing him to stumble back into the hay. All Tobirama could do was stare, ashamed that he had disgraced the Senju name and that his father could see it painted on him. Promises piled up on his lips: if he saw you again, he would surely kill you that time! He would immediately set out and— “You better answer me now, boy, or I’ll beat you within an inch of your life.”

“I was training with Grandfather’s kunai, Father! On the east end by the mountains like you taught me!” He nodded profusely, scrambling into a deep bow. Tobirama’s eyes knitted closed.

The silence above him felt like it lasted for an eternity. Tobirama didn’t dare to look, and for a long moment, he couldn’t even meet his father’s eye. Somewhere between the seconds, he found himself mindlessly observing the small population of livestock grazing at the stable's far end. Tobirama glanced at them and their troughs.

“You were not with Hashirama?” Butsuma spoke slowly, and Tobirama’s head carefully rose with a shake.

“No, I was not.” Tobirama flinched as Butsuma’s hand came firmly down on his hair, placing just enough weight on his skull to ensure that all of Tobirama’s attention was on him. “I assure you. I was practicing my skill with the kunai.”

“Your elder brother has been acting suspiciously as of late. I want you to find him and report to me what he has been up to.” Butsuma landed a harsh pat on Tobirama’s back, ushering him away. He scrambled away as quickly as he could back into the forest, still gripping the pack of weaponry on his back.

***

It made more sense after that evening.

Hashirama knelt on a cushion beside him, the two sons before their father.

“About this boy you have been meeting up with. I looked into that young man and learned that he belongs to the Uchiha clan. Hashirama, you understand what that means, do you not?” The brothers stiffened, forcing on stoic faces so as not to let their discomfort show. Butsuma’s gaze narrowed. “If you do not want to be suspected as a spy, then you must shadow him after the next time the two of you meet. And if he should notice you… kill him.”

Tobirama eyed his brother nervously. Undoubtedly, the conflict between the Senju and the Uchiha would mean this was the only way to rectify things. Tobirama stared down at his lap, guilt weighing down on his shoulders.

There was no way for anyone to know about his encounter with you, and even if his father found out, Tobirama was different. At least he tried to kill you. That was enough, wasn’t it? Unlike Hashirama, he at least tried to do the right thing and kill the Uchiha on sight, no matter his level of success.

After a moment of preponderance, Hashirama spoke again,

“Are you completely sure he is an Uchiha?”

Tobirama gulped, bracing himself for the heavy hit that awaited Hashirama. But it didn’t come. Butsuma studied him with crossed arms, bubbling rage mounting in his chest. He gritted his teeth.

“You trust a member of the clan who killed your brother?” Butsuma simmered. Tobirama stewed, praying for the moment that he was allowed to leave. Hashirama sat confused and still deep in thought on his cushion, not appearing nearly as worried as he should, in Tobirama’s opinion. “If he has been tricking you, you are putting every single Senju in danger.”

Despite Tobirama attempting to convince him otherwise, Hashirama was reluctant to comply. But after a lengthy beating from Butsuma, Hashirama finally agreed to be followed. As they eventually left the room, Tobirama couldn’t help but avert his gaze from the deep bruises and the forlorn expression on Hashirama’s face.

***

“I am an apothecary,” you had told him.

He didn’t ask you where. With the tumultuous clan wars, Tobirama assumed you were part of a smaller, nomadic group. As the more prominent clans and clan alliances fought, non-combatants traveled to safer ground, ironically forming their own larger herds for protection.

That was Tobirama’s first mistake: assuming.

“An apothecary,” Tobirama repeated. You wore his fur, curled up against a bed of river glass and hidden between a mess of boulders. He sat on a nearby rock, the headband you had confiscated and returned to him clutched in a ball in his hand. Tobirama cocked his head. “Is that a healer?”

“A woman healer?” you asked, hardly restraining the tiny smile that graced your lips. Your eyes glowed with wonder as you leaned forward, having never heard of such a thing. “No, I am afraid I only collect herbs for medicine. Although our current apothecary is very old, he taught me how to create medicines when we used to live by the coast. A rare honor.” Tobirama’s eyebrows rose on his forehead with an impressed blink.

“That is admirable. Your work takes a keen eye and a sharp mind.” You shifted against the grass to sit with your legs crossed as you leaned forward. A patch of small river flowers grew in a cluster where the gravel of the riverbank began. The white petals grew sporadically down the length of the land. You weaved your fingers through the tiny stems, the pure light color glowing against your skin.

“You know about medicine?” you mused.

“Yes, my clan is well renowned for our knowledge of various medicines. The children are taught about these things at a young age, although, I possessed neither a keen enough eye nor a sharp enough mind for healing, to the disappointment of my mother.” You drew a bent knee toward your chest, rearranging your long robes as you gently collected the tiny flowers.

“Was she a woman healer?” You scooted forward to sit in front of him.

“No,” he said, letting you smooth back his hair. “She was a warrior like my father. Wove baskets—beautiful baskets— when she was with us. My grandmother was a master healer, though.”

“A woman master healer,” you breathed in awe to yourself, weaving the flowers into Tobirama’s hair. You couldn’t help the giddy smile that crossed your lips. “That is fascinating.”

“My grandfather used to take me fishing in the northern streams before he passed. He always brought her herbs. Perhaps I could find some of her formulas. You may find them interesting.”

“Really?” You leaned back on your ankles, admiring the little white flowers that adorned Tobirama’s crown. “I could not ask you to do such a thing.”

“If you are not allowed to learn of medicine and herbs, how else will you pursue being a great apothecary?” You blinked at him in disbelief, taken aback. “That is your dream, is it not? You speak of it often.”

“Do I?” You let out a light laugh, sheepishly averting your gaze. “I apologize. My good friend from home often tells me I speak too much.” Tobirama scoffed.

“Some friend,” he muttered, but his gaze softened as he adjusted the fur over your shoulders. “You do not speak too much. Especially when it concerns things you are passionate about. Therefore—” Tobirama plucked one of the flowers out of his hair and tucked it behind your ear. “Tell me about this flower.”

You instinctively opened your mouth but quickly closed it when you noticed Tobirama’s expression chance. He held a glint in his eye and the beginning of a smile on his thin lips. He leaned forward, brushing your hand along another patch of little petals.

“I know you know this one,” he said softly before leaning back against the boulder behind him. His bright red eyes met your own. They held softness in them. “Please, I would like to listen.”

You almost laughed, your nervousness almost causing you to forget all your knowledge as his touch left you.

“They call this purity flower. It is incredibly delicate, and they only grow this big.” You stared down to where Tobirama had placed your hand. “You can do quite a few things with them. They are wonderful for sore throats, sanitizing wounds, upset stomachs…”

You brushed through them, and a few flowers crumpled under your fingers.

He would never forget that. The way your face fell as the flowers at the center of the cluster began to shrivel.

***

He was smarter than Hashirama.

Tobirama wasn’t a traitor to the clan. Tobirama wouldn’t be caught fraternizing with an Uchiha like his foolish brother. He was stern, calculating. He was so careful.

He had carried his prized Uchiha-killing kunai with him the entire time.

It was strapped to his leg when he first chased after you.

It was with him as you adorned him with blossoms.

He held the same knife he had once held up to your neck as he screamed in your face that he would carve out your eyes the entire time.

And he had another chance.

It was right in front of him, as you blathered on about the daylight. Your lips moved, but nothing came from your mouth.

He had another opportunity to redeem himself.

The moment of his childhood that haunted him for many nights could have been corrected. Tobirama was a true warrior now. He could have killed you. He could have carved out your sharingan, sinking his kunai into your skull as you screamed and kicked under him, just as he promised long ago. No one would hear you out here.

He could do anything he wanted to you.

But he hesitated again, and now his only weapon was lost.

The time you had been sneaking around had hardly been long; the days in sum dwarfed compared to a year.

And now he watched you in the morning sun, his heart and head doing a double take as his eyes hurriedly searched for the kunai he had pushed into the river. But it was long gone.

“It is morning?!” You exclaimed, scrambling to your feet. Startled, Tobirama scurried up with you, stumbling back until one of his feet sank into the rushing water. You lurched forward instinctively to steady him.

“Do not touch me!” he barked, and the gruffness of his voice made you recoil. He faltered, sputtering with a vigorous shake of his head. Tobirama balanced himself as the cold, rushing current pushed at his knee. He looked up at you, staring into your wide, confused eyes.

Looking upon you in the daylight made him view you in a way he never had before.

Yes, he could see it now.

He could see the Uchiha in you… and it was ugly.

Every part of him burned. It was as if he had been coated in mud, leaving his skin irritated, itchy and inflamed. He wished he could scrub every inch of himself of you. Slice, scratch, and claw into himself to erase the ghost of your lingering touch.

Tobirama burned with shame.

You shifted, moving to speak, when something covered your eyes. You snatched it slowly in confusion, but as the silk ribbon slid from your hair to drape over your fingers, your eyes quickly widened even farther than they already were. Tobirama stood in the water, watching you with a pounding chest as you, too, stumbled back. Your gaze darted from the Uchiha crest to Tobirama, who, for once, did not hold any softness in his expression.

“Oh.” You held your shaking hand up to your lips. You took another step back. Tobirama didn’t move.

He looked angry, the tension of his clenched jaw just about making the entirety of his body shake. His brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and rage. And all he could do was stare at you with fists balled up in mounting fury. Tobirama’s eyes turned glossy as he held back the burning tears that threatened to spill over his waterline.

You weren’t thinking, not as you stepped forward and spoke his name.

You wanted to go to him, tell him it was all a misunderstanding. Something. You tried to tell him something, anything.

You stepped forward, and Tobirama planted his second foot in the water.

“Do not come closer, Uchiha!” he spat. His words halted you in your stride. Tobirama stumbled back, splashing in the shallows. His clothes were drenched with dark patches which adorned his legs and sides. He held his hand up, almost as a buffer between him and you. He shook, and droplets fell back into the rushing current of the water.

His father’s words to his brother repeatedly played in his head.

Tobirama had been endangering his clan all this time. He had been reckless and naive, just like his brother. He sat as the current rushed by, stuck and frozen like a cornered animal, trying to calculate how many of his kinsmen could have been saved if he had been more sparing with his tongue.

You spoke in a meek voice,

“Tobirama—”

“Get out of here! Do not dare show your face back here, foul creature; I will kill you!” he screamed with all the weight of his guilt. Tobirama rose to his full height, hulking shoulders squared. You didn’t wait a second longer before you ran. You ran straight into the brush, and in an instant, you were deep into the forest. You could still hear Tobirama shouting behind you. “I will kill you, Uchiha! I will carve out your sharingan! I—”

He choked the moment he lost sight of you.

Tobirama dropped to his knees, splashing again down into the water. He heaved, his throat burning as he threw up into the river's current. Tobirama uttered a strangled cry, mucus dropping from his mouth and nose. Hot tears poured down his face as he gasped into the surface, nearly drowning himself in the water and his own mess.

You continued to run. You ran through the woods, paying little mind to the scrapes you collected as you rushed back toward the Uchiha colony. Your foot snagged against a fallen branch, causing you to smack face-first into a nearby log. You scrambled to your feet, heart pumping as you continued back home, your breath rasping rhythmically in your ears. Wetness streamed down your face, combining tears, snot, and blood to cake your skin.

But as you grew closer to your colony, the scent of smoke grew stronger. And as you looked up between the branches, you could see a dark cloud rising into the air.

The weeping became clearer. Agonized weeping.

You burst forth from the trees to your family’s garden.

To where the garden should have been, but the garden was gone.

Your home was gone, and a smoking pile of charcoal was left in its place.

A few structural beams shot out from the pile of char, like pleading limbs reaching up toward the heavens for a salvation that would never come. The paper walls were gone. The engawa had been reduced to rubble. The engawa that you and Madara stood on just hours before while your parents discussed your union.

…

Your parents.

You shouted for them, rushing straight for the ruins of your home. Large masses of char littered the streets, marking the resting places of other houses just like yours. Your eyes darted about in a frenzy, making eye contact with the mourning Uchiha, who littered the dirt streets for any confirmation that your parents had made it.

“Where are my parents?” You cried to people who averted their gazes. One woman covered her child’s ears, holding him close to her chest. “Have you seen my parents? Please! Someone! Did they make it? Will you not answer me?”

But no one answered you.

There was just weeping.

You didn’t see their faces or those of your family.

You raced toward the rubble, rifling through the mess with tears blurring your vision. You were howling something, letting words spill and tumble from your lips with the same liquidity as the water pouring from your face. Your fingers began to sting. Debris cut your skin, forming abrasions that filled with soot and dirt as you clawed at what used to be your home.

A muscular arm looped under your torso. You kicked your legs as you continued to wail, pounding your fists at the back of red armor. You could only watch as you were slowly carried away from the wreckage of your home, the reminisce of other ruined buildings gathering into your blurry view with every step.

You went limp about halfway down the road, hanging upside down with your cheek smushed against a bloody backplate. You cried, the compilation of mucus stuck in your nose, causing your sinuses to burn. You coughed, fist pounding a last time against armor before you were dropped back to the ground.

Your knees gave out under you, and before you stood Madara.

Tall, hulking, and imposing Madara with a somber expression on his face and a gaping wound on his side. He still held you by the hand, your fingers just barely hooked on his. His feet were stained with blood and caked with dirt, and sitting in the disturbed dirt road sat vials of herbs and a collection of your supplies from the apothecary.

Only then did you notice what he was surveying behind you, letting your hand drop from his.

Bodies of the injured were splayed out on salvaged blankets in the middle of the street. The able-bodied scurried around with what little medical supplies could be salvaged from the remains of your village, tending to warriors, women, children, and elders alike. Your head snapped back toward Madara.

“You must make medicine,” Madara said in a voice barely above a whisper, although it was by no means gentle. He held a gruffness in his voice. Frustration laced his tone. You heaved yourself up, something about being on the ground making you feel more vulnerable than you already felt in your confusion.

“Madara, I—”

“What?” Madara snapped, jerking forward at you. You recoiled, lips closing instantly. “What now, woman? Can you not see the crisis laid out in front of you? You have received exactly what you wanted and yet remain stubborn even when a man is giving you direct instructions.” You were still dazed.

“Where is Makihara?”

It wasn’t hard for Madara to wrestle you back to the ground. Your head slammed against the dirt, the vials of herbs and medicine sideways in your vision. Madara’s lips touched your ear as he spoke venom directly into your skull. His words sent a submissive chill directly into your heart.

“For the sake of the gods, make the goddam medicine and cease your difficulty. Your clan head bids it.” He released your head, which was engulfed in his wide-handed grip. You stared dizzily at his back as he walked away, his form wavering in your vision.

“Clan… head?”

***

Madara was officially deemed the head of the Uchiha clan later that night, bare except for his loin cloth as his body was painted with sacred symbols. He sat like a king on the ruins of the Uchiha village, looking pensive and severe.

The ceremony was intimate, traditional, and without frills.

Somber.

What was left of the village wasn’t made to attend, but most showed their faces in the torchlight, gazing upon their new leader as Madara was adorned with red and white paint. The population of Uchiha gathered around him, squishing together to watch the decoration of their new leader.

Madara sat amongst the ruins of what used to be your colony, looking solemn in the warm glow of the flames around him. He stared ahead. A surviving elder smeared two lines of red paint under Madara’s eyes with shaky fingers. Bandages covered the elder’s eye, wrapping all the way around his head. Another elder brushed his frail hands over Madara’s cheeks with white before anointing his forehead with his thumb.

You had made that paint. You admired it from the back of the crowd.

A few children had been sent to gather pigmented clay while you exhausted the rest of your herbal supply on medicinal remedies. Even with what you made stretch, you barely had enough to treat all the wounded. Burying the dead had taken all day.

Madara stood in front of all the Uchiha, bare-chested and painted in holy symbols as the clan revered him. He barked, the deep, powerful sound resounding from his chest. His colored abs flexed with the call, and the Uchiha chanted back, filling the surrounding forest with spirited howling.

He stood as the new leader of the Uchiha clan, yet the colors that adorned him were yours, as were the herbs that decorated his wound.

***

Your parents were dead.

It was a fact that you recalled often during the mindless time you spent crushing herbs, beseeching the weight of it to sink in. But instead, you were met with numbness, even as the mourners around you grieved their lost loved ones.

You sat under your makeshift canopy on a rug of simple woven threads. The three sides of your new apothecary were draped with fabric, acting as a buffer to the light night breeze. And there you thought, pulverizing medicine with your pestle to replenish your depleted medicinal supply. As the clan’s only apothecary, you could no longer collect herbs. In a strike of irony, this in turn meant that you were too important and no longer allowed to leave the Uchiha’s new territory.

You hadn’t noticed Madara’s presence. Only when the torchlight from outside no longer filtered into your tent did you think to even blink. He stood over you, harsh shadows cast across his face from the lone lamp that lit up your workspace. Madara’s colors had faded from his skin, but the stain from the dye remained as the faintest of hues.

You could just barely see the holy symbols.

“Does the new location please you?”

You stopped, the moment of distraction allowing the ache in your hands to set in. You nearly dropped your pestle, recoiling slightly as the tension froze your fingers. You had been working since daybreak.

“I cannot say I have been able to see much of it, Madara.”

“Come, then.”

To your surprise, Madara extended his hand to you. You looked upon him with exhaustion, almost to ask if he genuinely meant what he spoke. He waited patiently for you to place your hand in his before whisking you into the surrounding woods.

***

The Uchiha had retreated farther inland, upstream to the higher ground by the mountains. The trees were large in these parts, far larger than you were used to. They extended twice the height compared to the ones in your previous territory, towering large fans of leaves up toward the starry night sky. Even the vast constellations appeared brighter in these new parts.

Madara walked a step or two in front as you strolled across the rocky terrain. You panted as you struggled up a steep incline. Madara hadn’t bothered to help you, instead moving along onto the level above. Small stones that littered the surface of the earth slid under your sandals.

“I am—” you huffed —“I am not as agile as I used to be.”

Madara laughed somewhere above.

“You are in your prime. What is this talk of agility?”

You pulled yourself up onto the dirt with the help of an exposed root. You fanned yourself, wiping the sweat off your brow as Madara chuckled somewhere in front of you.

“I meant that I no longer climb trees every day, Madara. Perhaps that is something you do, oh great clan head, but not I.”

You turned to stand, suddenly struck by the view before you. Madara stood just ahead, holding up a branch with his forearm to expose the landscape. You hurried over, framing yourself in the window of leaves that Madara created. From up so high, you could see how the trees covered the land for miles, bisected by one of the Land of Fire’s many rivers in the distance.

“Are you able to say if the new land pleases you?” You caught Madara’s eye for a split second, quickly averting your gaze at the sight of his sentimental expression, your aloneness suddenly growing palpable. You nodded.

“Moving the clan here was clever. Having the high ground and access to fresh water will only serve to be prosperous.” You offered him a gentle smile and a nod, glancing back at the scenery. “I know you will make a great clan head, Madara.”

“We will see about that,” Madara admitted in a rare moment of self-doubt. The confession made your forehead crinkle instantly. You cocked your head, taken aback. Madara sighed, almost as if reading your thoughts before you spoke them. “The elders— the remaining elders— believe that I am still quite young to be taking up the mantle. They still hold power when it comes to making decisions on behalf of the clan. At least, until they deem I have grown into my title as clan head.”

“Why make you leader at all if they are going to make such fuss?” you scoffed, knowing very well the answer.

You sat down at the cliff's edge, watching the moon in the distance, and Madara came to sit next to you. He shifted, having more difficulty getting situated than you. The branch he had been holding up came down to smack him on the back of the head.

“I have had similar thoughts.” Madara looked off with a troubled frown. “I worry for the future of the Uchiha. Our numbers dwindle with every battle. And with this last raid, the women will be forced to join the militia.”

“Is this true?” you nearly exclaimed. You withdrew into yourself, brushing a finger across your bottom lip. The news rattled around in your ribcage. “How unorthodox!”

Madara sneered, and it hardly took his admission of “I am against such things” for you

to understand his stance on the matter. You let him grumble to himself, once again lost in a daze, as you took some of the dry dirt below between your fingers.

“Madara,” you called softly, and he perked up with a hum. Between the chaos of the last few days, you were hardly allowed to give anything proper thought. Of all the terrible things to sink in, you only had one worry on your mind. “Do you believe I might be sent to fight the Senju?”

You stared into Madara’s eyes. Tobirama’s fearsome expression flashed across your mind as you recalled his promises to take your life. They made you shiver.

“I would think not, given that you are acting as the lone apothecary of the Uchiha,” Madara answered, his voice deep and soft. “Besides, I forbid it.”

You didn’t know what to say as you let the bit of relief Madara’s words brought you to wash over your thoughts. Whether you intended it or not, you had made yourself invaluable to your clan. They weren’t about to put you on the front lines anytime soon.

Madara spoke your name.

“Do you like it?” he asked. You weren’t paying attention again. You blinked to yourself, his deep voice cutting through your thoughts.

“Do I like what?”

“The new land, does it please you?”

“It is… not home,” you admitted. “But the landscape does please me, yes. I am certain it will be home soon enough.” Madara closed the space between you before gingerly placing two fingers under your chin. He turned your face toward him.

“I am clan head now.”

“Yes, Madara, I am aware.” You tried to subtly turn your chin away, but he held firm, boring into you with vigilant eyes. Nocturnal insects chattered in the forest behind you.

“No other bachelor in the Uchiha can provide better than I.” You had no other choice than to meet his dark gaze. He spoke to you earnestly. “Will you not reconsider marrying me?” A frown tugged at his lips. Worry swirled on his face.

“We are far too young, Madara.” You took his hand, gently removing it from your skin. You folded in on yourself, backing away from the edge as you bashfully gripped the fronts of your robes to dry your sweaty hands. Madara pivoted, leaning back to keep you in his sights, the moon’s slow, enshrining him in a silver silhouette. You curled into the earth. “Besides… too much has happened for us to think about such things.”

You could feel it: the urge to fight you on the tip of Madara’s tongue. Indeed, other Uchiha have married at your age and younger. Sometimes, young girls would be considered ready for marriage after their first menstrual cycle. But to your surprise, he didn’t fight you at all. Instead, he came to sit next to you.

Madara could’ve fought you on several things. He hadn’t yet forgotten the mystery beau he was convinced was keeping your affections from him, nor was he thrilled that you had been named as the clan’s sole apothecary through a simple process of elimination.

You hadn’t forgotten his attempts to strongarm you into marriage or the terrifying outburst that caused you to run away. Although, with your parents gone, you were placed supremely in charge of your fate. Try as he must, not even Madara could force you into marriage.

But when it came down to it, with your family dead and your lover disgusted by your bloodline, you were left again with Madara. That had been how it always was. Having lost so much during the clan conflict, you were always left with each other, weren’t you?

As you began to weep, Madara scooted backward to be with you. You leaned against him, placing your head on his shoulder as you continued to cry, holding his arm to bury your face into the sleeve of his robes—dark, round spots soaked into the fabric.

Madara held you in the dimness as the surrounding clearing filled with your sobs. It had been the first time you were allowed to cry. The first time you truly had to confront the regret that haunted you from the few days prior. For his capriciousness and overall little patience for sentiment, Madara nurtured your vulnerability.

His fingers trailed lightly over your hair, rounding up stray strands behind your ear. He pressed his temple against the top of your head, caressing down your jaw to clear away the tears that slid down your cheeks with his thumb. Madara lifted your face, his second hand cupping the other side of your face as he continued to swipe away the wetness from your face.

You held his wrists in your ginger grip, as he laid a tender kiss on your forehead. He gazed into your teary eyes in the moonlight, casting away another stream of tears as he offered a gentle kiss to your right cheek, and then your left.

His nose nudged against yours, staring into your glassy eyes. You let them flutter shut, causing more droplets to splash against your face. Madara placed his lips on yours, holding the sides of your face as he kissed you with earnest.

You kissed him back for a moment, only for a moment. The shape of his face was different than Tobirama in a way you couldn’t quite place your finger on. He had rounder cheeks. A longer bridge to his nose. Madara’s hair draped over his shoulders to tickle your skin.

You pulled away, just the slightest distance between your face and Madara’s before he leaned in again. You pushed against his chest, but his movements this time were more forceful. He held you firmly in his grip, his fingers pinching against your cheeks as he lowered himself on top of you, pinning you against the earth and his larger body.

Your eyes went wide, the entirety of your body going frozen as Madara moved against yours, his once gentle motions now a gnashing of lips and teeth that made you press your head into the dirt. You tried to gasp his name in protest, but your words were muffled. His forearm rested to the right of your head, his breath hot against your skin as he smored your airways. His fingers tugged awkwardly at your hair, causing you to wince as he pulled the strands. You pushed on his chest again, kicking your legs under him, but Madara lowered more of his weight on top of you.

A line of saliva connected the two of you when he finally ceased his assault on your lips. He gazed upon you with lidded eyes before he continued, tucking his head in the crook of your neck. You screamed as he sunk his teeth into your flesh, tears pouring from your wide eyes as you stared up at the pitch black night sky. Madara’s hand swiftly came over your mouth, to muffle the shrieks that tore from your throat.

You flailed violently, limbs lashing in adrenaline-fueled terror to no avail as Madara kept you pinned to the earth with his larger, heavier frame. And then you felt a hand dip into your robes, tugged the top material from your shoulders to grope at your chest. You cried harder, squealing like a pig at the slaughter as you finally managed to squirm an arm free.

You thrashed it around in a flurry of scratches and strikes. Your hand snagged on Madara’s face as you tried to scoot out from underneath him, causing him to shoot backward. Blood dripped from his nose, forming a nasty pool of red in tandem with the jagged gash that sliced diagonally across his upper lip.

He looked at you in confusion and anger; blood streaked across his fingers. You scrambled to your feet, darting down the mountain and back to the new colony.

You would never speak of that night again.

Madara dropped all speak of marriage.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Lots of fun author’s notes: I hated the pacing of this fic. It used to have really low notes in the early days so I think I got a little sloppy with it, and now it’s exploded out of nowhere! I hope this “retcon” fixes some of the plotholes!

I would like to think the teen years were made purposefully vague and dreamy so that the transition to the dark content is more impactful. Yes, yes we’ll say that!

I don’t always imagine what Reader looks like in my stories (I usually don’t) but this one I do! I usually picture Lupita Nyong'o. Not sure if that adds or takes away for any of you. Who I picture ultimately doesn’t matter

I’d also like to think the whole scene where Tobirama scares Reader off is like any movie where a protagonist has to scare off a loyal dog. Like, “Go on, boy! Git! You’re not welcome here! Git!” while like throwing rocks or something.

Also a reminder that I am not a smut author, so please withhold any thirst comments or requests. Thank you.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

@gracefulbumblebee @norasincubi @rahatake

#Tobirama x reader #tobirama senju x reader #tobirama #Tobirama Senju #naruto x reader #naruto x you #naruto fanfic #Senju Tobirama #naruto #Hashirama Senju #x you #x reader #reader insert #x fem!reader #fem reader #foul creature #tw sex assault

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beanghostprincess · 3 months

Note

Transfem auntie buggy ideas again bc AAAA BRANROT I LOVE WOMEN-

Ya know,,,,, how Oda said,,,,,, Buggy COULD be really fucking powerful if there was effort put in? What if in transfem Buggy world, the effort was due to dysphoria-fueled depression and anxiety. Coming out ((and having such blatant and unrepentant support, from her lovers AND the Guild in its entirety)) leads to her actually... feel okay-ish. It's not a sudden in-all-fix-it ((she needs a PLETHORA of therapies)), but it starts her on a good path. Thay first step was difficult, but it was made... so much easier. Which leads to the second step. The third. The fourth.

And now that Buggy isn't having seventy four panic attacks every three minutes, she can devote some Brain Space to other things - her weapon making has become a sort of fidget toy type of situation, and she's.. actually really gotten a knack for this, over the years. She'd never call herself prodigal ((lowkey even if she is, with chemistry, physics and spatial awareness, she's so deep in the I'm A Liar hole that she doesn't clock that just.... Getting It isn't normal)).

Croc and Hawk are very supportive, even if they bully her (consensually).

And eventually, they even deign to try teaching her Haki - just to realize she's... been using it constantly almost her whole life. Her Observation is innate, acute, and one of the reasons she's so charismatic and able to reign in a crowd. It's both a talent for manipulation and also a form of reactive observation haki - by shifting her own energy among her followers, prospective or otherwise, she can encourage a specific reaction. It's a mix of Skill, Natural Talent and smoke and mirrors.

Learning that makes her wonder - if Haki can be so dynamic and THEN SOME, what other places has she not considered such an approach? Her weapons? Training? Her... her devil fruit...?

It's a paramecia. It affects her body, and she's gotten some rather decent control of it. Do paramecias awaken like zoans? Do logias? New Fixation Hours. She goes a little feral with the possibilities.

Suddenly, it seems like all of these little walls she never noticed before have fallen away, leaving a vast horizon of possibility.

Shanks will take a bit to arrive at Karai Bari, and he's expecting a specific version of his former best friend (or former love or former sibling, depending on Preferred Shuggy Flavor). He is anticipating the Buggy he saw a few years ago, but this time Woman Mode.

Crocodile and Mihawk's protective hovering is not exactly smth he anticipated, but he's willing to roll with that! His lovely Bug is just so pretty, he HAS to tell her, see her for himself, it's not even a want, it's not a desire, he needs it the way hee needs sea salt in his hair and a hilt in his hand and air in his lungs.

Buggy, meanwhile has skipped right tf over many emotions, instead Fueled By Hyperfixation, and while part of her is absolutely REELING at Shanks showing up unannounced on HER island, another part is cackling in mad scientist and saying "convince him to guinea pig, 'for old time's sake'." Shanks is WEAK to Buggy Begging Eyes, and Croc and Hawk ((while also weak but not exactly as weak as Shanks, they can pretend)) are watching and honestly laughing internally bc....

Well. Buggy's on a ROLL. And Shanks is her newest toy.

Poor Redhair has NO IDEA what he's in for...

SHE'S A QUEEN SHE'S A PRINCESS SHE'S LITERALLY LIVING IN MY HEAD RENT FREE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is actually canon to me. Okay. Okay? She was just insecure and dealing with dysphoria and now she's the queen of the world. She owns it. Shanks is such a simp he's gonna let her do anything lmfao. And Mihawk and Crocodile absolutely love her and it's even funnier to bully her this way. And she's,,, She's so powerful. Queen. Absolutely amazing. Sexy but also really cute. Prettiest clown you've ever seen. HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT HER CLOTHES??? Because I have so many outfits in mind I am going INSANE. And I can't stop thinking about Luffy and her getting along and Luffy being extremely happy (not to mention Sanji, Don't- Don't let Sanji see her because maybe he dies. Me too).

#I LOVE WOMEN TOO ANON #<- a very normal lesbian obsessed a normal amount with fem buggy #one piece #buggy the clown #fem buggy #transfem buggy #cross guild #red haired shanks

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moondustinfj · 5 months

Text

MBTI AND ENNEAGRAM ANALYSIS OF INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE CHARACTERS

Part 1

Louis de Pointe du Lac

Mbti

Introverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving

Infps are highly idealistic, sensitive and driven by their values

Especially because their leading function Fi (introverted feeling) allows them to be in tune with their emotions. Very much so that they are driven by their inner compass. They have a clear sense of right and wrong and it's not likely or easy for them to change their mind about something, especially moral issues

Armand: I would have made this woman a vampire. But I thought it best you have a hand in it. Otherwise you would not give Claudia up. You must know you wanted it

Louis: I loathe what I did!

Armand: Then loathe me, not yourself

Louis: No, you don't understand. You nearly destroyed the thing you value in me when this happened. I resisted you with all my power even when I didn't know it was your force which was working on me. Something nearly died in me! Passion nearly died in me! I was all but destroyed when Madeline was created!

Armand: But that thing is no longer dead, that passion, that humanity, whatever you wish to name it. If it were not alive there wouldn't be tears in your eyes right now. There wouldn't be rage in your voice

Infps are very emphatatic and sensitive. They want to make the world a better place and they try hard to help others

"But why, with this passion and this sense of justice, do you wish to call yourself the child of Satan!" - Armand

Louis: I'm incapable of your detachment. I know what it is, and I do not possess it and I doubt that I ever will. I accept this

Armand: I understand. I saw you in the theatre, your suffering, your sympathy with that girl. I saw your sympathy for Dennis when I offered him to you; you die when you kill

They are introspective and they desire to find their meaning in life

"It's a terrible feeling, not knowing, not understanding, not being in control of your own destiny" - Louis

"I would have to know from what... from what it comes. Whether it came from other vampires...or elsewhere" - Louis

They focus on the big picture and are very intuitive

"No need to tell him what to observe, or what to remember. He always knew such things. Years ago, when I'd done the dark magic on him, I hadn't had to tell him anything; he had savored the smallest aspects of it all on his own. Then later he said I'd failed to guide him. Didn't he know how unnecessary that had always been?" - Lestat

With their strive for authenticity and their sensitivity, they look for ways to express themselves through art and stories

Enneagram

Basic fear: that they have no meaning or significance

Basic desire: to have their own identity and purpose, their meaning

Type fours are sensitive, self aware and reserved. They are also prone to be moody and self conscious. They can suffer from self pity and melancholy

Type fours see themselves as fundamentally different from other people. More than any other type, they are acutely aware of their weaknesses and defiances. They see themselves as uniquely disadvantaged or flawed

And because they see themselves as so different, they feel like nobody can see their true selves and therefore no one can love them for who they really are

"For the first time in my life, I was seen"

They might romanticize pain and bittersweet feelings

"I think to be this happy is to be miserable, to feel this much satisfaction is to burn"

Type fours often feel like there is something missing in them that others possess. This thing can't be properly identified but they feel like there is a hole in them that can not be filled

"If I ever thought we have souls, mine is gone forever"

So they feel like with this thing missing, everyone but them can fully understand who they are and their meaning

Type fours struggle to let go of their feelings from the past. They nurse their old wounds and hold onto their feelings about people who hurt them

4w5 (four wing five): The Bohemian

This subtype is combined with type five. So they're more reserved than the usual type four. But they're also more observant and speculative

"Louis, the watcher, the patient one, was there on account of love pure and simple"

Overall, infps and type fours are generally sensitive, creative, melancholic, empathatic, understanding, authentic, emotionally expressive and introspective people

"Louis, whose green eyes are soulful, the very mirror of patient misery, soft voiced, very human, weak; having lived only two hundred years, unable to read minds, or to levitate, or to spellbind others except inadvertently, which can be hilarious, an immortal with whom mortals fall in love" -Armand

" And it occured to me. If Louis does end his life, if he does bring his supernatural journey to conclusion, how will I ever answer for it to Lestat or Armand? It was the love of Louis which had at times crippled Lestat, and enslaved Armand" - David

"The first thing I'd ever noticed about him-well, after his green eyes that is- was his black hair. No, all that's a lie. It was his expression; the passion and the innocence and the delicacy of conscience. I just loved it!" - Lestat

"If I knew a mortal of that sensitivity, that pain, that focus, I would make him a vampire in an instant. But such can rarely be done. No, I've had to wait and watch for you. And now I'll fight for you. Do you see how ruthless I am in love?" - Armand

"Louis, my handsome Louis, in his dark wool and old fashioned high-collared linen, gazing down on us with a look of thinly veiled amusement, but with a secret in his hypnotic green eyes" - Lestat

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bethanydelleman · 7 months

Note

I once saw someone rank all of Austen's men and of the romantic leads, they rated Henry Tilney last for being "misogynistic." I was VERY confused and had no idea how he could be read that way, especially because he embraces more stereotypical feminine activities like reading novels and picking out fabric. Is there a discourse I'm missing or is that person who made the ranking just stupid?

I believe that sentiment comes from these passages, read in isolation, all from Ch 14:

Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own advantages—did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward.

and

"Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute—neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit." (Henry Tilney)

If one takes all of this commentary seriously, Henry Tilney would come off quite badly, but it's clear the narrator is being facetious and that Henry is making a joke. Eleanor, who understands Henry's humour, does not take offence at all, and it's very clear that Henry loves his intelligent sister. So no, he's not just looking for an idiot to marry and he also doesn't think women are generally stupid. And as you say, his actions throughout the novel prove that he isn't a misogynist, he even takes pains to make Catherine feel better about her hobby of reading novels by admitting to loving them himself.

Taking what Henry says here seriously is equivalent to thinking Elizabeth was serious when she said she started loving Darcy when she saw Pemberley, a comment that her sister laughs at and then begs her to be serious!

I'm curious though, I did encounter a ranking once that rated Willoughby higher than Henry Tilney, was that the same list?

#henry tilney supremacy #henry tilney #northanger abbey #question response

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yujo-nishimura · 3 months

Text

Whispers of the Desert Kingdom - Part 2

Warning: Sir Crocodile x fem reader, mention of masturbation, English is not my native language, not proof-read, age gap

words: 766

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9

You were always obedient to your father's requests, which is why Vivi had joined the pirates while you stayed in the country. However, you couldn't shake off the feeling of suspicion regarding this sudden order.

"Has the king given any specific reason for me not to meet the visitor?" you inquire, sensing Pell's avoidance of eye contact and his hesitation, indicating that he was lying.

"Well, for now, there hasn't been any reason given," Pell responds, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

"Very well, then. Please bring me some breakfast, and I will commence my studies," you say, releasing Pell from his uncomfortable position near the door, understanding the guilt he must feel for having to lie to you.

He swiftly leaves your room, and you can hear the door being locked from the outside. It seemed like an unreasonable measure in your eyes, but you sigh and slump your shoulders. All this commotion and excitement surrounding a visitor you're not supposed to meet? What could this possibly be about?

As you walk towards your desk, your eyes catch sight of the books for today's study. Opening the drawer, you retrieve your feather, ink, and pen. However, out of the corner of your eye, you notice a sudden commotion outside. Curiosity piqued, you swiftly step towards the window, gently lifting the curtain to get a better look.

Before you, a group of finely dressed individuals arrive, and amidst them stands Chaka, the dark-haired second warrior of the palace, who has always been a true friend to you, much like Pell. He bows respectfully, and as your gaze scans the gathering, you spot a tall figure approaching. Your heart skips a beat as you recognize him. Towering in stature, with a muscular build, slicked-back purple hair, and a cigar clenched between his teeth, he exudes an aura of power. His extravagant attire fits his status - it is Sir Crocodile, the second richest man in the kingdom and one of the most influential figures in the town of Alubarna. You not only know him by his formidable reputation as a warlord of the sea, protected by the government, but also by personal acquaintance. Five years ago, when you were still young, you had the opportunity to meet him at a banquet attended by the kingdom's esteemed personalities and mayors, accompanying your father.

At the age of 17, your father introduced you to Sir Crocodile. He was much older than you and his imposing presence, coupled with his cold eyes, intimidated you. Throughout the banquet, you barely interacted with anyone else, instead focusing on discreetly observing Crocodile, captivated by his appearance.

This initial encounter sparked a mild obsession within you. After returning home, you found yourself frequently thinking about him. Over the following months and years, you would spend your weekend evenings sneaking into the local casino that he owned, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. However, encountering him there was a rare occurrence. He seldom mingled with his customers or the commoners, and most of the time, you left disappointed, unable to even lay eyes on him.

In the span of those five years, you were fortunate enough to see him on only three occasions. However, you lacked the courage to approach him, and Crocodile himself never recognized you or made any effort to engage with you. Your infatuation gradually transformed into a deep longing, causing many sleepless nights as you lay awake in bed, imagining his beautiful muscular chest beneath his luxurious attire. You fantasized about his golden hook gently caressing your skin, and the mere thought sent shivers down your spine, often leading you to touch yourself in desire and solitude.

As the princess of the kingdom, you were acutely aware of the need to maintain proper decency, and your infatuation with this man conflicted with those expectations.

Observing him as he made his way towards the palace, Chaka warmly welcoming him, it suddenly dawned on you that he was the highly anticipated and esteemed visitor everyone had been eagerly awaiting. Your heart raced, and a flush of excitement spread across your skin. Why had your father extended an invitation to the only man who held such immense significance in your world?

As you reluctantly tore your gaze away from the window, a sense of dizziness overwhelmed you. Just as you were about to step back, you gasped in sheer awe. Crocodile had lifted his eyes, meeting your gaze through the glass. Your lips parted gently, and disbelief washed over you. He smiled—an enchanting sight—his dark eyes gleaming through the wisps of smoke from his cigars.

#one piece #sir crocodile x y/n #sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile one piece #x reader #yujowriting #sir crocodile #alabasta

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historia-vitae-magistras · 4 months

Note

some big brother Alfred comforting sad little brother. i imagine there's a great difference between how Alfred would comfort Matthew in colonial times vs the present. 'what's wrong? is there anything i can do? please don't be sad! I love you! do you need me to talk to Lord Father?' vs 'you look like shit. go take a fucking a shower while I make you some pancakes and then you're taking a fucking nap you dickhead. i love you. and comb your fucking hair'

When Matt's young, absolutely. Alfred is very sympathetic to his half-mad baby brother; his personality flaws are understandable and forgivable given that he was a castaway marooned from the French Empire and landed suddenly into Britishness. A lot of genuine distress on Alfred's part about the fact Matt's seeing shit and is often too anxious to eat. He puts Matt on his shoulder when the snow gets too deep and nudges him to eat more and spend more time closer to the fire. It's also pre-industrialization when Americans, as individualistic as they were back then, had a communalist streak. The mad and the various other types of issues are taken care of at home. A burden shared is a burden halved. It's nice to have a baby brother eager to snuggle and read, too, even if he is a little off his rocker from those dark things men do in the dark of the Northwoods.

Older... Older is a little different. It's not cute or sympathetic when Matt occasionally falls off the bandwagon when they're adults. He's peaceful; he's got no real issues by Alfred's metric. He's literally not doing anything useful most of the time, either. He won't meet NATO spending, can't get Quebec under control, and falls apart economically if the US so much looks at the border. There's no 'reason' Alfred can see to excuse Matt's unshowered, unfed, unrested state when he's in a funk. Society has changed, too. What was a healthy respect for individual responsibility is now the only metric by which one's merit is judged. A lot of "well, I don't get to go feral in the woods, or there are actually consequences. Get your shit together." He parrots a lot of bootstrap rhetoric. "Get it together, you have nothing to be upset about." "I'm the superpower, and I live my entire life on an acutely observed high wire act, and I handle that better than you handle having literally no responsibility." But then, when it's obvious, when he can see Matt's made an effort at least, or there's a 'reason' he's downright tender. Kind of goes back to that Calvinist thing of the "deserving needy."

But if Matt or anyone else ever pointed any of this out, Alfred would insist none was happening. Of course they love each other, of course Matt is the exception to his grumbling and that should be obvious. But all too often, unless Alfred is put directly in the path of apparent suffering in a way that doesn't feel burdensome, it can feel like just another task between him and the bottom of his to-do list. One that Matt is supposed to take care of himself because that's their deal. Sometimes it's a reset, though. Like, oh, Matt accidentally drove himself into the ground to keep up with Alfred's batshit lifestyle? That's a bit endearing, and making breakfast, tossing him some ibuprofen, and taking a day are spiritually human things Alfred needs as much as Matt does the physical rest.

#the ask box || probis pateo #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders

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bittersweetarts · 2 years

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Little Lamb - Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Chapter 5)

Aemond Targaryen x You – Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 3 , Chapter 4

Word count: 3370 word

Summary: As a maiden of a noble house, it is your duty to wed well. But how will you manage to, with a curious and possessive Prince in the picture?

WARNINGS: Angst, misogynistic behaviour (quite sexist), minor violence, dubious consent

Spotify Playlist – AO3 Page

Chapter 5: Family Line

Lord Larys does not try to speak to you again in the days following, but you cannot help but always feel eyes watching you. Unfortunately, you could not be certain that it was only him observing you, as you knew that if he suspected your private dealings, others inevitably did as well. This made you feel nervous, but not nervous enough to stop allowing Prince Aemond visit your chambers to sleep.

Unexpectedly, the Prince slipped into your room the next evening, and you accepted this without protest. Previously, you drank yourself into oblivion during the evenings, but with the Prince there, you did not feel the need to. Though his presence was threatening, by having him there, you felt sure he would not kill Jayse, as long as you appeased him. Hence, the two of you had a quiet understanding, and honestly, it was one which you did not mind.

Surprisingly, Aemond did not bother you in the evenings, letting you get on with mundane personal dealings, such as cleaning and writing to letters to your parents and siblings.

Also, with him there, you were finally able to continue doing something you enjoyed: reading. At first, the one-eyed Prince would watch as you read, which you found distracting, so you proceeded to pull a random book from your well-stocked shelf, in the hope that he would keep himself busy. Instead, he proceeded to retort that he had read it. So, you picked another, and the same occurred. And then again.

“From where did you think these books came from?”

This surprised you, causing you to blush, and the next evening, the Prince had brought his own. It was a philosophical book written by an Archmaester Rigney, someone you were unfamiliar with, and when you curiously asked about its contents, the Prince got adorably excited.

“I have just started studying it, and there is a proposal I find acutely true.” Pulling you onto his lap, he opened the book towards the beginning, flipping through until he found what he was looking for.

“Yes, here it is… ‘history is a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will perforce happen again.’ It reminds me that we cannot remain complacent, because war is never truly over. Peace never lasts.”

Brushing his loose hair, you smile at him. “Well, I hope it does last. Peace, I mean.”

In a way, you have come to enjoy having the Prince in your company. But most of all, you appreciated how you managed to sleep soundly. You did not wake exhausted anymore, and though a man, he never pushed for anything more. You knew it would not last, but you convince yourself that once you know that Jayse has healed and left King’s Landing, you will put an end to this. Your reputation may be soiled, but you will protect your chastity. No future husband will be able to discount you on account of that, for it would not be a lie.

While your nights have changed with the roguish Prince’s presence in it, your days proceed as they normally do, quickly, as you become consumed with your duties.

Breakfast had unsurprisingly become an awkward ordeal for you, as you actively avoided making eye contact with your Prince, feeling both bashful and humiliated to be near him so soon after sharing a bed. You also felt guilty, as you knew that you were deceiving people who have been so kind to you, particularly the Queens. Unlike you, the wayward Prince found this all very amusing, often making commentary referencing your shared evenings, much to the confusion of his family, apart from King Aegon, who you suspected knew about your illicit affair, based on his returned jovial interactions with Prince Aemond. You could not help but suspect that perhaps, the wayward Prince has started confiding in him about something, if not about you, as you started to see the King Aegon lively for the first time since stepping foot into King’s Landing.

You also noticed a new worrying glint in the Queen Alicent’s eye. It would not surprise you if she knew, for she is the Queen Mother after all, but if she did, she had bestowed another kindness onto you, by ignoring it and allowing you to continue serving her.

Now, you found yourself often mute during breakfast (as well as other meals), chiming into conversation only when necessary. Fortuitously, Queen Helaena had become particularly consumed by her dreams as of late and ensured that everyone else had become intimately acquainted with them as well.

“Please tell our carers to remove strangler figs from the Gardens. I have seen how the trees they choke are never the same.” In response, you would grasp her hand gently and respond that there were no strangler figs on the castle ground, and Helaena would nod, only to request the same only a few hours later.

You knew that people at court mocked the Queen Helaena for her aloofness, especially when she was younger, and this made you angry. You found the young Queen wise beyond her years and of a strong character, for you knew some about the frightening things of her past.

The story of two assassins torturing and almost murdering her and her children was spread wide throughout the Kingdom during the war, and it was an important reason why many noble houses abandoned their support Rhaenyra Targaryen’s claim. Though the stories varied, it was wildly accepted that murder of servants, rape and mutilation was involved, and that sweet Helaena and her babes only survived due to Ser Criston Cole’s surprising visit to the Queen Alicent’s chambers that evening, a stroke of fortune. The outrage that spread throughout the lands after this story came to light is impossible to describe, for Queen Helaena, known as ‘the Innocent Targaryen’ in addition to the torture and attempted murder of three children was viewed as an unforgivable sin, especially when instructed by a woman. This is a subject you would never raise, but you did know that the children had scars that they should not, and days where Queen Helaena was confined to her chambers happened occurred more frequently than they should.

And so, your days pass and you never find yourself lacking, that is, until the months pass, and you fail to receive a single letter or correspondence from your family. You always felt like the black sheep, isolated, and you never did get too many letters from them. But since your last, where you informed them about your embarrassing failure at securing a marriage with Jayse Wylde, you have heard nothing back. They are your family though, and you thought perhaps your letter had gotten lost, so you wrote another. And then another. But still, you heard nothing. By this point, not only were you desperate to hear from your parents and siblings, but you wanted to visit them as well. But how were you to do that? You could not even get a word from them.

The final straw came during a celebratory dinner held at the Keep’s Great Hall, when you greeted Lord Borros Baratheon.

As the Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Borros had been acquainted with your parents and by extension, knew of you (your family was too large so he inevitably always confused the children, especially the daughters).

An honoured nobleman, the Royal Family valued Lord Baratheon’s loyalty and support during the war, and he was always invited to visit King’s Landing, especially during celebrations. Some petty squable at Driftmark had been resolved and King Aegon had called for a celebration, which Lord Borros Baratheon happened to attend, as he was at the capitol for unrelated matters. It was here that he formally met you as Queen Helaena’s Lady-in-Waiting for the first time, and apologised for missing your elder brother, Dayron’s, wedding with the youngest daughter of the Lord of Castamere, an admirable alliance. Hearing this, your heart shattered.

Not only had you not been invited to the union, but now you realised that all of your letters had not been lost, but ignored, as you had written countless, addressing not only your parents, but your many siblings as well. The pain you felt knowing this was debilitating, and you tried your best to courteously excuse yourself from Lord Baratheon, before abruptly fleeing the event, to seek refuge in your chambers. All you felt like doing was crying, and you could not even get yourself to try and stay for the feast, even though you were expected to. However, as you left, no one stopped you.

Much later in the evening, past the witching hour, Prince Aemond clumsily stumbled into your chambers. As he entered, he found you sat by the window, with only a few candles lit to provide illumination. You did not greet him as you normally do when he entered, facing away from him to watch the view. If he was irritated by this, he did not show it.

As he approached you, his steps were louder than normal, and you felt a hand guide your chin away from the view of the city.

Now facing him, he observes you, and you see confusion in his features.

“You’ve been crying.”

“And you’ve been drinking.” You retort back, pulling away from him and looking back at the window. You did not want him to see you in this state, and you considered barring the door, but thought against it, as you also wanted to sleep and now could not without his presence.

Sighing, the drunk Prince sat next to you on the bench and gently grasped your cold hands.

“Am I going to have to murder Lord Baratheon?” He says seriously.

“What? No!” You respond, shocked, turning your eyes back at him while drawing back your hands. The fact that he even proposed this was abhorrent.

“What has he done?” The Prince’s eyebrows were furrowed, and his face looked deathly. You realised that he was not fooling around, but you also did not want to acknowledge what has been troubling you. The thought of it hurt too much, and you felt responsible for it. It was your fault after all, for failing to be a dutiful daughter. Either they got sick of you, or they caught wind of your indiscretions, and both were awful prospects.

“Nothing.” You respond, and stand up, turning your back to the Prince, while running your hands through your hair in distress. You really were upset, and you were aware that you were not hiding it very well. You then feel arms wrap around you, and lips press onto your shoulders, which were bare as you wore a sleeveless nightgown.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You shake your head and try to pull away, but Aemond holds you steadfastly. He repeats himself, hugging you more tightly. “Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

Spinning you around, the Prince presses his fingers onto your waist, and speaks in a ruthless tone. “If you do not tell me, then I will assume that it was the gluttenous hog of a man who bears responsibility, and he will pay dearly for it.” Your eyes water as he speaks harshly, and sympathy consumes him immediately. “Please, just tell me, my love.” Again, you shake your head stubbornly, tears falling as you do.

“Fine.” The Prince suddenly becomes angry and pulls himself away from, striding towards the door. This scares you for a moment, as you know his reckoning, if successful, will not go unpunished. Lord Borros Baratheon is the leader of one of the most important houses in all of Westeros, and the Prince would be an intoxicated boy about to kill or grievously harm an influential man due to a misunderstanding, involving a girl that did not matter.

“Aemond, please, stop.” You hardly ever call the Prince by his first name, and when you, you never fail to capture his attention. The Prince stops, but does not turn, frozen in place, the anger literally seething out of him.

“You are going to think me half-witted and disgraceful.” You croak out through sobs. You must have sounded miserable, because when the Prince turned around, his anger dissipated and he embraced you gently, rubbing your back in comfort.

“I could never. In this room, there is only one who lacks wit at times, and it is not you.” Tilting your head up, he sensuously kisses you near your mouth, his breath reeking of the honeyed wine which you favoured, before continuing. “And it is only out of passion.” Though you stopped crying, you were still upset, though you tried to compose yourself.

“If I tell you, promise me you will not do anything rash.” You held his gaze, practically holding it hostage, and he nodded immediately, without second thought. Taking a deep breath, you speak swiftly, because you knew that if you would not, you would not speak at all.

“I am alone, completely alone now. Through Lord Baratheon I found out that not only was I not invited to my brother Dayron’s wedding, but that I am not even worth writing to. I write almost every single day to my parents, my siblings, and I do not hear a single word back. My family does not even think I am worthy of being acknowledged, of being loved, and it hurts. It hurts so much.” Your sobs return stronger than before, and you go completely hysterical, you cannot stop yourself from admitting more.

“I miss them every single moment every day. Every time I look at Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor, I see my younger siblings, babes in my eyes, just like them. Did you know that they are practically the same age? The youngest three are triplets – Taliya, Liyana and Addysen – were born in the same year as Maelor, and I miss them so much, my heart aches for them so much!”

As you sob, Aemond comfortingly runs a hand through your hair repetitively, but you cannot stop. Instead, you lose your stability, and fall. The blonde Prince catches you before you reach the ground and holds onto you, effortlessly lifting you up and carrying you to your bed. You do not know for how long he comforts you, hugging you, rubbing your arms and kissing your head, but it feels never ending.

Until it doesn’t. Eventually you have no more tears, and your breathing evens. When it does, you feel void of emotions, a shell of who you are as a person. The Prince had not fallen asleep at any point, and continues watching you. You avoid his stare, opting to gape at the ceiling. The two of you sit there in silence, until he speaks.

“They do love you. Thinking otherwise is unfeasible.”

You want to ignore him, to say nothing, but you find it impossible.

“Then why won’t they even write back?” You voice broke as you spoke, and you could feel your emotions begin to suffocate you again.

You proceed to hug the Prince more tightly, perhaps you will be able to stuff your feelings back, and the Prince stares at you saddeningly. At this moment, he wished he did not take your leaving of the event so personally, by drinking so much. Because without second thought, he answered.

“They did write back.”

You wrinkled your forehead in confusion, and you pull back, letting him go. He still holds on to you though.

“What?”

You look up at the Prince, and see guilt briefly cross his features, before forcing his nonchalant expression. He ignored you this time, pressing his lips on your head, embracing you more tightly. This only serves to fuel your disordered state. You push out of his embrace and sit up, facing him.

“No, Aemond, stop this. What do you mean?”

Crossing his arms, the Prince responded, feigning innocence. “I do not understand.”

“No, do not do this to me. What do you mean, they wrote back?”

You felt crazed at that moment, staring at him. Because until now, you could not imagine, anyone else involved with your issue, until you realised that if there was someone that could stop your correspondences from being sent, it could most certainly be a Prince. The more you thought, the more sick you felt. Shaking your head, you started backing away, standing up from the bed, stepping away.

“No. No. Aemond, please, no.” As you began rambling, the one-eyed Prince stood up, chasing after you. He tried to grasp your arms and embrace you, but you shook yourself away, in anguish. Your tears came back, and you felt betrayed.

“No, Aemond! You have been here! You have seen me writing letters to my family almost every night for so many weeks now!”

The Prince did not respond, only trying to hold you, but you anger was too much. You could not even fathom his touch, let alone his embrace.

“Stop! Please just tell me, did you stop my letters from being sent?” Looking at you with sad eyes, the Prince shook his head in response, but you were livid, and you could not believe him.

“Do not lie to me! I’m stupid, I’m a stupid, stupid, girl.” You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exhausted and cold. “I am so, so stupid.” As you repeat yourself, you start striking your head harshly. Only one blow lands before you feel your wrists restrained. You keep trying, but they remained locked in his hold. This time, when the Prince embraces you, you do not push him away, but just stand there, limp and lifeless, you arms now dead by your side.

“I did not stop your letters from being sent.” The Prince speaks, his voice riddled with guilt.

“So, so stupid.” You shake your head, shutting your eyes. You feel his rough hands cup your face, and when you open your eyes, you see his, looking at you worried. “I am not lying.”

“Just tell me the truth. Please, mock me no more.” You say coldly. Sighing, the Prince embraced you tighter, and answered.

“It was not your letters I stopped, but theirs.”

Your eyes widen at the admission, and you misunderstand him for a moment. With all your strength, you push yourself away and stare at him, letting the words sink in. You could never imagine Prince Aemond afraid, and you stare at him in disbelief, for he looked almost afraid, with his jaw clenched and violet eye wide in fear. If this was about anything else, you might have dissipated your anger, but you remain deathly silent, thinking until you fully understand.

The Prince had not stopped your letters, at least that is what he claims. The Prince did stop your parent’s letters. Your sibling’s letter. How many could that be? How many months has it been since you heard from them? Did he just dispose of the letters, or did he also read them? Did he know that you brother was getting wed? How often has he deceived you? He sat here, almost every evening, watching you write to your family, with a sad expression on your face, yet he then continued to have pleasant conversations with you, embrace you, kiss you, share a bed with you… You felt completely betrayed, violently ill, ready to implode. You despised him for his deception, and you despised yourself for being so trusting. It was you who put yourself in this position.

“Get out.” You say quietly, and for a moment, you think the Prince does not hear you. He does though and tries to step closer to you and raises a hand, almost as if you were a dragon that he is about to tame.

“Get out!” You shout over and over again, but he does not, instead approaching you. You begin thrashing, but he does not stop, managing to get a hold on you. When his arms wrap around you, you try to hit him, many times, but fail, as his hold stiffens. You continue until you tire yourself, your voice diminishing, your sobs become silent. You continue crying though, and Aemond continues holding you.

“I hate you.” You finally say, breaking your silence.

“I know.”

Author’s note: I have just finished watching the season finale and I am not okay... I may need time to recover from it, so please be patient with my next chapter, as I sit here grieving my heart out

Link to Chapter 6

Tags: girl-obsessed-with-things 404slayer404 moonmaiden1996 rosaryos roseanimelover jovialfanatic wishfulwithwine missusnora maat-the-prescriptive @let-love-bleeds-red

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond image #aemond targeryen imagine #house of the dragon #aemondtargaryen!thots #house targaryen #hotd episode 10 #hotd #aemond targaryen x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond imagine #hotd aemond #fanfiction

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