#underneath the undertow
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head above water series
on ao3, 6 Works (16 Chapters), 44,175 Words.
All chapter and work links and summaries below the cut in chronological order. COMPLETE
Summary: Julie and Reggie form a deep friendship after meeting through their brothers (“We’re FRIENDS! Stop making it weird!”). He and his friends (and bandmates) help bring her out of the fog of grief, reconnecting her with the music that she’d thought she’d lost with her mother. Over the course of a summer, the tables turn and Julie finds herself showing up for Reggie in ways that they could have never expected.
Content Warnings: missing child, child death, drowning
Ratings: G, T, Unrated
Let's Measure Up, Rated G
Reggie and Stevie's relationship through the years (contains spoilers for end of UtU)
Chapter 1:
The Molinas meet Stevie
Chapter 2:
Flynn and Ray are meddling meddlers who just want what’s best for Julie (who has no idea what she wants or needs but she’s pretty sure it isn’t live music or a boy band)
Chapter 3:
Reggie cracks Julie’s emotional shell and pulls a musical sneak attack. Julie can listen to music again and Luke discovers that she’s a musician.
Chapter 4:
Some Juke developments, Julie is SINGING, and Reggie has a secret.
Chapter 5:
After a surprising discovery with the boys, Julie braves Rose’s studio and finds a song left for her.
Chapter 6:
Julie sings with the band 👀
Chapter 7:
More Juke and Reggie makes a mistake.
Chapter 8:
JUKE! JUKE! JUKE! And also Sunset Curve performs with Julie.
Take My Hand: Rated G
Ray and Reggie have a chat about Reggie's home life.
Chapter 9:
Carrie and Rob… Bobby?! Eats and Beats, a manager, and possible amends?
This is Where I Belong: Rated G
It's the day before Rose's birthday and Julie is having a tough time. Reggie is there to help her through it and build what may become a new Molina tradition.
Chapter 10:
After an emotional performance at the Orpheum, the family and friends celebrate with a BBQ party and meet Julie's new neighbour.
Chapter 11:
The time is here, folks. I’m sorry.
“Where’s Reggie?” Luke asks.
She turns wide eyes on them. “You haven’t heard from him either?”
Luke shakes his head. “Not since last night.”
Julie looks at Bobby and he shakes his head too. “Same here.”
“Something’s wrong,” she tells them and starts pacing the room, the boys’ gazes following her.
Chapter 12:
Reggie seeks comfort and solace from Julie and Ray
Chapter 13:
Is that… Willex I spy? Oh. And Stevie’s found 💔.
I Know What's Right For Me: Rated T
Willex do some bonding in the midst of Reggie's crisis but are seen by Alex's mom. This is what happens in the aftermath
Chapter 14:
Some grown ups finally make an appearance
Chapter 15:
Reggie gets some love and support from an new-old source
Pull Myself Together: Rated G
Alex checks in on Bobby after the trauma he endured in and they have a soft conversation in the studio.
Chapter 16:
Reggie and Julie do some writing and healing and other relationships take a turn.
#nobodys fics#underneath the undertow#it's DONE!#jatp#julie and the phantoms#julie molina#reggie peters#luke patterson#alex mercer#bobby shaw#flynn taylor#carrie wilson#willie nolastname#willie jatp#ray molina#carlos molina#tia victoria#grief and comfort#grief and mourning#platonic friendships
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also desperately need Unai looking very vampiric in his winter coat, walking by the canal in Birmingham in the foggy morning/evening
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close to home | chapter two
close to home | chapter two
plot: the night takes a turn for the worse, Daryl is introduced and must decide to trust the reader, or to kill her.
series masterlist
Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader
Word Count: 1,651
Warnings: violence, blood
A/N: thanks for reading!
Trying to sleep for the night was useless, though Tora’s soft snores comforted you. At least someone was sleeping. Sleep was far from you, your mind thinking off too much and your stomach aching for more food. You wouldn’t touch the jerky you found, at least not until morning. It would be a long seven-mile journey back.
The thrift store was still dark, and the rain was still hitting it hard. The building shook every so often with thunder. But other than that, it was quiet. Still, you were antsy. There was an energy in the air as if something was going to happen, and you were just bidding your time until it did.
A soft orange glow filled the room as you finished picking dirt out from underneath your nails with a butterfly knife. Your eyebrows furrowed together, and you looked around the room. For a second, you thought it was electricity, and people would come into the room chatting about their days, and you’d awaken from the nightmare.
But that was silly.
The bedding shuffled as you stood up, and Tora’s head perked up, eyes adjusting to the new light in the room. It was coming from outside.
You grabbed your gun, switching off the safety and raising it to eye level as you approached the front doors. Rain was pouring down so heavily it would’ve been hard to see ten feet out the door, but the library on fire across the street lit up the street.
“What the fuck-” You muttered.
Movement across the street caught your eye, and you saw a few people running about. People. Not dead ones.
You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat and watched for another moment. Who were they? You’d been to this town dozens of times and had never seen another one. And now, suddenly, there were a few of them, just a hundred feet away.
You grabbed the door handle and started to push the door open; unknown words on your lips when movement from down the road again caught your attention. Only it wasn’t alive, people. It was the dead ones. Hundreds of them.
“Holy shit.” You said, backing away from the door. “We have to go now,” You said to Tora, who had just nestled back to sleep. You grabbed your bag quickly, threw it over your shoulders, and then scooped the cat in your arms. She meowed in protest for a second but settled quickly in your arms as you ran out of the thrift store.
The rain hit hard, and Tora growled softly. You whispered apologies under your breath and started to run. Puddles of water splashed undertow, and your boots were soaked through within seconds. The bag was impossibly heavy and was only getting heavier with the rain.
Thunder clapped again, and you stopped to look back. You couldn’t see the people running around anymore, but the dead were still there, the fire was taking down the building, and your heart ached at all the lost literature. But regardless, it wasn’t time to worry about that.
You picked up your pace again, dodging the dead ones left and right. The fire seemed to be bringing them all out of the woods. You couldn’t tell the difference between rain and tears on your checks.
The wind was picking up, and the air was full of smoke. It was getting harder to breathe, and the running didn’t help. But you could just barely make out the tree line. You could get Tora up a tree, follow her up there, and wait out the night. It was dangerous with the lightning, but so was the ground.
Long shadows of trees cascaded on the forest ground, and they started to fade as you put more and more distance between you and the fire. Tora was meowing loudly, but you held on tight, not daring to lose her in the chaos.
The path took you down a hill, and you tried to pinpoint where you were so you could get back to the campground, and find your way back to the lake. The dead ones were hot on your trail, and you couldn’t believe how quickly they appeared. You’d only seen the two this morning; now, there were hundreds.
As you turned a bend, you slammed into something hard and fell to the ground. Tora escaped your grasp, and you heard the mechanical clicking. Your wet hair stuck to your face as you grabbed your gun and turned, ready to aim at the dead one.
But your eyes didn’t meet the unforgiving frozen stare of death and instead met the top of a crossbow.
***
forty-four minutes earlier
Daryl took a deep breath and leaned against the wet side of the building. The entire run had gone to shit when they stumbled on a herd a mile back. Luckily, they stumbled on the small town, with plenty of ways to get the herd off their backs.
“We need to do something!” Rick yelled over the pouring rain. “We need to find something to distract them.”
“‘aight,” Daryl cursed, redrawing his crossbow. “The walkers got us all cornered up. Where the hell is Glenn and Maggie?”
“I think I saw them go down the alley. They know how to handle themselves. They have to. We got to distract them.”
“This thunder is makin’ 'em go crazy!” Daryl yelled, “They’re all just spinnin’ ‘round in circles tryin’ to find us. We need to get ‘em all grouped up so we can get the hell outta here.”
Rick looked around, the rain washing away the blood on his face. “Okay. Okay. There are a couple cars up ahead. Looks like this place fell early. There’s gotta be some gas in those tanks. Let’s light a fire.”
No more words were needed, and the two took off, quickly siphoning gas into their empty water bottles. Thunder clapped overhead, and Daryl looked around. They had put a good distance between themselves and the walkers, but he didn’t feel safe. They’d be on them soon if they didn’t hurry.
Rick led Daryl to the closet building and laughed as he realized what it was. “I’ll knock over a few rows of books and spread the gasoline out. We don’t have much.”
Daryl worked quickly and silently to shake the gasoline out around the room. When he’d returned, a pile of broken furniture and books were covered in gasoline.
“Let’s light it up. We’ll make a breakthrough in the woods to return to the car. That’s where Glenn and Maggie would try to get to. If not, they’ll get to the prison on foot.” Rick said.
Daryl nodded before grabbing a book, lighting it on fire, and then tossing it into the pile. It caught immediately, and Daryl and Rick ran from the building and into the back alley. Dozens of walkers were spread out, and the sight of the growing fire started to catch their attention.
The archer followed Rick silently through the alley, clothes soaked through and dripping with water. Sweat, dirt, and blood ran down his face, and he kept wiping it clean as he ran.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Rick yelled. “Walkers!”
The street was covered in the undead. The fire bringing more of them out of the woods. Daryl glanced at Rick, and he nodded. It would be a fight. It was always a fight.
But the walkers were coming in every direction, the thunder was so loud, and the rain so heavy that Daryl lost sight of RIck. His arms were coated in blood as he brought down body after body. And still, they kept coming.
“Rick!” Daryl yelled, his voice drowned out in the rain. He huffed and turned the corner to a quieter street. In the distance, he saw someone running into the tree line. His eyes narrowed, and he dodged an impending walker. “Rick!” He called after him.
Another half dozen walkers were down by the time Daryl reached the treeline. He glanced back at the town drowning in water and blood. He had to get to the car. Whoever survived would be in the car. They’d all be in the car.
***
Your eyes narrowed at the person before you, and you clicked the trigger into place. You couldn’t catch your breath and knew there wasn’t time to. He would kill you, or the dead ones would. Your throat was dry despite the rain on your face and the drops sliding over your parted lips.
“Where are my people?” The man asked, “Who are you?”
You stayed quiet, your eyes looking around. There were dead ones in the distance, and you could hear the moans over the rain. “I’m nobody,” You finally said, “I was in the thrift store, and I saw the fire and the dead ones. Figured it’s best to get out of there while I still could.”
“How many people are with you?” He yelled.
“It’s just me!” You yelled back, “It’s just me, asshole. And my cat, but you scared her off.” You glanced around again for the cat.
“Huh?”
You dropped and swept your leg out in his second confusion, knocking him to the ground. The crossbow dropped, and you quickly kicked it away, raising your gun to the man’s forehead. He froze.
You looked around quickly again; there were dozens of dead ones headed your way. You whistled that same three-note tune and heard rustling behind you. Your eyes didn’t leave the strangers.
“There are dozens of them. Only two of us. We need each other if we want to see the sunrise tomorrow,” You shouted, thunder booming again. You dropped your gun and offered your other hand. “My name is (Y/N).”
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delicate edges // chapter 1
summary: beneath disdain, there is admiration. beyond betrayal, there is devotion. underneath loathing, there is adoration. even the coldest- most closed-off hearts- are protected by delicate edges of temptation, forgiveness, and absolution. an exiled heart longs for embrace, but desire threatens ruination. will true love become your savior or your greatest sin?
pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader
warnings: graphic depictions of an infected wound (blood, seepage, pain) nerve damage, period-typical misogynism and gender roles
word count: 10,316
series masterlist
Judgments are insufferable. Yet, they are felt by all and tolerated by most. No class, nor title, is immune to shrewd whispers of appearance or character, just as no man nor woman- no lord nor lady- can evade pointed glares or upturned noses in passing. Judgments are inevitable. Even so, very few truly suffer under the weight of such scrutiny. Few drown beneath crushing waves of snide remarks, and even fewer find themselves trapped in an undertow of impertinent stares with no hope for a way out. Some have next to nothing to their names- no title nor land to boast about, and only the clothes on their backs to show for their wealthiest of possessions- but they have the luxury of obliviousness. To be unaware, even if only for moments at a time, of the fact that they are being ridiculed is a freedom granted to those with far more opulence than the richest men in the realm- for they are truly free from scorn, and the insufferable pain of judgment.
The moss is both soft and cold beneath your toes- a green cloud, of sorts, that cushions each step. Eclipsed by the sounds of drunken laughter and conversation, the gentle hum of strings is faint, but audible enough to follow along as you step in time with the melody. A sweet summer child- no more than six years of age- knows little of judgment. Beyond tales of humiliation and suffering, you have no experience to grasp onto or fear other than fables and hearsay. Despite this, there’s solace in the gardens. Surrounded by petals of dragon’s breath and poppies- amongst the vines of smokeberries and under the branches of a large oak tree- you’ve found refuge from various lords and ladies of the court. You may be a stranger to such casual cruelty, but you’ve learned to dread it all the same.
Whilst others seek to elude the pain of judgment, you’ve grown to fear the act itself. In a way that only a child would, you fear what you do not know- lacking the courage to discover and basking in the ignorance of what is unknown. Rather than confront judgment- before you even really know what it is- you’ve chosen to prolong the inevitable.
It is a choice that was stolen from him, along with the luxury of obliviousness- along with his eye.
Through a blur of tears, Aemond Targaryen winces. Each drop that falls past his lashes irritates the angry gash below, inflaming the marred skin that is still oozing with purulence. Another scab has formed over his wound, but just as the previous few have failed to seal and protect his injury, this one starts to crack and split, too- revealing more suppuration, blood, and white-hot agony. It’s torture. It’s as though his body refuses to heal, rejecting the idea altogether as he’s forced to brave unbearable agony each time his body betrays him. The maesters assure him that he is brave. They commend his vigor and praise his resilience. One even urged whilst redressing his injury that he was a “strong boy”. The innocent implication had stung like venom- like poison tainting his pure blood- and, perhaps, the words of a withering man had caused more damage than a blade in the hands of a child had.
Alas, his wound stretches and pulls whilst severed nerves pulse and tick against his will and he wonders if this inexplicable pain is penance from the seven above- a punishment for not seeking repentance for his actions. He claws at the scrap of leather that rests atop mangled skin, trying to untie the too-tight bindings that keep the patch secured. It was a gift from his mother in the days that followed the incident on Driftmark, and his father offered more words of warning about wearing the covering in the presence of others than he did when it came time to hold his bastard grandson responsible for the injury. Mayhaps, that is where the root of his suffering truly stems from- betrayal.
Nevertheless, Aemond is nearly blinded- completely- by pain. He stumbles past a few servants who keep their heads low and their gazes down, and though he can not see it, he can feel their judgment. Perhaps, it is because he’s a child- or, the fact that he’s disfigured- that the help doesn’t hold him in the same regard they once did. None harbor the desire to care for him. None seek to ease his painfully obvious suffering. Eyes that do not pierce with discernment, are forced away blindly- finding interest and amusement anywhere other than the boy in desperate need of aid. Whilst they refuse to look at him- depriving him of ridicule by finding sudden interest in stone chasms or the flickering flame of a nearby torch whenever he passes- they aren’t as gracious when it comes to holding their tongues. The fools forget that he is visually impaired, not deaf, and allow cruelness to pass in whispers that he is never able to evade- for they seep into the stone and haunt him in solitary, the same way shadows used to.
Aemond sinks his teeth into his tongue, biting down just hard enough to stop his lip from quivering. He won’t allow them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. With all the strength he can muster, he wanders past the gushing servants and into the gardens. Relying on the thick trunk of oak to keep him upright, he braces himself against the wood and yanks at the patch over his eye, over and over again until it unfastens. A brief moment of comfort is eclipsed by the searing pain that follows. He almost howls like a wounded animal- a cry out to anyone willing to listen- but even simple sounds are hard to make when the muscles in his face begin to pulsate involuntarily. It burns and it stings. It’s humiliating and degrading. Beyond anything else, it hurts.
Soft, panting breaths cause your footing to falter. Another step is left incomplete- another turn is stumbled through- and perhaps if you were performing in the stuffy hall you chose to abandoned, with a partner who would’ve only asked to dance to fulfill a duty, you might’ve been embarrassed about your missteps, but with only the stars for company- soft flickers of light that shine regardless of how many times you make a mistake- you’re greeted with solace, rather than affliction. The sound that comes from the other side of the oak is miserable- guttural and wretched and utterly broken. If you were any further, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Lively strings would’ve muted the croaked cries of desperation with a tune much more jovial. Alas, you’re neither devoted to your dance or the music, but tempted by what’s caught your ear, instead.
A child knows little about judgment, and even less about fear. Still malleable, and unshaped by the cruelties of life, you find yourself apprehensive of what you do not know- but not enough to let feelings of worry dampen your curiosity. With a cautious step forward, you peer around the thick trunk. A glimpse of silver shines bright beneath the moonlight, and another step closer reveals that the second son of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower is sobbing beneath the same branches you’ve sought comfort under.
His name is Aemond.
You’ve heard many whispers about him traveling through the walls of the Red Keep- and the most recent ones reference his tragedy. Rumors have oft been traded as a form of currency. Regardless of merit, tales of outrageous fantasy are passed amongst friends and foes until one is able to profit off of its value. You pay them no mind. He is nothing more to you than a name- a flicker of argent light lurking about the shadows, and often keeping to himself. In the few years that your father has occupied a seat upon his father’s council, you have never crossed paths with him. When he returned from Driftmark only a few months prior, it was without his eye, and whilst most account that the maimed boy is truly terrifying, you find it difficult to believe such lore when his muffled cries fill your ears and his shoulders shake forcefully. The boy before you is not frightful- he is scared.
“Forgive me, my prince,” Aemond startles when a timid voice interrupts his suffering. Through a blur of tears, he watches as you drop down to a pitiful curtsy- the gesture more a sign of respect than a display of coordination. He quickly brings a palm over his eye, concealing the infected socket from your view, and hisses when his flesh makes contact with the gaping wound. The legion is warm beneath his hand- another reminder of his body’s resistance to heal- and wet with pus and other seepage. He doesn’t remember the slice of the blade that took his eye, nor the pain of steel meeting flesh. It all happened too quickly for him to truly remember. But he has grown familiar with the pain of healing and longs for fresh blood to stain his pale skin- anything other than viscid, yellow discharge. Trembling fingertips graze the back of his leather patch, flipping it over to reveal that it has caused him more harm than good to don the disguise for the evening. A crusty layer of skin, blood, and drainage from his wound has already started to coagulate. Regardless, Aemond attempts to fasten the veil over his wound once more. He would rather torture himself than disobey his father’s wishes. With the way his fingers shake, it’s hard for him to attach the patch, so he opts to hold it in place- and with one hand over what remains of his eye, and the other wiping away his tears, he rises to his full height.
He has half a mind to order you away- confident, in nothing else beyond the fact that you would have to comply. To flex what little power he still has over a child, who wouldn’t dare defy him, won’t fill the void left within him- nor will being impolite compensate for the empty socket of torment. He will find retribution, elsewhere. Ire tastes sour on his tongue. Wrath burns his throat. Vexation is acidic. Beyond crooked teeth, he forces all that he’s feeling behind the quivering press of his lips, hoping that the foul words he’s attempting to shield you from won’t slip past the gaps where he’s missing teeth that haven’t yet grown back. You are not his foe- but you are not his friend, either.
“I thought I was alone.” Something about the confession stills his breath. It’s odd- something unexplainable and untellable- the sorrow he experiences upon your revelation of honesty. To feel like a stranger amongst servants and guards was one thing, to be ostracized and disregarded by his family was another thing completely, but to feel like he doesn’t belong- like he’s unworthy and unwanted amongst the company of a stranger, who doesn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he is marred- is foreign. It’s accompanied by the taste of bile. “Though, it appears we both prefer the gardens in favor of the ballroom.” The sentiment you offer is warm- friendly, even- but Aemond has grown accustomed to frigidness. Numb to the heat of amiability, he doesn’t recognize the tenderness of your approach until you ask, “Would you like to dance with me?” The only indication that he’s heard you is the way he clenches his teeth, gritting them against one another whilst the muscle of his jaw tightens. “I’m not very good, and I would benefit greatly from a partner,”
Aemond awaits the sound of laughter. His skin prickles with the anticipation of it. Surely, you’re jesting with him. You do not wish to dance. With only one eye, angry tears streaking scarlet cheeks, and a wound that weeps beneath a thin scrap of leather and the palm of his shaking hand, he is not an ideal dancing partner. Even if he were the best dancer in the seven kingdoms, he would not be an ideal dance partner- not when he is missing pieces of himself, and feeling less than half of a whole. He is maimed. He is disfigured. He is ugly. No amount of talent nor charm will ever change the simple fact that he now knows is true- he is not worthy of anything other than pain and misery, condemned to a life of suffering. Laughter does not puncture the surrounding silence. He waits and waits, and waits, for a devious grin of crooked teeth that gnash with glee- like the same dagger that stole his eye- and howling hysterics, but you merely await his answer, silently and patiently- as if your sentiment had been genuine. Both eyes search violet for an answer, and he cowers away under such a daunting gaze. He is exposed. Forcing his pride, his ego, and stare elsewhere, he shuts his only good eye, forcing himself into complete and total darkness- somewhere safer, and much more welcoming than the warmth of your eyes as they bear into his sole. Socket, and remaining eye.
Only a few years younger than he is, he doubts you intend to take pity on him. You are a child, but so is he. He can not recall feeling the urge to ridicule when he was your age, but he remembers the relentless mockery from his elder brother and his nephews- a wound that has been ripped apart and left without sutures to bleed out until the day he meets his demise- and he’s reminded of the brutality of youth. Perhaps, you are a wolf clothed in lamb skin, proposing viciousness under the guise of innocence. In the nothingness that surrounds you, he wonders what’s more laughable- being asked to dance by a child, or being pitied by one?
When he opens his eye, you still stand before him- though, now you do not attempt to hold his gaze. Aemond is granted a brief relief, that’s shadowed by dread the moment he considers that his physical appearance may have simply been too much for you to bear, thus you’ve opted to avoid his plaguing stare at all costs. His chest tightens. When he opens his mouth, the words are stolen by a throbbing in the empty socket that matches the frenzied beat of his heart in his chest. The center of your forehead pinches with concern, but he does not notice, and when he finally finds his voice, it’s gruff.
“You will find one,” He assures, curtly. Despite his tone, you appear hopeful, and he grimaces whilst he elaborates, “Indoors.” At the mention of finding a participant in the ballroom you’ve deliberately evaded, you gulp- fearful that he might order you back to the very place you’ve tempted to escape. “Perhaps a cupbearer or squire could aid in the technique you lack.” Aemond offers without sentiment.
It is a mask- his cruelness- meant to shield his anguish. At least, you wish to believe it to be. The rumors of a wicked boy are not true. Whispers of a horrifying beast are not, in fact, certain. Though it is hard to deny the angry, inflamed skin beneath his palm, you are not afraid of him. His injury is not something to fear- not when it is responsible for causing him so much pain. You have not seen the extent of his trauma, but it does not frighten you. He may be maimed, but he is suffering a unique torment- one that very few living know the true agony of. He should not be shunned for feeling. With both eyes, or only one, he is still a prince, and you will treat him with the respect and kindness he deserves. Even if he held no title, you would offer the same gentleness- for it is not in your nature to be unkind.
“I have little interest in dancing with a cupbearer or a squire, my prince.” With a timid step towards him, he startles a step back, nearly tripping over a large root before regaining his footing. If possible, his cheeks flush deeper.
“Then why ask for a partner?” Aemond bites back, keeping his tongue cruel to deflect his embarrassment- and his pain.
“Some day, I will be forced to dance with lords and knights because it is what is expected of me.” He is vulnerable before you, laid bare whilst hiding behind a veil. Though his wound is covered, he is still before you, aching, in a way that is exposed and defenseless. If he wanted to, he could have turned you away or turned away himself. Yet, he stands before you, despite the pain he is in. If you can not offer him aid, you will offer him the truth- no matter how daunting it might be. “They will complain that I’ve stepped on their toes- or make mention of the fact that no matter how hard I try, I’m always a beat behind,” You shudder, at the thought of dishonoring your family and your house over something so trivial, but it is, perhaps, your most unnerving fear. “Until then, I much prefer the company of someone who won’t laugh at me because I misstep, but if you wish to be alone-“
He regards you carefully. For the sake of being sullen, he considers demanding evidence that he won’t laugh at you for the very same reasons you’ve shared, but he is not bitter. He is not rotten to his core. He is not a monster. He is simply grieving the loss of his boyhood and sight. Regardless, his resentment is not meant for you. The sharpness of his tongue is not meant to cause you pain. Unfortunately, for the both of you, you are the only one around to suffer his wrath. Still, his mother raised him to abide by manners and propriety- even whilst he aches with a numbness that is equal parts blazing and frigid. His jaw clenches tightly- muscles shifting to alleviate his pain- and he huffs a sigh.
“I wish to retire to my chambers.”
“Very well,” A timid smile disguises the humiliation of his rejection, and you bow before him once more. “Good evening, Prince Aemond.”
He does not say anything as he scurries past you, down the same path he came, and when you are left alone in the solidarity of the gardens where you once found peace, you find yourself whispering to the stars. With your hands clasped together, you beg the stars to carry your message to The Seven, and you urge The Seven to end Aemond Targaryen’s suffering.
10 years later
“The King grows weaker and weaker with each day,” Grand Maester Mellos’ voice wavers as he delivers the devastating news to those seated along the long slab of stone that acts as a table. Few show no emotion, whilst others struggle to contain theirs- a quivering lip, eyes wide in disbelief, fists clenched so tightly that knuckles turn white- and it pains him to further divulge, “It is only a matter of time before…”
The silence that fills the chamber is haunting. Not even the steady sound of breath rivals that of the bone-chilling nothingness that hangs in the air with words left unspoken. Fearful eyes flit back and forth, searching for answers- desperate for direction, and guidance- but never voicing their concern aloud. To speak their dread would make it real, and no one is prepared to confront what has always been inevitable. Demise has finally caught up to their King, who is now too weak to outrun it any further than he already has.
“Is there no hope for his recovery?” Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, is the first to find his voice- albeit shaken, and unsure. He fidgets with his hands, clasping them together tightly to stop them from shaking, but it’s no use. His nerves are too rampant to quell.
“I’m afraid not, Lord Lannister“ Mellos huffs a heavy sigh. Somberness paints him ghostly. Grim with the knowledge he possesses- a curse and a burden more than it is esteemed- he delivers an eerie verdict. “He will not live to see the next sun cycle.” It is not a prediction- it is fact. “The gods are gracious, but they do not waste miracles upon men.” A pedestal has been shared between Gods of the Faith and Targaryens for years, with very little distinction between the two. To watch a once mighty man fall- a man so revered by all, he was oft mistaken for a deity- is harrowing. Even in the warmth of sunlight, the grand maester appears grey and cold. Both sullen and stoney. The day he has long dreaded has finally arrived. Regretfully, he advises, “It is time that we begin to prepare for…”
“I will do no such thing.” Outraged by such a suggestion, Lyman Beesbury- Mast of Coin- scoffs aloud. Overwhelmed by the sudden shift in demeanor, it’s difficult to tell if he is enraged, flustered, or deeply woeful. His face blotches red with color, his stare narrows and his brow lowers. The faint scrape of his chair against stone threatens to shriek, but he remains seated- albeit agitated. “He may not be well, but our king is alive.” He makes an argument plagued with denial. A glance around the table, one where no one meets his eye, confirms what he knows deep down to be true. Still, he revolts- challenging both mortality and veracity. “I will not consider the possibility of a reign without him at the helm until he has taken his last breath.”
There’s a finality in his tone that does not go unnoticed by the other members of the small council. Try as he might, Lord Beesbury’s chest heaves with each breath, despite his efforts to calm himself. He’s been shaken to his core, they’ve all been- except for Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, who remains calm and collected whilst the most wrenching threat looms overhead.
“With the utmost respect, Lord Beesbury, the dawn is nearly upon us.” Otto’s voice does not waver. His tone does not depict anything other than neutrality. His volume does not rise.“Time is of the essence,” He warns, “If we do not attempt to prepare for the inevitable, then we run the greater risk of being blindsided by not only the death of our king but the death of our nation.”
Mayhaps the only thoughts more ominous than the passing of their ruler are figments of the days after. Some see fire, others hear screeching, but all gathered around the table know that regardless of what happens next, there will be blood.
“I know I do not have to warn of the consequences the realm would face if it fell into Rhaenyra’s hands,” Pursed lips deliver the foreboding caveat, dripping with bitter honesty and evidence to back such a bold claim. “With Daemon as consort, exercising both tyrannical and licentious behaviors to a Queen who is not equipped to rule, our nation would crumble.” Insults fly freely against defenseless subjects, provoking those in attendance to consider how much truth is behind what’s been presented as an opinion. Slowly, looks of sorrow harden into something much more determined. One by one, realization dawns on each member of the small council, and Lord Hightower takes the lull in both silence and contemplation to sink his claws of persuasion deeper and deeper into the flesh of his victims- until he grazes bone. “We would be transported back to the days before the conquest when any man could declare himself king and execute a power that has not been earned, I am sure of it.”
There is no proof beyond his word. Present evidence does not suggest the demise of their kingdom following the king’s passing, but Otto has planted a seed of doubt within the heads of his former council members and nurtured it with poetic of doom and ruination. With a chance to fester, no one can think clearly. Though he knows the answer, Lord Larys Strong- Master of Whispers- plays coy. His exterior is grim, matching those seated around him, and proceeds to inquire about matters he’s already privy to.
“What do you suggest we do, Lord Hightower?”
In a rare display of contemplation, Otto allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks. “When our great King Viserys takes his last breath, I believe that Prince Aegon, his firstborn son, should succeed him.”
“Whilst I agree that a male heir should occupy the throne after the king passes, the king has named Rhaenyra as his heir.” Lord Lannister argues, “If he wished for Aegon to rule, he would have declared so, twenty-three years ago.”
Alicent Hightower sits at the head of the table, the only woman amongst a chamber full of men- only allowed to listen in and contribute on behalf of her ailing husband. Whilst she occupies his seat, a throne within its own right, she knows she is not welcomed. The lords in her company have grown so familiar in with her presence, that they oft forget that she is a woman herself- and they’ve made no attempt to conceal their true feelings about woman and power. Nevertheless, they’re respectful towards her when it counts. Even after years of power, she does not understand the extent of it. Perhaps, it’s because she realized early on in her marriage that it was never hers to begin with. She spares her father a glance and her stomach churns. The desire to be as distant from the conversation taking place as possible fills her, but instead she is captive. Besides her, the vein in Otto’s forehead pulsates. It fills her with a fear reminiscent of her youth, despite being well into womanhood, and she seizes the silence as an opportunity to finally speak. The tip of her tongue wets her lips. She licks the cracks, softening the dry skin before she takes a breath and clasps her hands above the table- hiding bloody nail beds behind her palm.
“My lords,” She commands the attention of her audience with a graciousness that many of them are unaccustomed to. With a polite press of her lips, she proposes, “Is this a matter of upholding orders given lifetimes ago, or protecting our people?” The question visibly divides the room, and she can hardly believe that she’s found the courage within herself to utter her true thoughts aloud. “You have been assembled to guide our king back to the light when he finds himself astray.” She reminds them carefully. “He is lost, and if,” A breath, and then a pause. A sigh, and then hesitation. Many remember when Alicent was just a girl- soft, quiet, naive- and it’s difficult to acknowledge that the same woman commands them now- rough, reserved, aged by duty. Still, they await their Queen. “Perhaps, if he could be suaded to name Aegon as his heir-“
“The realm would be better for it.” Otto interrupts his daughter, supplying his own words and thoughts in place of her own. With a gentle nod, she agrees, bowing her head and surrendering her voice to him once more.
“How do we proceed?”
“Beyond that, would betrothing his eldest strengthen his claim to the throne?” Tyland interjects, demanding an answer of his own.
“How so?”
“If Aegon were betrothed to a noble house, perhaps even one the King has silently made an enemy of, then it would prove his ability to unite kingdoms divided by difference.” It makes sense. Perhaps, if they had more time, it would be something to consider, but they are pressed.
“If it were Prince Aemond, perhaps, but Prince Aegon is not…” Otto bites back the truth, refraining from speaking ill of the man he’s trying to convince his counterparts to support. “It is a more difficult task in practice than it is in theory.”
“If not for the sake of political advancement, then we should consider a match for the sake of convenience.” Larys offers, his eyes grazing those around the table until they meet your father’s. “You have a daughter, do you not, Lord Piper?
“I do,” The man sitting next to Lord Beesbury confirms suspicion with a nod of acknowledgment. “Though, I do not wish to bargain with her hand.”
Across the table, Otto scoffs. Perhaps, he is unfamiliar with honesty- enough so that he blanches in the presence of sincerity. The years have not been kind to him. Stress has caused him to wither away. Now, he’s not even the shell of the man he once was. In place of loyalty, he is self-seeking. Where he was once obedient, he is now rebellious. Under the guise of being dutiful, he is poisoned by greed. Always wanting more- bigger, better, bolder- he dreams of avarice for his generations to follow. Having taken hold of the reins their king was too frail to grasp, he’s appointed himself holier-than-thou actually is. Perhaps, he’s due for a humbling reminder that he is still a man that serves- not a man who commands men to serve- and who better to deliver it than the Master of Laws?
“You would deny a proposal from a prince of the realm, and deny your child the privilege and security of joining a monarch?” Equal parts anger and offense seep into his tone, drenching each word with resentment and outrage. It is not your father’s intention to slight the Hand, but the spitfire has always been prone to encouraging tempers to flare. Sullen eyes of stormy blue darken with something meant to provoke. Hungry for a fight- or, at least the chance to inflict defeat- he taunts.
“A proposal has not yet been made, Lord Hightower,” With an elegance that Otto is incapable of, your father replies. “And until a legitimate proposal is made, I will not entertain possibilities of figment.” The finality within which he delivers the statement does not go unnoticed by anyone in the room, and for the time being, the topic is put aside.
“Very well,” Otto yields- though, rather dismissively.
“Your Grace, might I suggest urging Aegon to consider any and all proposals for his hand?” Lord Lannister proposes. For a moment, he seems unsure of his own suggestion- brows pinching together as he contemplates a solution to their problem- but then the tension eases, and a look of clarity washes over his features. “If we are truly running out of time, then desperate times call for desperate measures.” He urges, more confident in his speech than he was not a minute prior. “I do not believe that we possess the luxury of scrutiny any longer.”
“How much time do we have, Mellos?” Your father inquires, going straight to the source and cutting out the need for a meddling middleman. Otto’s expression remains stoic, but the master of laws and the hand have been silently butting heads for long enough for your father to recognize even the most subtle shift in his glare. He’s practically seething.
“No more than a few moons, I’m afraid.” Another blow takes the air from the room.
“In seven weeks time, Aegon will find a wife.” Alicent declares, allowing a week for each of her gods to guide her son towards the right match- hoping that it would be enough time to allow him to secure a partnership of his choosing, whilst gifting him what was stolen from her- a choice.
“And what of the others?” Tyland’s brow raises, and Otto’s stare narrows.
“The others?”
“The other princes and the princess,” He elaborates, speaking of the King’s other children that still reside in the castle, and tucked away in Oldtown.“What of them?”
“That is a bridge we shall cross once the waters rise and force us to,” The Hand dismisses, sparring very little thought towards the idea. “Until then, let us not waste our time pondering over it.”
“Of course, Lord Hightower.” Lord Lannister yields.
Silence fills the chamber once more- though, it is somehow less and more daunting than it was before. Something ominous and foreboding lingers.
“If any word of what we have discussed here leaves these chambers…” Otto threatens, but the lords bow their heads respectfully- a silent display of surrender and submission to the man that’s always found a way to manipulate them as if they were puppets brought to life by his touch. “Good.”
The clashing of swords serves as a beacon, coaxing you towards distraction with tiny sparks of light and the promise of forgetting what’s troubling you- even if only briefly. As you inch closer, the wrinkle between your brows softens- and it’s only once the crease has been smoothed over that you realize how truly upset you had been. Perturbance is a fleeting feeling, however. The sun is warm on your skin, and each step closer and closer towards the training yard stains the bottom of your skirts with evidence of your escape. Through rubble and mud, you march on.
A spectacle has taken place near the center of the yard, drawing a small crowd of onlookers from the outskirts surrounding the field where the art of battle is studied and perfected through practice. Wood splinters against the impact of a weapon, sending shards of the Targaryen sigil into the mire- pieces of a whole that the servant’s children will dig through the murk for once the training grounds are unoccupied. The dance continues. Murmurs and gasps of awe are accompanied by polite applause, and when pointed steel meets flesh, all encouragement ceases in favor of silence and concern. Between a break in the crowd, you spot him, instantly. For only a moment his eye meets yours. It’s by chance that he’s able to find your face amongst the growing swarm of strangers- something familiar in a wave of unknown- and the distraction causes him to lose his footing, allowing his opponent a chance to lunge at him. Aemond dodges the attack, moving swiftly before the point of the blade has a chance to draw blood. His jaw hardens. With renewed vigor, he strikes. Back and forth, back and forth, both men dodge and attack one another until the prince’s weapon grazes armor. Stumbling back, the knight nearly topples over, and before he can steady himself back on his feet, Aemond threatens the tip of his sword against his rival’s throat, earning another round of applause from the meddlesome crowd, as he is deemed the winner.
His opponent- a seasoned knight and valiant protector- wipes the sheen from his brow whilst he struggles to catch his breath. In, and out- in, and out, again- defeat fills his lungs in labored breaths, but loss does not linger. The prince’s victory is not his failure, in the same way that his strengths are not the prince’s weaknesses, but a challenge- meant to provoke. There is a role he plays, a title he dons, and a weight- heavier than that of his blade and armor- that will crucify him if he does not honor the oaths he vowed himself to uphold. Copper spills from the split in his lip, and he welcomes the warm metallic into his mouth with the tip of his tongue. It tastes of progress- for his opponent grows stronger, and stronger, each time they draw their blades.
Ser Criston Cole sheathes his weapon, and prepares to praise his opposer- though, he doubts it will mean anything to the boy who’s bested him more times than he can count. Still, he is courteous. He turns to greet the prince, prepared to meet the sharp edges and flared nostrils of a victorious man trying to catch his breath after triumph, but such a sight is nowhere to be found. Where the line of his jaw should be tense, it is laxed. Where a violet fire should blaze, there are only embers of calm. Even the permanent crease between his brows seems smoother, creating the illusion of a boy, not a conqueror. He searches for the cause of the sudden shift in his demeanor. Following the prince’s line of sight, he finds his answer in the form of a maiden.
“My lady, I believe you are not meant to-“ He approaches with warning, but isn’t allowed the chance to finish.
“Perhaps it is time for a brief respite, Ser?” Aemond suggests, but Criston knows that it is not a suggestion- it is a command. He is the prince, after all. However thinly veiled, he understands what’s being asked of him, and he respectfully bows his head prior to fulfilling the unspoken order.
“Of course, my prince,” His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, savoring another tang of metallic punishment before he presses his lips together firmly- smearing the blood that oozes from the small wound unintentionally whilst he turns to bid you a proper farewell. “My lady,”
“Ser Cole,” You return with a polite smile. He mirrors the gesture, though it lacks any sincerity. Sparing Aemond one last glance, he huffs a breath and takes his leave. Gravel crunches under the weight of his boot, and once the sound becomes distant enough- and the mass of supporters has started to disperse- Aemond turns to face you.
“And where are you supposed to be?” He taunts, mischievously inquiring as to why you’ve found yourself in the training yards during his lessons. The corner of his lip threatens to curl into a grin when a beat of silence passes and you roll your eyes at his questioning. It’s hard to believe that the man before you grew from the boy you met so many moons ago. He has grown considerably since the night your paths crossed in the godswood. Older, taller, wiser- leaner, stronger, more striking - and yet somehow, still the same boy that wept beneath the branches of an oak under the cover of nightfall. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword as he sheathes the weapon back into its holster, and you swallow thickly when you realize that you still haven’t answered him.
“Lessons with my septa,” You cast your glance downwards, toeing a piece of gravel to avoid his gaze. Nerves twist in the pit of your stomach when a brief glimpse of a moment you’re trying to forget flashes before your eyes- an accusation, a threat, a scowl, and a suffocating certainty- and you quickly shake it away. “But I can recite our histories in my sleep, and I have little interest in learning to be the perfect wife for some lord, so I’ve decided to come watch your lessons, instead.” Whatever vexation taints your tone disappears completely when you offer a coy simper, “Besides, I find them much more captivating than mine.”
There's a wall of weapons that you find yourself gravitating towards. They glow and gleam in the sunlight. Silver, iron, and bronze twinkle and shine, and you can’t help but reach out. Perhaps, you’re able to find beauty in weaponry because you’ve been sheltered from its devastation. Either way, you reckon that you’d sacrifice your virtue to wield anything on display- even a sad, rotted excuse for a wooden sword.
“Is that so?” He muses, watching as your fingertips ghost over the hilt of a throwing knife. You barely graze the handle, yet you trace the carved pattern delicately. He watches with a hint of amusement. The training yard is no place for a lady. It is where war is perfected- battle practiced and strategized- and though it is oft less tragic than combat against actual enemies, it is not exempt from peril. Axes, blades, and spears sharp enough to cause much more than injury are handled daily, by men and boys with little to no experience. Regardless, the training grounds are a place of savagery, and you look out of place amongst the weapons you admire. Aemond imagines that a blade could never appear deadly in your hands. Not when you handle instruments of torture with such care.
“Perhaps,” You agree- though, it’s only halfheartedly. When you turn to meet Aemond’s stare, you finally feel the warmth of the sun upon your skin. It is inside of you, burning, flushing, and festering whenever you are near him. He is enchanting. With long silver hair, sharp angular features, and such cunning dexterity, he is bewitching. Mayhaps, it is not the sun that fills you with warmth. Mayhaps, it is him. “Or, perhaps it is because I Ionged for your company.” You hope that your exaggeration masks your shyness well enough to go undetected. Just to be sure, you flash a playful grin. “At the very least you tolerate mine- which is far more than I can say for others.”
“I should fetch a maester,” He replies, and the suggestion stills your step. Aemond halts alongside you, and you wonder if he’d been injured during his sparring lessons, or if he felt feverish. Worst of all, your heart plummets with worry when you consider that perhaps his eye is crippling him- as it tends to do every once in a moon- and the thought of pain you’ve never felt but witnessed vicariously through him, sends a dull throb straight through your right eye. With lips parted to question, you turn towards him, only to discover that the smallest semblance of a smirk upon his lips. “You seem to be riddled with delusions.”
When you sigh a breath of relief, he offers a thin smile. His teasing always teeters the line between jesting and sincerity, and even after so many years of companionship, you’re still never truly sure where his intentions lie. Though, he’s never once been vicious. Towards you, he’s never been spiteful nor callous. Perhaps there’s always been a gentleness reserved for your friendship. At times Aemond could oft appear distant, reserved, and withdrawn when he found himself in the company of others. Even when you were children, he never truly appeared interested in anything you had to say, but you’ve come to learn that even though he is distant, reserved, and sometimes withdrawn, his silence is not a flaw. Whilst he is a man of few words who prefers to listen rather than be the subject of attention, time has graced you with the knowledge that he is only distant to those who do not truly know him, only reserved in the company of those he has nothing insightful or genuine to offer, and withdrawn from those whom he does not care to consort with.
By chance, you find yourself in the godswood. It’s reminiscent of a simpler time. Moss is neither soft, nor cold beneath your slipper, and petals of dragon’s breath and poppies remind you of your fleeting youth. It is not the same place it once was, but it is still a safe haven of sorts.
“The only person truly riddled with delusions is my septa,” You huff, agitated and overwhelmed at the mere mention of the woman who’s caused you such distress.
When your back meets the thick trunk of oak, a strained exhale passes your lips.
“I am meant for more than this.” Breath betrays certainty, a somber huff diluting the sentiment of spoken word as the tips of your fingers retreat into the flesh of your palm. A wrinkle deepens across the expanse of your forehead, a crevice he is simultaneously unacquainted and familiar with, and he recognizes sorrow on the face of another- a strange sight when not his own. He needn’t ask what troubles you. Not when he knows you will reveal your despair to him- even if unprompted. He is silent as he listens. “More than a dutiful wife, more than just barring children,” Spite overpowers propriety. Too overwhelmed to hold your tongue and remember your manners, you speak freely- as you always have in Aemond’s company. With a finality that evaded your tone moments prior, you vow, “I am destined for more.”
His muscles begin to ache from overuse. Tendons have stretched past their limit to grant his lithe figure an advantage against an opponent much more experienced than he. The ache doesn’t register as pain. Not even close. If anything, he welcomes the soreness. It’s a reminder that he must become stronger, faster, and greater, than those that dare to brandish their weapons against his own. The strain of his muscles is uncomfortable- though, not entirely unpleasant. He revels in the feeling for as long as he can before he’s forced to confront the fact that he doesn’t know how to help you. As the only woman- beyond those of his blood- who has ever shown him any sort of amiability, he acknowledges your pain- though he can not make sense of it. He supposes if Helaena, his older sister, were condemned to the same punishment of breeding until she met her demise, he too would feel the same livid rage. But, as a prince who upholds duty and honor above all else, he struggles to bash the place in society you’ve fiercely scorned. Knowing not what to say, he remains silent, until you spare him a glance.
“Hm,” He hums thoughtfully, though it lacks the comfort you’re seeking.
“If I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life with only needlework to look forward to in times of solace, I swear I shall perish.” Your stomach churns at the thought of producing a babe. You would rather prick every single one of your fingertips twice over with an embroidery needle than be forced to care for a child you would always resent- because they would forced you into a role you have no desire to fulfill. “Do you think your creature would end my suffering if I asked nicely?” Aemond presses his lips into a thin line whilst his eye meets yours. Vhagar, his greatest victory was a beast- but you’ve never acknowledged her as anything more than a creature. She was more than flames and chaos. She was a heartbeat- a creature who felt grief, joy, and even weariness. She was more than wings, scales, and acidity. She was a living, breathing, soul- and perhaps Aemond’s only other companion. You’ve always held her in high regard. At the mention of her name, his interest piques. “What is it that you tell her?” You inquire playfully, attempting to banish feelings of fear and unease with a jest. “Dra-kar-es?”
He tenses. There’s no hint of a smile upon his lips, no traces of amusement nor humor to be found in the aftermath of your childish gag. Both fermented and vexed at the sound of his mother tongue passing your lips, the strong slant of his jaw hardens as his brow drops into something much more irate- something much more perturbed- and any semblance of joy quickly fades once you realize that he does not find humor behind your words, but a taunt.
“You would rather die than become a man’s wife?” The power of the dragon is not one that he underestimates. He would be a fool to, and he is not a fool. Still, he can’t comprehend what would drive you to such madness. Suggesting that the flames of his dragon would end a suffering you’ve not yet felt is cruel. To bargain with your life over the mere thought of what awaits you on the other side of marriage is lunacy. Try as he might, he can’t make sense of your sudden hysteria, and with a sudden tightness in his throat, he awaits an explanation.
You ponder his remark, silently. He does not understand. If he thinks you spoiled or manic, he does not insult you by sharing his thoughts aloud. Instead, he waits for you to make sense of the absurdities you speak of- though, you struggle to find the right words to make him aware of your agony. The lack of an answer causes him to grow restless, and he parts his lips to speak, but you’re the first to find your voice.
“I imagine it would feel like dying, each day I’m forced to submit to a man who has not earned my love- a man who does not see me as an equal, but as a womb for his future sons,” It is much too crass of a reply to be given to a prince, but Aemond has been a companion for so long that you oft forget that he is of royal decent. Through the brashness of your words, his gaze softens. “And if I am to fail…” Your lip trembles, failing to reveal the consequences of actions that have not yet been attempted, and you swallow the rest of your fears down with the growing lump in your throat. “Yes, I would rather die than become the wife of someone chosen for me.”
He says nothing. He does not know what to say. If there are words to quell the unease of your future, they escape him. So, he stays silent. Offering nothing more than a blank stare as you press your lips together tightly. His feet feel heavy- like he has sprouted roots from his toes and embedded himself in the soil below- and when he tries to force his limbs to move, to take a step closer towards you, he is frozen in place. With a quiet sigh, you bring the back of your hand to your eyes, wiping away the tears that you won’t allow yourself to shed, and take a breath. This time, when you meet Aemond’s eye, you attempt to offer him a smile. It’s then, that you notice the red that stains his skin.
“You’re bleeding,” Right below his cheekbone, on his left side, there’s a small scratch. The wound- if it can even be called such a thing compared to the more prominent, scarred gash on his right side- has already started to coagulate. It’s truly no deeper than the cuts and scrapes you used to get whilst playing in the gardens as a child, but the sight of blood upon the face of someone you care deeply about is still alarming, no matter how small. He has already suffered so much- lost, even more. He does not deserve to feel pain, no matter how slight. If you could somehow take it all away, you would.
Hesitantly, you steal a quick glance behind you before taking a few steps forward- until the tips of your slippers touch the tips of his boots. His eye widens slightly as you hold up a hand, and when he makes no effort to evade your inevitable touch, you rest your palm against the sharp edge of his jaw. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t order you away. Gently, you trace the shallow cut with the tip of your thumb, and Aemond can’t remember the last time that someone treated him with such care- the last time someone handled him with such delicacy. The urge to lean into your touch is overwhelming. To seek the closest thing to comfort, to peace, he’s ever known is like being suaded by temptation. He nearly chases the feeling until the ruffling of leaves above- mistaken for footsteps of potential onlookers in search of gossip to destroy both your reputation, and his- causes him to release a heavy exhale through his nose, and pull away.
“It will heal.” He assures you, though the reminder brings little comfort. If the gods will not end his suffering, you will try your very best to.
In the silence that follows, serenity remains. There should be something daunting about the nothingness that hangs in the air. Doubt should fester, and insecurity should loom, but only peace is present in Aemond’s company. He is the thunder and lightning of a storm, and the dew left behind afterward. He is a wave crashing ashore, and the ripples left behind in its wake. He is the chaos, but with you, he is the calm. Bathed in soft, orange rays of the setting sun he is still the glimpse of silver from your childhood- though, now he is much more than a stranger. He is everything. To you, he is everything. You realize, then, that you would have him in any way- violent hurricane or dew, waves or ripples- as long as he could always be a part of your life, a part of you, you would have him.
“Aemond, I-“ You can’t fathom the words. They’re stuck in your throat and they’re sickeningly sweet with an intimacy that’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Your pulse quickens, beating faster and faster as if to catapult the sentiment from the cavern in your chest to your lips, but to no avail does your voice find you.
Aemond thinks you look terrified- with your mouth hung open, your eyes wide and brows pulled together- he’s concerned for you. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but you appear to be unwell. Sickly doesn’t suit you, and he wonders if you’ve overexerted yourself, somehow. Perhaps your corset is too tight, or perhaps you’ve had too much sun. Regardless, he notices a thin sheen of perspiration glimmering across your forehead and prepares to ask if you’re well, but his inquiry remains unspoken- along with the affection you couldn’t will yourself to express.
“Prince Aemond,” The sound of your father’s voice fills the garden with an authority that diminishes its tranquility- though it doesn’t present any harm or danger. Knowing that you’ve been caught in a rather compromising position, you immediately take a step back from Aemond- though the distance feels further than miles. Your father presses his lips into a thin line that reveals neither displeasure nor ridicule. Refusing shame and embarrassment, you bow your head low in humiliation- instead- and whilst you take the brunt of chagrin, Aemond remains unfazed.
“Lord Piper,” The prince returns, easily enough to convey nonchalance, but his stomach twists with uncertainty that his tongue does not divulge. All at once he’s burdened with realization. He’s forgotten duty and honor in favor of temptation. For a few uninterrupted moments of your company, he has dismissed propriety. It is equivalent to sin, to be caught alone with an unwed maiden, but you have been an acquaintance longer than you’ve been a maiden- or so it seems. He oft forgets that he is no longer a child, and neither are you. Guilt nearly swallows him whole, but his eye does not show remorse nor does his throat bob with repentance. He will suffer penance for his wrongdoings, but you should not be forced to answer for his crimes. A shrill voice silences the declaration that sits atop the tip of his tongue.
“Wretched child!” The round face of your septa blotches red with anger. Whilst you’re no stranger to her temper, her chastisement feels much crueler when it’s shared with company- opposed to in private. “I told you she’s rotten.” The old woman berates, directing the insult towards your father, who towers over her. She’s a petite woman, but her fury is equivalent to that of a large man- and nearly as intimidating. Her frown accentuates the deep lines around her mouth-making her appear years older than she actually is- and you wonder if she’s ever smiled, or if she was born with a frown. You can’t imagine that a smile on her face would be all that inviting, and the thought alone is one you can’t fathom. With a heaving chest, she demands an explanation from your father, “What girl leaves her lessons to sneak away with-“
“Forgive me, my prince.” Your father ignores the woman glaring daggers into the side of his head- rather, the side of his jaw, since her gaze only reaches so high- and addresses the man beside you. Aemond isn’t sure why he’s the one asking for forgiveness. He is not the one who has insulted you. When he looks at your septa, she turns away with a huff, refusing to meet his stare. He almost wishes that she would have finished her thought so that he had reason to reprimand her for such vile insults. Alas, his nostrils flare. “Might I have a word with my daughter?”
“Of course,” The line of his jaw is sharp whilst he grants permission. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders what it might feel like to deny what is asked of him, but he refrains from flexing such power. Instead, he turns to you, only meeting your eye for a second before he bows his head politely.“My lady,”
“My prince,” You return the gesture, gripping the skirts of your gown between your fingertips and dropping down into a curtsy. It’s graceful, but the mire that stains the bottom of your dress reminds him of a time when it was not. With a final nod, he bids you farewell, and your chest aches with longing as you watch him leave. Alone, except for the presence of your father and septa, you feel like he’s taken a part of you with his departure. It’s an odd feeling, one that can not be explained. Yet, it lingers.
You miss the silent exchange between your septa and father, but you hear the scoff that leaves the unpleasant woman’s lips, and the sound of her angry footsteps as they depart. In her wake, she leaves a trail of crushed flowers. You look at the crumpled petals and leaves with apprehension- knowing what it feels like to be trampled over by such a neglectful woman- and wish to nurture them back to health. Perhaps, you’ve always felt inclined to heal what is thought to be broken.
Time passes. Following your father’s direction as he leads you through the castle grounds and down river row until you reach the river gate. Away from your septa, away from the small council, your father trades the overbearing horde for the gentle rippling of water as it trickles into the rush. Sailcloth ruffles in the distance, carrying ships to and from shore. Even with the shouting of merchants, ship captains, and the fish market vendors, it’s considerably more tranquil than the stuffy air of the palace.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Your father prompts, and you offer a tight-lipped smile that does little to conceal what you’re truly feeling inside. “What troubles you, darling?”
“It is my septa,” A heavy sigh follows the confession. Revealing your worries frees a weight that’s settled in your chest. For the first time since the one-sided dispute, you can breathe. Surrendering your banners, you’ve laid your sword at your father’s feet, ready to embrace whatever awaits on the other side of attack- knowing that it will bring you the peace of mind you seek. “Today’s lesson consisted of reminders of duty, and the prospect of shame if I do not bear my husband’s heir within the first year of our marriage.” Too overwhelmed by the memory you wish to forget, you don’t notice your father tense beside you. “She suggests that if such a thing were to happen, then I am likely barren- and it was then that I decided that I would much rather watch the swordsmen than be ridiculed for an act I have neither attempted nor committed.”
Much to his dread, he understands why you’ve fled. He can not condemn you when he shares the same perspective. As much as it pains him to admit, the day he has long feared has finally arrived. His only daughter- once small and delicate- has become a woman grown. Forced to embrace a truth he wishes to deny, he dons a grim look of reluctance. He thinks about what he desperately wants to convey- pondering words of sentiment and merit, whilst mulling over the importance of fantasy and dreams- and struggles to exude the guidance he had hoped to. In every wrinkle, sunspot, and sunken crevice of his skin, he wishes to express his desire for you to embrace your youth. He wishes to preach about the importance of education and adventure, and happiness whenever and however you see fit, but nothing fills the silence that has settled during the lull in conversation- except for the sounds of water. A butchered version of all he wishes to say remains lodged in his throat. Nearly suffocating from the words he can not find the voice to amplify, his vision starts to blur.
“I am a woman, yes, but that does not condemn me to marriage or motherhood.” Unaware of the inner turmoil your father is silently suffering beside you, you continue to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to the only man you know will truly understand.
“At least, it shouldn’t.” With a dejected breath, you huff. “I know that when the time comes I will have to make peace with the fact that I will never be more than some man’s property.” For a moment, you hold your head up higher- seemingly accepting the role you’re being forced into- and for just a second, your father catches a glimpse of your mother in the elegance you exude. “I hold no figment of love, no hope nor imagination for such a silly thing, but until I am sworn to wed, I would like to bask in my freedoms whilst I still can.” The confession pains him, especially when he wishes nothing more for you than to experience true happiness and love- if that is something you wish to seek.
Propriety, duty, and honor be damned.
“Then bask away,” He urges with a severity you do not understand as he reaches for your hand and squeezes it tightly- fearful of letting you slip away. “And do not let anyone attempt to darken your light.”
You would not heed his warning until it was too late.
a/n: massive thanks to both @em-writes-stuff-sometimes and @becauseicantdecide for easing my doubts about posting this, and for reassuring me that it wasn't absolute rubbish
tagging a few writers I admire: @mypoisonedvine @aemonds-sapphire @prince-aemond-targaryen @aemonds-war-crime @targbarbie @winterstellars @sapphire-writes @oneeyedvisenya @aemonds-fire @aemxnd @princeaemonds @ewanmitchellcrumbs
series taglist: @just-emmaaaa
Send me some feedback!
buy me a ko-fi!
#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen x you#hotd#hotd imagine#hotd smut#house of the dragon#house of the dragon imagine#house of the dragon smut#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon fanfiction#ewan mitchell#ewan mitchell x reader#ewan mitchell imagine#delicate edges
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The undertow had pulled Gali far out into the ocean, but she didn't move a muscle. The water is home, and she felt security in communion with it. Even in this unfamiliar ocean past Ko-Wahi, she could surrender and let the will of the waves carry her where they would.
Gali gazed at the sky and savored the comforting pressure from underneath her arms, bobbing her up and down gently as she drifted out to sea. The ocean is endlessly generous with her. Even when the currents bend to her will, it seemed to Gali that the ocean were only granting her permission to guide it.
A small whirlpool formed around her and she dipped beneath the waves. As she sank, she let her eyes drift shut and she began breathing in slow, deep lungfuls of ocean water. Coolness washed through her organs, invigorating, purifying. Her consideration drifted here and there through the labyrinth of her mind as she was pulled toward the ocean floor.
She felt her feet touch solid ground and she opened her eyes. Before her, enormous arches and beams jutted out of the ocean floor like the bones of some long-forgotten creature. The architecture was magnificent, but it was unlike anything she had seen on the island of Mata-Nui.
Beyond the outer wall of beams, central to what may have been a temple stood a colossal statue of a hunched figure. It reminded Gali of a Toa, but different; more raw and archaic. One of its long, curved arms reached down, knuckles resting on the ground, while the other held a square hammer skyward. Despite it's humped back, and ape-like form, the figure held its head high and proud. It's mask was oblong and reptilian, the eyes behind it, primal yet serene.
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fic recs!!
i woke up to being on a couple of fic rec lists and really appreciated it, so i wanted to capitalize on the nice energy and make a list of some of my own favs that i've read recently that i didn't necessarily see on the other lists :D check these out because they have some of the best prose/plots/characterization that i've read in the fandom :] 💜
one soft infested summer (M, 18k+, 3/7 ongoing) by @wheelersboy - this one is perfect for all the highler fans out there! it's got stoner byler of course, a music festival, lots out camping, and some really amazing writing! i started it just for the fun stoner vibes because Why Not, but i'm staying for the beautiful writing and the really complex and delicate relationship mike and will have in this one
Light Sleepers (T, 15k+, 2/6 ongoing) by @helioleti - WillEl-centric fic set during the time gap between the end of s3 and the beginning of s4 that explores their dynamic and their respective problems with mike, all while trying to cope with moving across the country from everything they know. each chapter is meant to reflect a certain stage of grief, which fits so well with all the complicated emotions everyone is going through!
drank my poison all alone (T, 4k, one-shot) by silverluminoqity - mike gets vecna'd and has to face his past self who's ashamed of who he's grown up to be, and my dudes the writing goes SO HARD. by far one of the best mike gets vecna'd fics i've read with such a good take on his character
star eater (T, >1k, one-shot) by @lowlightt - another fic where the writing does not play. honestly if you have a few minutes, READ THIS FIC. it's mostly just a confrontation between will and vecna, but it's so so powerful and impactful. and again, i cannot state it enough: the writing is AMAZING
tell me again (you said yes) (M, 32k, 3/3 complete) by @willow-lark - hey remember when cleradin was like a Thing for a brief second a few months ago? well if you miss those vibes, or if you just like great writing and some of the best weaving of canon into a fantasy au i've ever read, please look no further than this fic (and it's first part, fireball him! (cast protection)). i love this one dearly and enjoyed the wonderful ways Lark wove canon (specifically s1) into such a different setting, plus it was nice to see many of the other characters play a role in the events. beautiful, astounding, heart-wrenching - and did i mention there's an elopement 👀
In Undertow (M, 17k+, 3/6 on-going) by @souverian-are-we - this and one soft infested summer have become my summer byler reads~ when i say i love this fic, i mean you will have to pry it from my cold, dead hands 🥰 we've got estranged byler, jancy engagement with some stoncy going on in the background, and most of the characters still reeling from the consequences of their final battle with the upside down. it's all set at a lake house, which provides some breathtaking/atmospheric writing that this author uses to their advantage. it has some of my favorite scenes i've ever read in fic too, ones that have literally taken my breath away
california show your teeth (T, 77k+, 10/19 on-going) by @fireflywitch - what if the Byers and Hopper families were from Lenora and moved to Hawkins? this fic takes this one simple premise and turns it into one of my favorite fics i've ever had the pleasure of following along with. it essentially functions as a retelling of s1 and s2, gives almost every main character that's been featured in the show thus far a lot of time and space for their own plots, all while culminating into one larger story underneath. i don't think i've read a fic quite like this one in terms of its scope, plotting, and characterization, because there are a lot of moving parts, but this author goes above and beyond. i cannot recommend it enough
all i know is pouring rain (and everything has changed) (T, 3k, one-shot) by @willelfanpage - i think i read this one at the beginning of my workday while i was running some report on my computer and had to go about the rest of my day as if everything was fine ahah :'D seriously though, it's 3k words that pack an emotional punch all while examining will's relationship to rain. the writing is just gorgeous, and it's a character study that i haven't really seen done before, which was quite enjoyable~
Chasing Heartlines by (T, 7k+, 1/2 on-going) @cherryisgone - if you liked Tip-Toeing on Lilypads then may i direct you to its sequel, which features so much pining mike that he might as well be a tree? again, if you like cleradin/fantasy aus, then Cherry my beloved has you covered 💜 it fits so neatly with Lilypads and provides some fun contrast between will and mike~
Touch Me Like You Know Me (M, 15k, 4/4 complete) by @starsarefire824 - this exists in the rare pantheon of fics that actually made me cry. imagine an estranged byler reunion with all the emotions turned up to an eleven, and lots of lingering on lost time and how life sometimes takes us places we never thought we'd go. it's absolutely beautiful and is a classic to me :]
come back to me and forgive everything (T, 78k, 18/18 complete) by @howtobecomeadragon - i saw a lot about this one when it was on-going but am only just now getting around to reading it, and all i can say is why did it take me so long to get to it :') this author does such a good job of writing will and mike's relationship with a lot of nuance and complexity while still managing to make them feel like the teenagers they are. basically, will has to spend every july at lonnie's house in indianapolis, and for this summer in particular, the event is a lot more emotionally impactful for both mike and will. there's lots of emotional depth, the complexities of coming out and/or realizing you're queer, and, at the heart of it, how two friends try to mend things between each other. it's so soft and sweet
that's all i've got for now!! i'm quickly running out of time on my lunch break :'D also haven't been writing as much, but it's been fun to read more and relax a bit. hope you guys enjoy these because they're genuinely some of the best stuff i've had the pleasure to read in a while 💜💜💜
#fic recs#actually that last paragraph is a threat everyone had better read these now or i'll. blow up tumblr#byler#(< intended audience)#stranger things fic
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Nintendo just released the patch notes for Version 2.0: Chill Season 2022! There is a lot of stuff in there, including a Tenta Missiles nerf, so here is the link in case you’d like to read them yourself. If not, then allow me to break down what I think are the most significant changes:
The only direct changes to main weapons are that Tri-Stringer and Splatana Wiper now paint better.
Angle Shooter’s velocity was increased by 20%, and flies further before disappearing.
Zipcaster’s duration drain while using your main weapon was was reduced by two thirds. Go buck wild, folks.
Reefslider and Ink Vac’s explosion had their damage increased to 220 meaning they’ll now consistently splat through Squid Roll armor when hitting the central hitbox.
The one y’all have been waiting for, folks, Tenta Missiles can now not be charged again until all the missiles from the previous use have landed. This doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s going to reduce missiles spam by like, a lot. I suspect we’ll see like, average missile output reduce by at least a third.
Undertow Spillway’s turf wars layout will now include a ramp into the base, opening up more of the stage for both teams.
Moving onto Salmon Run, Big Shots now move 30% slower, reducing the frequency of their attacks and making them vulnerable for longer as they return to the sea to reload.
Killer Wail 5.1 tracks better, Triple Inkstrike landing markers now trigger immediately upon hitting a salmonid, and both have had their damage increased by 25%.
Landing after using the inkjet and using Booyah Bomb now removes you as a valid target for Salmonid, meaning they won’t be waiting underneath you as you land for an easy splat.
Boss Salmonids have now been capped to a maximum of 15 on the stage at once to avoid the slowdown that occurs when too many of them are on stage at once. This won’t affect most players in any meaningful way.
A big change for Tri-Color turf wars: Regardless of the half-time standings, all teams now have a chance to attack or defend. Clout calculation for tri-color has also been changed.
If you win a x10, x100, or a x333 battle, your team’s photo will now show up on the pledge box, just like in Splatoon 2.
You can enter photo mode in recon mode, even when in recon mode with other players.
This is just a taste of all the stuff in the patch notes. Overall, I think this is a very good patch, if a bit more cautious than I’d like. There’s some stuff I definitively feel like should have received changes. Neither Crab Tank nor Splash-o-matic received any changes, despite their dominating presence in competitive play. On the other side of the coin, Toxic Mist, Point Sensor and the Brellas are glossed over, despite definitively needing a bit of a boost. That said, I am happy with this patch, and am looking forward to seeing how these changes and the new weapons shake up the meta going forward.
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Athazagoraphobia - Chapter 1
Athazagoraphobia: The fear of forgetting, and being forgotten.
Pairing: Yandere Male Merman OC x Reader
Warnings (for the entire story): Yandere, Horror, Graphic Discriptions of Injury and Death, The Ocean, Body Horror, NonCon Touching, Dubcon, Female Reader, Extreme Dead Dove Do Not Eat
Index
Author's Note: This was supposed to be posted in May. 😐
The evening sky reflected against the water, causing a wide orange streak that broke up the monotony of the blue. The waves were calmly brushing up and down against the shore, with their gentle lapping being the only thing to disturb the silence of the day’s end.
It was repulsive.
Yes, you were objectively able to see how one could find this scene beautiful, peaceful even. But for you, staring out into that endless horizon only turned your stomach. You sighed and looked to the figure sitting next to you.
“We should get going.” You told her.
“Just one more minute,” she said. “This is my favorite part.”
It was the worst part. The two of you watched in silence as the sun dipped below the horizon, the last rays of light disappearing into the murky depths of the water. Sammie hummed in satisfaction while you bit back a choke. As much as you loved her, you could never understand how she could see that dark, barren abyss and find it anything other than terrifying.
“Alright,” she said, standing up and stretching out her back, “Let’s head back. I have an early day tomorrow.”
In all fairness, you hadn’t always hated the sea. You had first come to this town with your mother and her boyfriend as a very small child and had never seen anything like it. The hot, golden sand against the cool, blue water had been such a striking contrast, and you were thrilled when they gave you permission to go swimming.
You really hadn’t gone that far out to sea. There were plenty of kids much farther out than you were. So why you were the one to get dragged under the water, you’ll never know. An undertow, they called it. A currant that brought you out much farther than you would have ever wanted to go. You still remember how small the shore looked from such a distance, and the frantic cries for help from the people watching helplessly. How roughly the lifeguard had to hold onto you to drag you back to land. The deep scratches on both of your legs, they said from rubbing across the harsh sand, although his were bad enough to require stitches. It was absolutely traumatizing, and you hadn’t touched the water since.
You were currently trying to work through this fear, both through therapy and Sammie’s guidance. But it was easier said than done. Especially when it seemed like the ocean hated you just as much. You didn’t consider yourself a superstitious person, but you also couldn’t deny a bad omen when you saw it.
For one, you always felt like you were being watched. Scrutinized. It was always worse when your back was turned away from the water, too, as though there was someone staring a hole into you. It would usually start a few minutes after you arrived at the beach, but you were never able to acclimate to the chills that ran down your spine once you noticed it. Or the dead, mutilated fish that would wash up onto the shore every time you came here. They would be drawn, from head to tail, in one smooth, deep red line that often allowed their innards to spill out. No matter which beach you went to, one would appear, without fail.
Then there was the sound. No one else heard it except for you. You had tried so hard to convince yourself that you were just hearing things, even going to a doctor to get your ears checked. This low, otherworldly humming sound, that you could only just pick out from underneath the sounds of the waves crashing. It only began in the last year, and it was a sure sign that you were losing your mind. This was when Sammie suggested a bit of exposure therapy. Unable to refuse her anything, you agreed to give it a try.
Sammie laughed as both of you got into your car. “I’m going to sleep so good tonight!”
---
“Mom, we're going to be late!”
No response. You sighed, hoping that this wouldn’t turn into a fight. She knew how important this was to you. It was Sammie’s engagement party, and while the implications of what it meant for you may have caused your heart to clench, you still wouldn’t miss it for the world.
You approached her door, knocking on it harder than usual as you called out for her again. When you were met with silence again, you opened her door.
Empty! A note on her bed occupied the space she should’ve been in. Angrily, you picked it up, although you knew what it was going to say.
'[Y/N],
Mike wanted me to visit him this weekend! I’ll be back on Monday. Enjoy the house alone!
Love you – Mom'
You scoffed. Mike was your mother’s on again off again boyfriend since you were a child. He was a good, loyal, caring man – when he felt like being one. It wasn’t uncommon for him to disappear for a while, only to return and expect your mother to run back into his arms as though nothing had changed. You had dried enough of her tears throughout the course of your childhood to ever forgive him for toying with her, and you had dried enough of your own tears to ever forgive her for prioritizing such a selfish person over the child who needed her.
You rolled your eyes and left without her. One good thing, you mused, to ever come out of this dysfunctional relationship: you had sworn to yourself to never be so weak and codependent on a man, no matter what.
---
You pulled up to the docks as the sun began to set. The engagement party was on a beautiful yacht that Jonah’s family had rented for the occasion. He and Sammie were at the entrance, welcoming all the guests as they arrived. You directed your focus on what a good-looking couple they made, and how pretty everyone looked, instead of thinking about the next few hours that you’ll spend out in the water.
“[Y/N]! You look so good!” Sammie greeted you when you walked up to her. “Where’s your mom?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, she couldn’t make it tonight,” you lied. “She had to work late.”
“That’s okay! We’ll save some food for her.” She took your hand gently. “C’mon, let’s go!”
The three of you boarded the ship as you purposefully ignored the butchered fish floating in the water underneath you.
#yandere x reader#yandere x darling#tw yandere#yandere fiction#yandere writing#merman oc x reader#merman x reader#yandere merman#terato x reader#yandere stories#yandere male#yandere#athazagoraphobia
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my dream remake of moray towers would probably look something like this. out of all the singleplayer elements, splatoon 3's soaker blocks fit this stage the best imo. imagine all the funny as hell plays you could make by shrinking soaker blocks underneath your enemies making them fall to their doom
the spawn areas have one strip removed, and the topmost remaining strip is now flattened and only reachable by the defending team, serving as a better place to defend from as it now overlooks areas that are actually more relevant to the match—no more "why would you ever go here" zone.
this funky grate bridge in mid is a silly addition that i'd love to see! it helps make the lower level feel less like an open-air eliter deathtrap, while also providing new options to pressure opposing backliners on the higher level as you can reach them with stuff like bombs or reefsliders from the front. or some inkbrush that's gonna run right at you in zigzags as you miss all your shots
as for the rainmaker layout, this is what i'd like to see. (soaker blocks might be positioned differently, i just didn't feel like doing that.) the rainmaker starts on top of the grate bridge, making the right checkpoint look deceptively close—look, it's right there, right in front of you! (you're gonna get killed over and over trying to get there unless they're wiped and they'll easily get back control of the rainmaker)
on the other hand, the left checkpoint is a lot more like the left one on undertow, being farther away for both teams. this one is likely the better option since it's much farther away from the enemy spawn, which makes it all the more annoying when your teammates insist on going for the checkpoint that looks so so so close despite being easier to defend against, and you're over on the left spamming "this way" waiting to use the soaker block like an elevator for the rainmaker
#also i just wanna point out that this was the perfect opportunity to use my lowpoly rainmaker & rm goal models LMAO#i was initially just gonna use plain truncated cones and then i realised “wait a minute i have something much better”#and then i realised i could just use the lowpoly rm itself too#splatoon#splatoon 3#moray towers#concept
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I can't believe I used to hate this chapter... I'M SO EXCITED TO SHARE IT!!! I hope y'all love it!
Chapter 10/16, preview below ⬇️ (yes, the chapter count went up!)
FIC WARNINGS: (take effect in ch 11) Original Character Death, Missing Child, Child Death, Drowning (heed all tags on ao3)
FIC SUMMARY: Julie and Reggie form a deep friendship after meeting through their brothers (“We’re FRIENDS! Stop making it weird!”). He and his friends (and bandmates) help bring her out of the fog of grief, reconnecting her with the music that she’d thought she’d lost with her mother. Over the course of a summer, the tables turn and Julie finds herself showing up for Reggie in ways that they could have never expected.
CHAPTER RELATIONSHIPS: Julie & Luke & Reggie & Alex & Bobby & Flynn, Julie & Flynn, Julie & Reggie, pre-Alex/Willie
CHAPTER OPENING SCENES:
After several very long, very extensive conversations, the boys decide to ask Ray if he would be willing to be their collective stand-in guardian until they were all of age and he agreed, with several conditions (including but not limited to Julie continuing to prioritize school and the boys maintaining their own moderate to good standings so that they could graduate). He also offered to reach out to some of Rose’s old contacts to hunt down a trusted lawyer and get a feel for how they felt about Andi and her label. Everything was falling into place.
After they agree to having Andi represent them, including Flynn as an integral part of their team, they’re planning for another showcase. And, it’s at the Orpheum.
Luke is diving deep into perfecting songs and set lists to keep himself distracted from how huge this is. Flynn expands their social media presence, their personal and the official band accounts. They’re recording and sharing behind the scenes content and sneak peak snippets of what they’re working on as well as promoting the upcoming show directly. Sunset Curve’s pre-existing fans overwhelmingly throw their support behind Julie and the Phantoms and the uploads of their two previous performances are doing incredibly well on YouTube. Julie, Reggie, Alex, and Bobby roll as best they can with everything the other two throw at them.
Before they know it, it’s time to load up and head over to the Orpheum. Up until now, their performances have all felt relatively low stakes and while they’re all trying to treat it just like any other gig, the tell-tale signs of their nerves are peeking through. Once they’ve made it through sound check, they wind up pacing, bouncing, and fidgeting in the green room and after only a few moments in their presence, Flynn snaps.
“Y’all need to chill the fuck out. You’re making ME nervous!”
Julie glares at them and they put their hands up in defense.
“You know I’m right. Go for a walk. Get some air! Something.”
Julie huffs out a breath but complies, gathering the guys and taking them outside for a breather.
The fresh air and slight energy release helps and they manage to make it to the stage no worse for wear to put on a show they’ve come to expect from themselves.
The crowd absolutely loves them and Julie finishes the final notes of their final song with her arm raised in triumph and tears running down her face. The boys exchange concerned looks as they join her to bow, signaling the end of the set. She manages to get offstage before breaking down completely and the boys are right behind her to catch her before she collapses onto the floor. They look at one another over her head as they wrap her up into a group hug, uttering comforting phrases as they hold her.
Ray comes running backstage, “what happened? What’s wrong? Mija, are you ok?”
The boys back away, letting Ray see his daughter but they don’t stray too far. Reggie keeps his arms wrapped around her. She starts gulping for air through her sobbing. Ray rushes the rest of the way up to them and lowers himself to look her in the eyes. Or the close approximation of it, if they’d been open.
“Julie, mija, can you hear me?” Ray asks her gently.
She nods.
He looks up at Reggie who nods at him and starts modeling deep breathing for her.
“Follow Reggie’s breaths,” Ray tells her and guides her through them verbally.
The first few are shaky but it doesn’t take long until her breathing is synced with Reggie’s.
“Can we take you to sit down?” Ray asks.
She clutches at Reggie’s shirt desperately.
“I won’t let you go,” Reggie whispers to her. “Promise.”
She nods then. The boys and Ray quickly glance around the space to see where they can take her. They’ve barely made it off the stage and are still in the wings. The boys are still hovering, concerned, but they know better than to get in anyone’s way and aren’t willing to leave Julie if they don’t have to.
“There!” Luke points to a set of speaker cases.
Ray and Reggie slowly direct Julie toward them and Reggie guides her so that she’s sitting beside him on the largest one. Flynn, who had joined them at some point, hands Julie a bottle of water and backs up to join the boys. She struggles to open it, holding it out silently and Reggie grabs it to twist off the lid and hand it back to her, his arms still wrapped around her as promised. She manages to take a few sips and holds it out again. This time Ray takes it and grabs the lid from Reggie, resealing it and setting it down as he crouches to look at her.
“Mija, what happened?”
“She should be here,” Julie sobs and Reggie tightens his arms around her.
Ray wraps both of them in a hug of his own. “You’re right, she should,” he agrees. “She’d be so, so proud of you. I’m so proud of you.”
Reggie’s eyes are now filled with tears and he sniffles.
“Well great, now you’ve got me,” Alex chastises him wetly, eliciting a chuckle from Reggie, Ray, and Julie. She lifts her head to look at the others and waves them over. They don’t think twice and swoop in to wrap the trio into a massive group hug. It’s a little awkward, navigating around all of the equipment, but it’s perfect for right now.
“I love you guys,” Julie whispers.
Everyone who can reach places a kiss on her head. “We love you too,” they chorus.
Continue reading on ao3
#nobodys fics#underneath the undertow#i finally get to tag ->#willex wednesday#jatp#julie and the phantoms#julie molina#flynn taylor#luke patterson#alex mercer#reggie peters#bobby shaw#willie nolastname#willie jatp
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In the Undertow (A Tom Holland Fanfiction)
Words: 1.5K
Summary: Basically, the Walmart edition of The Little Mermaid, but with the reader and Tom Holland. I don’t think this is my best writing, but if you guys enjoy, then I’ll make it a series.
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Growing up under your mother’s strict thumb wasn’t easy. The more she would push down, the more you rebelled. There were many rules you have broken, however, you never dared to break her number one rule: do not go to shore. She had warned you of the danger above. Humans. Of course, you have learned about how they slaughtered merpeople for their enchanting scales in school, but that was decades ago. Today was another day for your usual rule breaking. You were exploring the deep sea with your friend Peter when you had your interaction with the “dangers.”
“Y/N, your mom said to not go to this area of the ocean. There’s supposed to be a strong undertow here today,” Peter exclaimed.
“All the more reason to explore.” You gave him a smirk and kept swimming. “Knowing her she just said that to keep me from finding something here.” You heard your friend mumble underneath his breath, but you didn’t care. “Wow, Peter, look at this coral!”
The coral was in different colors that you’ve never seen before. It shimmered in the sunlight like glitter. Growing in the coral was the most beautiful flower. None like you've ever seen before. You imagined the nectar would taste amazing as it slid down your throat. It looked almost magical. Entranced by its beauty, you picked the glimmering plant.
“Wow,” you whispered, staring at it in all its glory.
“Y/N! Watch out!” Peter called out but too late. Turns out your mother did not lie about the undertow.
On the beach, four boys would be found surfing the waves. It was getting stormy out, but the eldest insisted on still going. The waves were great but starting to look a little terrifying.
“Hey, Tom, I think it’s time to go back in. The waves are getting a bit too big,” Sam spoke to his older brother.
“I agree,” said Sam’s twin, Harry. Tom scoffed at his little brothers.
“Alright, let me just ride one more wave.” He gave a look at the biggest wave yet, eager to ride the monster.
“Are you insane, mate? That will squash you like a bug,” his best mate, Harrison, piped up.
“I’m an expert, remember?” Tom recalled the Vogue magazine, in which they got a picture of him surfing and called him “expert surfer of the year.” Without hesitation, he prepared to ride the 25 foot wave.
“He’s going to kill himself,” Sam whispered to his twin, who nodded in agreement.
Tom slowly maintained his balance. At first, it was fun. He glided along it with ease. He felt the adrenaline pump through his veins. The salty water sprayed into his brown hair. He even managed to do a tail slide. Then, something caught his eye. A bright shimmering purple thing swimming in the water.
“What is that?” he asked himself. This caused him to lose his focus. Tom felt the board underneath him shake as he was starting to lose his balance. Eventually, his surfboard tossed him right in the salty sea. He was able to swim back to the surface, but only for a moment because the 25-foot-tall wave crashed right on top of him.
You managed to get yourself out of the undertow, but you were already a long way from home. The flower that you found was somehow unharmed. You put it in your bag for a snack for later. That’s when you noticed the water wasn’t nearly as deep as it typically is. You looked around and saw interesting shells you’ve never seen in person before. Shells you were taught in school to avoid. Shells that meant you needed to swim back the way you came from. Shells that meant you were close to shore. You know you should turn around and go find Peter, but you don’t. You have never seen the blue sky or smelled the fresh air. You were curious.
The breeze immediately hits your face as you emerge from the water. You tried taking a big sniff, but all you could smell was the sea. You look up, hoping to see the beautiful blue sky, but it wasn’t blue. There were gloomy dark gray fluff balls that appeared to be floating, you would later find out that these cotton balls were called clouds. The life above was nothing like you would have imagined, which disappointed you a bit. Just as you were about to head home, you heard voices. You go closer to investigate, but make sure you go unseen. You hide behind a tall, brown rock.
These must be humans.
You have never seen humans before, but wow, they seemed attractive, especially the one who insisted on surfing one last wave. Whatever that means. You watched the boy climb up on his board and ride along the wave. You were fascinated. How was he able to stand up despite the unstable surfboard? You had to get closer. You wanted to see this man’s face.
Closer you got, indeed. He was even magnificent that you could ever dream of. His brown, wet curls laid perfectly on his head. His eyes glisten as the ocean does when sunlight hits it. He had the most daring, yet charming smile on his face. Unfortunately, you had gotten too close. He caught a glimpse of your tail, causing him to fall off his board.
He might just want to skin those scales right off of your tail.
You quickly push that thought out of your mind for how can a human with a smile like his be harmful? He is nowhere to be found. Is he with his friends? No. He’s in trouble. You weren’t sure how you knew; you just did. You went back underwater to search for the mysterious boy. It took you about a minute or two to find him in the water, which is already long enough to be dangerous. He was unconscious and in the undertow. You swear to yourself, knowing your mother would kill you if she ever found out what you were about to do.
You launch yourself into the undertow. You were able to catch him, but by the time you got him out of the undertow and back above water, you seemed miles away from his friends. Even so, you dragged him back to shore. He was still passed out and that’s when you remembered humans can’t breathe underwater. You started to panic. How does one get other to unbreathe water? You did the first thing you thought of: shake him aggressively. It seemed to do something since he was coughing up water right into your face.
“Are you okay?” you asked the strange human, but no answer. He seemed to be still knocked out, but he was breathing now. You could tell by his rest rising and falling.
I see you in the sunlight
You shine so bright
Every curl just in place
That smile that invites me to chase
For the first time, I imagine me on land
With you right at hand
What would it be like to stand
Right here in the sand
For the first time, I desire more
Than life under the shore
What are you like
With me out of sight
With those eyes that shine so bright
You watch him slowly open his eyes and reach for you. That’s when you realize you were singing. In other words, you were using your siren voice. You had never used your siren voice before. You mom tried to teach you, but you never could. Siren song is a special gift among merpeople and it takes an equal special moment to unlock such a sound.
“Who are you?” the human man asked, intrigued by your song. Before you could answer, you hear his peers in the distance. You jump back in the water before they can see you. “Wait!” You were already gone.
“There you are mate. You gave us a scare,” Harrison exclaimed and helped his friend stand.
“Did you see her?” Tom asked his friends.
“Who?” Harry gave his older brother a questioned look.
“I don’t know. It was a girl. S-she saved me,” he replied.
“It’s just us here, Tom,” Sam responded. “Let’s get you back home. You probably hit your head.”
“There’s no way she wasn’t real,” Tom insisted, trying to pull away from Harrison.
You watch the other boys bring the human, who was named Tom if you heard correctly, back up to land and away from the sea. You weren’t sure how, but you knew you had to get to know this Tom fellow. You didn’t care that he was human. He was different from the humans you heard about in school. You didn’t know when or how, but you were determined to be with him.
#fanfic#my writing#spiderman#marvel#peter parker#fiction#reader#celebrities#tom holland x reader#tom holland fanfiction#tom holland#mermaid#the little mermaid#broskiblurbs
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Hot take the song Head Above Water by Avril Lavigne (yes made for her battle with Lyme Disease—-which is beautiful in itself) but the other day I had my own.
“I gotta keep the calm before the storm
I don't want less, I don't want more
Must bar the windows and the doors
To keep me safe, to keep me warm”
The storm is sin, mortal sin. The place I am barring up is my heart of hearts, where God alone knows me. I’m barring up the windows and doors of this darkened, candlelit chapel from the storm of temptation.
——
“Yeah, my life is what I'm fighting for
Can't part the sea, can't reach the shore
And my voice becomes the driving force
I won't let this pull me overboard”
I’m fighting to get to Heaven and not let myself fall into sin but especially mortal sin. The spiritual warfare is real. All those stories of the saints that experienced the battle are true. I can keep strong when a pray and when I Lector the Word of God.
——
“God, keep my head above water
Don't let me drown, it gets harder
I'll meet you there at the altar
As I fall down to my knees
Don't let me drown, drown, drown
Don't let me, don't let me, don't let me drown”
God, keep me away from my temptation to sin. Don’t let me fall again into the anxiety and agony when I sin. Don’t let me have nightmares again. I want to meet You at the altar whenever You are in the Eucharist. I will bend my knees down to worship and keep my eyes on You even in my storm.
——-
“So pull me up from down below
'Cause I'm underneath the undertow”
For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draws near to Sheol. I am counted among those who go down to the Pit; I am like those who have no help, like those forsaken among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, like those whom you remember no more, for they are cut off from your hand. You have put me in the depths of the Pit, in the regions dark and deep. Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and you overwhelm me with all your waves. - Psalm 88:3-7.
——
“Come dry me off and hold me close
I need you now, I need you most”
What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go in search of the one that went astray? - Matthew 18:12
And
So he got up and went to his father. “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. - Luke 15:20
~
“God, keep my head above water
Don't let me drown, it gets harder
I'll meet you there at the altar
As I fall down to my knees
Don't let me drown, drown, drown
Don't let me, don't let me, don't let me drown
Don't let me drown, drown, drown
Don't let me, don't let me, don't let me drown (Keep my head above water, above water)”
Let me believe in the Eucharistic Revival for all people, Lord. Never let me be separated from You. Only You can fill the God shaped hole in my heart. Keep me from sin. Let me think of You in Adoration when temptations come.
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as the original unaiteta truther here's my AO3 fics for this ship for those interested (@arsenalgbt etc.)
Briefly - the OG pre-slash fic
Favour - kinda crack, kinda serious
Txoria Txori - 1990s Basque Country AU, it's VERY slow burn/build, with eventual unaiteta
also, there will be some Unai x Mikel interaction in Underneath the Undertow, but not really romantic
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After Alabaster
I hope all your ghosts are gone
Or you choke before you yawn
The dusks between the dawns
Never account for the rust left on my palms
My hands keep me honest
Otherwise my smile is sardonic
Syntax stuck on my breath
Death is my only goddess
After your alabaster, I bleed onyx
Never technicolor but a spectacular blend
Even when gems tend to bend light
I might try to find the dark side
Of another moon again
Back and forth and undertow
Never know when you might
Forget to know
Crystal clear, shattered chandelier
Fractured space
When the silence breaks
The only time I feel you near
A solemn choir over an open fire
Tongues tied like razor wire
With touch just as dire
Never found such another to revere
Such a sordid origin
The reasons turned to lesions
I find you only in a wound that I pray one day disappears
Underneath a portrait
Painted with these tears
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Rules: Give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.
Tagged by @eidetictelekinetic <33333.
Most Hits: Undertow [Criminal Minds] by me and a coauthor
He never falls apart where it can be seen. That’s the way this goes. But there’s been too little sleep and if he knows nothing else, Hotch at least knows when to recognise when he’s falling apart beyond his capacity to put a mask over it. And he never wants to scare the team again, so he manages to make it home. Make it somehow.
Second Most Kudos: It’s Not Because Of You (It’s Because Of Me) [Ted Lasso]
Brian Symonds was - fuck is one of the best youth talent coaches in the country it’s just he’s also been arrested and all Jamie can think is fuck (one take on Jamie’s backstory)
Fourth Most Bookmarks: Five Times Out Of Many David Rossi Realised He Was Happily Doomed [Criminal Minds]
Five ways David Rossi knew that he was totally totally doomed in the best possible way in regards to the way he loved these kids. (Criminal Minds Kidverse)
Fifth Most Words: If I Could Go Back [Criminal Minds] by me and a coauthor.
It's the day of Derek's high school graduation, and Jason Gideon is standing at the bottom of the porch steps, trying not to hope. (Criminal Minds Kidverse)
Least Words: Strange The Dream, Stranger The Dreamer [Star Trek Discovery]
It hurts, underneath the terror for their children, that she does not say ‘we dreamed together, you and I’[a tiny glimpse of a human sarek/vulcan amanda world - spoilers for season two, episode seven]
Tagging: @bessemerprocess @shes-a-voodoo-child @sarking @kawuli @herawell @lorata
#meme#that first one i am so proud of (especially re my co author who is lovely) it was one of the first times I realised I had trauma#and I am forever honoured to have been able to co-write it
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"We must stop the salmonids from taking Undertow Spillway! They will invade the city from underneath us!" Nonsense. They are having a pride parade there. Let them be their true self. Actually, they can keep the place indefinitely. That's what equity is all about.
#undertow is an ok salmon run map but dang we must take it away from rotation#the salmonids are kissing in undertow!! and they are the same gender!!#be the fresh cephalopod u are and let them have this one
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