#Renegade Wind

[ohlookanothercartoontofallinto]

I swear I haven’t forgotten this au!

I swear! I just need time!

[stardestroyer81]

Glitch Man attempts to start his morning with a hearty breakfast, but he doesn't get very far once Strafe Man's hijinks get involved.

[champgnesny]

“is it really your anxiety that stops you from giving me everything? or do you just not want to?” but it’s baz to simon.

[daylightaftertherain]

i was listening to Renegade by Big Red Machine (ft.Taylor) and like OMFG i literally have so many emotions over it being sooo wilmon-coded. LIKE EACH AND EVERY SINGLE LINE is just so them to me and im losing my mind ashdjgk

like the lyrics just radiate late s1 and early s2 simon pov energy- of him just not knowing the immensity of the pressure wille is under but also wanting to so desperately understand what wille expects off of him and for wille to just GET HIS SHIT TOGETHER SO THAT SIMON CAN LOVE HIM😭😭😭 i just might make a more coherent post on my thoughts and feelings but for now i would loveee to hear ur analysis :]]

bestie!!!! agree with all of your points 100%, and I'm so glad you gave me a chance to ramble about renegade. I fucking love that song and it is seriously one of the most wilmon coded songs ever

anyway here's an obscenely long verse by verse analysis bc I have nothing better to do rn and you've unlocked the insanity of my spending over a year obsessing over this song

okay first of all renegade tells the entire story of yr chronologically from simon's pov if you really think about it, so that's how I'm going to approach it

second of all, just the word "renegade" screams wilmon. it means "a deserter from one faith, cause, or allegiance to another," or "an individual who rejects lawful or conventional behavior." ajskhdkjashdjhsjdhkjs ??????????

I tapped on your window on your darkest night The shape of you was jagged and weak There was nowhere for me to stay But I stayed anyway

this gives s1ep4 vibes, what with the window imagery (august tapping on windows), and wille's "jagged and weak" state of mind. and the fact that simon fell asleep sititng up, because he felt like there was "nowhere" for him to stay, since he had to keep an eye of wille, so he "stayed anyway."

And if I would've known How many pieces you had crumbled into I might've let them lay

this to me could either be simon regretting briefly getting himself invovled so deeply with wille, but still sticking with him because he loves wille. or, simon realizing how much shit wille has to go through with his title and the environment he's been raised in, and thinking back to the argument they had in s2ep4 (ish? I'm not quite sure when they had the fight I'm referring to), where wille says simon's the one who can't accept who he is. it's simon thinking about how he probably would've "let them lay."

Are you really gonna talk about timing in times like these? And let all your damage damage me And carry your baggage up my street And make me your future history

first line is simon's first thought when wille tells him they only have to wait for two years in s2ep2, because they're past talking about the future, not when wille's already gone against his own promises and left simon alone (to simon, at least). next two lines kinda explain themselves, it's simon saying "don't you realize you've hurt me?" but, the "make me your future history" line is soooo good when you think about it with wilmon, because after s1ep6, their relationship became just "history," but after the s2 finale, they are literally making history, so it kind of foreshadows the jubilee speech.

It's time, you've come a long way Open the blinds, let me see your face You wouldn't be the first renegade To need somebody

first line is again foreshadowing for the speech, and wille has seriously come a long way over just two seasons. "open the blinds, let me see your face" has so much meaning behind it, what with the curtain imagery and the way the curtains were the only thing that could've protected their privacy, so "let me see your face" could be the feeling of the whole world demanding to know who simon was, since he was the only recognizable person in the video. but, I like to think about in another way too. wille hides behind a public persona, just like a pair of curtains, so "let me see your face" could also be simon pleading with wille to show the real version of himself.

"you wouldn't be the first renegade/to need somebody" could be talking about wille's therapy sessions, especially because queer people have always been renegades, but wille also being a queer royal?? and the way queer royals have existed throughout history and probably needed someone the way wille and simon need each other and a support system and someone to talk to in the way wille has boris now??? also the way the two lines are separated with "you wouldn't be the first renegade" being one line and "to need someone" being another and how that validates wille's queer existence first and then tells him it's okay to need someone regardless of who he is???? I'm going to jump off a cliff jfc

Is it insensitive for me to say Get your shit together? So I can love you

this. THIS. simon fell for wille just as hard, and he was in love in s1. I'm not accepting any arguments against this. this is him asking wille to figure himself out first and figure out what he wants before simon allows himself to properly love him again. poetry.

Is it really your anxiety That stops you from giving me everything? Or do you just not want to?

ashjgdkjhsgdskh okay so we know wille has anxiety, but we also know he's not completely helpless, like the boy can power through and be confident if he wants to. so this is so significant, since simon has seen the parts of wille that are willin=g to fight, the only thing that's stopping him is himself. and the "do you just not want to" has s2 simon vibes, but specifically episode three and four.

You fire off missiles 'cause you hate yourself But do you know you're demolishing me? And then you squeeze my hand as I'm about to leave

I might've already talked about this but this is just the entirety of the s1 "breakups" with wille pushing and pulling simon in and out, and how simon's a little more broken every time he gets rejected after allowing himself hope. and the "because you hate yourself" line is so ???? wille breaks thing off over and over because he feels like he has to, as the crown prince, but he also hates his title. simon on the other hand, sees wille as the monarchy, so wille hates himself. that means even as he "fire[s] off missiles" aimed at the crown, he's just demolishing himself, and hurting himself hurts simon.

And if I would've known How sharp the pieces were you'd crumbled into I might've let them lay

the difference between just pieces and sharp pieces comes into focus after the denial, because if simon still keeps trying to help wille piece himself back together, he'll be the one with bloody cuts all over his hands. that's why he breaks things off, and tells wille to do it himself. it also reminds me of the glass pieces of the snowglobe, and wille trying to put it back together (there's a whole other post about this I'll make later).

Open the blinds, let me see your face You wouldn't be the first renegade To need somebody

To need somebody To need somebody To need somebody To need somebody

"I could be free. with you." "this is how it is. this is how I feel. but you have to do what's right for you." the repetition of "to need somebody" and wille building a stronger support system through his friends and his therapist and the way simon also needs somebody too and wille's becoming someone simon can rely on and-

Is it insensitive for me to say (let all your damage damage me) Get your shit together (carry your baggage up my street) So I can love you? (And make me your future history)

*deep breath* *screaming* the first line is simon telling wille he doesn't really care if he's being insensitive, because wille hurt him. the seocnd line is that talk aboutside simon's house in s2ep5, with wille finally getting his shit together and metaphorically caryring all of his bagge up simon's street and laying everything out for him. and that's how simon falls for him all over again, starting the path towards the two of them making history together. *screaming*

(It's time, you've come a long way) is it really your anxiety (Open the blinds, let me see your face) that stops you from giving me everything (You wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody) Or do you just not want to?

OUTRO TIME :D it's the jubilee speech in a nutshell, basically. wille's come so far from everything he's gone through, and "it's time" for him to make his stand. at first, it looks like he's not giving simon everything when august is about to replace him, but he gets up there, and "open[s] the blinds," letting everyone see him for himself, but turning after he comes out to smile at simon and letting him see his face. "you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody" wille's the first out queer royal, and behind all of that, he has people who he needs and who need him, and he and simon have each other. "or do you just not want to?" wille doesn't want to hide, keep secrets, and hurt people anymore, and he says that in his speech. wille ends it with doing the one thing he wants - telling simon and the world that he loves him.

[wranglens]

tags 1.0 .

╰ ゜OUT OF CHARA.  *  NOT ANOTHER GOD DAMN HICK KAT. ╰ ゜SAVE.  *  THIS IS MINE NOW ! GET YOUR OWN ! ╰ ゜OUT OF CHARACTER.  *  STARTER CALL. ╰ ゜IN CHARACTER.  *  STARTER. ╰ ゜IN CHARACTER.  *  THREAD. ╰ ゜OUT OF CHARACTER.  *  ANSWERED. ╰ ゜IN CHARACTER.  *  ANSWERED. ╰ ゜OUT OF CHARACTER.  *  DASH COMMENTARY.

╰ ゜STUDY.  *  RENEGADE REBEL WITH A PEDAL TO THE FLOOR. ╰ ゜MUSING.  *  DOWN THE SAME OLD DEAD END HIGHWAY. ╰ ゜MANNERISM.  *  SCARED OF NOTHIN &. SCARED TO DEATH. ╰ ゜HEADCANON.  *  I KEEP CHASIN THAT SAME OLD DEVIL. ╰ ゜SKILLS.  *  THE SAME RED RIVER TRIED TO DROWN ME. ╰ ゜AESTHETIC.  *  RIDIN IN ON THE WIND AND RAIN. ╰ ゜ART.  *  WHEN WHISKEY BURNS &. THE NICOTINE HITS. ╰ ゜MUSIC.  *  I PRAY FOR PEACE BUT I NEED THE THRILL. ╰ ゜SELF PROMO.  *  TELL THE SUNSHINE TO TAKE A BREAK. ╰ ゜PROMO.  *  JUST THE WHISTLE OF A LONG BLACK TRAIN. ╰ ゜MEME.  *  CARRY ME AWAY LIKE THE MISSISSIPPI ROLLS. ╰ ゜WISHLIST.  *  ROLLIN TWENTY ONE WITH AN ACE &. QUEEN. ╰ ゜EDITS.  *  RUNNIN OFF THE EDGE THEY SAY I'M A WRECK. ╰ ゜CRACK.  *  I KEEP RUNNIN BUT I'M STANDIN STILL. ╰ ゜QUEUE.  *  AIN'T NO LOVE IN OKQUEUEHOMA.

[homosfuck]

uhhhh idk

[pogueprincess]

Renegade

summary: You discover one of Aemond’s biggest secrets and are reminded of the horrors of his past on a night out with your oldest brother, Aegon.

pairing: Implied Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: alcohol consumption, mention of SA, Aegon is Aegon, mention of incest, angst.

note: This was meant to be a self indulgent drabble! lol, but if y’all like it maybe I can make a smutty part 2? Hehe … feedback is appreciated

With your thirteenth name day came great change. It was a grand celebration: A feast filled with music and dancing, various lords and ladies from throughout the seven kingdoms came to celebrate you and Aemond. Though it also meant you and Aemond being separated from one another. This year your mother had declared you would no longer share chambers. You had started your moonblood and Aemond was becoming a man; sharing a room would be deemed inappropriate. Aemond swore to you that he would come visit you each night.

You had spent the majority of your name day feast simply enjoying Aemond’s company. Nestled in one of the corners of the throne room, sharing lemon cake as you people watched. You tried to get Helaena to dance with you, but she was preoccupied; chasing a moth that had flown in through one of the widows. Your eldest brother, Aegon, was drowning in his cups, bothering any serving girl that came within twenty feet of him. In all truth, you were happy to just soak in the atmosphere with Aemond. Just the two of you, as it was meant to be, as it had always been. Your time with Aemond was interrupted by Ser Criston, asking for your hand in an innocent dance. After your mother’s sworn protector spun you around the room for a third time, you caught your balance. Your eyes locked with Aemond’s as Aegon dragged him from the throne room and into the night.

The hours dragged on as you sat in your new apartments. You anxiously awaited Aemond’s arrival, the last remaining piece of lemon cake and a small figurine of Vhagar you carved for him as a gift sat on your bedside table. When Aemond showed up at your door, the bright eyed boy you had seen just hours before was no longer there. His good eye was red and puffy and his stare was vacant. The cake and wooden dragon soon forgotten.

“What has Aegon done to you?”

Things had changed in the weeks since your father’s death, as well as the events that occurred above Storm’s End. Aemond had grown distant from you. Your time together grew scarce.

It was now a quiet afternoon in the keep when you overheard Aegon and his guards' future plans for the evening.

“You’re going to Flea Bottom tonight,” you say to your brother matter-of-factly, “I wish to accompany you.”

Aegon scoffs at you, furring his brow.

“What would Aemond think of this?”

“Aemond does not control me. He is barely ever around as of late,” you admit sheepishly.

Aegon’s eyes narrowed at this, a sly grin appearing on his face.

“Is that what this is about? Is our dear brother not giving you the attention you need?” He drawled as his fingers ghosted the underside of your breast before you swatted his hand away.

“No,” you lied, “I am simply bored.”

It was not a total lie, you were bored. It seemed as though all of your siblings had important roles to play while you were cast to the side. Forced to be imprisoned in the Red Keep until you were bargained off to marry some Lord for a political alliance.

You enthusiastically followed your brother through the winding streets of Flea Bottom as he led the way to a small tavern. The narrow, dirty streets were packed with all sorts of people; merchants and beggars alike, small children clinging to their mother’s skirts. You watched in amusement as stray cats darted around you.

The smell of ale, smoke, and sweat filled your nostrils as you stepped inside Aegon’s dingy tavern of choice. Clearly no place for a princess and far from what you were used to. You felt yourself naturally gravitate closer to your brother as you took in the appearance of the rough-looking patrons.

Aegon had announced your arrival, offering drinks as a pleasure from the crown. With that he heeded a warning: Any fool of a man who dare look at you the wrong way this evening may face the wrath of Aemond One Eye and a death by dragonfire.

As the hours went on and the wine flowed, you found you were having the time of your life. You drank and danced and sang. You had temporarily forgotten all of your troubles. The war that loomed over your family’s head, the loss of your nephew. You had wished Aemond was there to experience the fun with you. You hoped wherever he was, he was having fun as well. You silently thanked your brother for allowing you this small taste of freedom.

“Come on,” Aegon encouraged the young squire, “there is a madam here somewhere who is perfect for you,” he drawled. “I came here when I was your age, my brother as well…. This madam has a thing for the younger ones.”

You sobered up at Aegon’s words. He was taking the young boy to her. The woman who hurt Aemond. You were unable to protest as Aegon snaked his hand around your waist, pulling you close to him. You felt warmth in your bones as his fingers dug into your flesh.

“Come sister,” Aegon chirped, “this should be entertaining, but stay close to me.”

A curtain was pulled back and to your utter shock and dismay: Aemond was there, suckling at the breast of an older woman like a newborn babe.

You found it difficult to witness but even more difficult to look away. You continued to watch in bewilderment as Aemond tore himself away from the woman. Aegon erupted into a fit of laughter, practically falling over at the sight. You couldn’t blame him, a nervous laugh threatened to escape your own lips.

You managed to turn away, diverting your gaze to the squire boy who was looking on in horror. You covered his eyes with the palm of your hand, earning snickers from Aegon’s guards, you glared at them.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” you hear Aemond grumble to Aegon, clearly referring to you.

“Why would you bring her here?” Aemond questions, yet Aegon is still laughing.

You glance over and meet the gaze of the madam your twin brother sits beside. She studies your face, and a look of guilt is evident on hers. She is the woman from your thirteenth name day, no doubt, she has to be. You are unable to deny she is attractive. Her features are soft, welcoming, motherly. You can almost see her appeal. Suddenly you feel ill, and it is not the wine.

“Aegon! I would like to leave now!” You blurt out in a panic, unsure of where to look or how to even behave.

The king ignores you and instead stumbles onto the bed with Aemond. Taunting him, making crude jokes at his expense, mocking him. Barking like a damn dog.

Any positive thoughts you had about your eldest brother in the hours before were now gone. In an instant, it is as if you are all children again. Aemond is that defenseless little boy in the dragon pit. A mere plaything for Aegon and his cronies.

A never ending cycle, so it seemed.

“Aegon! You have said enough!” you scold him, he ignores you yet again.

If Aemond was embarrassed, he did not show it. You finally avert your gaze to his as he stands up abruptly, fully exposed. He is beautiful in this light. You wish everyone in the room could look at Aemond the way you did. You try and fail to look anywhere but below his waist.

“Your squire is welcome to her,” Aemond states coldly, his face emotionless, “any whore is as good as another.”

You find yourself wincing at his words in disbelief. Aemond was not one to ever disrespect a woman. Especially in the presence of others. In the presence of you. You watch the older woman’s face closely, she has the audacity to look betrayed. You wish you could feed her to your dragon. You are interrupted from your thoughts of her burning flesh when Aemond approaches you.

“Had your fun?” He asks through gritted teeth as he passes you, glaring over his shoulder when he does not receive an answer.

“Come now, we are leaving.”

Aegon snickers, now taking Aemond’s place next to the madam. He shoo’s you out of the room as he pats the bed, motioning for the young squire to sit.

“Would you look at that? A Targaryen princess, jealous of a common whore! Gods, our family is fucked up.”

“You are unlike anyone I have ever met,” you say to your brother. It isn’t a compliment. You want to cry.

“Must you ruin everything for everyone?”

“You’re welcome!” Is all he says as you dart out of the room and after your twin brother.

What Aegon seems to forget is Aemond is no longer that defenseless boy in the dragon pit. He is a man grown, with a vengeance and a thirst for blood. May the Gods take pity on you all.

[theamericanbeauty-natalia]

tag drop.

[cevansbrat0007]

https://x.com/auxgod_/status/1854935706742706397?s=46

ari’s reaction if bird tried to walk out the house with this on 👀

Untitled Sweet Renegade Series Ask & Drabble

Please enjoy the Sweet Renegades Series Drabble found after the cut. Warnings include: Mature Themes, Implied Smut, Ari Being a Possessive Menace, Brat!Reader, Manhandling, Crude Language, and Cursing. Minors DNI.

Listen, Ari considers himself to be a rather progressive man. He has two sisters that he respects and adores. And a little niece that fills him with pride. He plans to teach his nephew about the importance of respecting women - of treating them with the utmost reverence and care.

However, the moment Ari laid eyes on his sweet, stubborn little Bird, it was if something in him snapped. It came from somewhere deep. Primal. And the beast in him demanded that he stake his claim. Before her, Ari had never really considered himself to be the possessive type. He just assumed that jealousy wasn't a part of his makeup.

But now? Her smile. Her laugh. Her light. Every delicate inch of her gorgeous curvy body. All of it belongs to him. In the most primal, feral sense.

And he does not like to share.

So, while he wants to encourage Bird as she continues down the path of consistent, healthy body positivity, he's also man enough to admit that that there's no way in hell he'd let her fine ass out of the house wearing a dress like that. And here's why:

"Baby..." He rasps, caging you in as he backs you against the door. "You look fucking stunning." Two thick fingers trail their way down your body, stopping once they reach the valley between your breasts. "But I'm afraid I can't let you leave. Not while you're wearin' that."

"What's wrong with it?" Your words come out as a gasp when you feel a hand wind its way into your curls, holding you still as he continues his assault. The seconds drag on as his head dips, his mouth finding yours.

"Because, sweet Bird." Ari presses, forcing you to take his delicious weight. Making your pulse spike as he grinds his increasingly hard cock against your abdomen.

"B-because?"

"Because..." He draws out the word as he wrenches your head back so that he can whisper maddening little love bites along the curve of your jaw. "This is the kinda dress you wear when you're out with your man." You have a hard time breathing as his free hand skims lower before coming to rest on the swell of your bottom.

"Oh yeah?" You continue to goad - against your better judgement.

To be honest, you'd known what you were risking when you saw the dress hanging on the rack. You had no business playing with fire. But that's part of what made all of this so fun.

"Absolutely." Ari's normally bright blue eyes darken with arousal as he watches your chest heave. Almost as if he's imagining what it might be like to slowly peel the garment off you, piece by piece. "Because these hips and that ass - they're enough to give a man ideas."

His soft lips find their way to your ear, his warm breath making you shiver.

"And when they start wantin' to entertain those ideas," he muses, more to himself than you. "I need to be there as your man to shut 'em down."

"I see." A sharp nip of teeth has you clenching your thighs together.

"Because I am the only man who's allowed to know what it's like to bury myself between those luscious thighs." Using two fingers, he tips up your chin, wordlessly demanding that he look you in the eyes. "And only I get to know what you taste like when you cum on my tongue. Which therefore makes me the only man with exclusive rights to your tight, little pussy."

"Okay Beast." You can't help the giggle that bubbles its way out of your throat. "I think you've made your point."

"Have I, little Bird?" He growls, releasing his grip on your chin to capture your wrists, trapping them above your head. "Or do I need to remind you that I'm not the sharing type?"

The steady tick in his jaw lets you know that you and your dress have once again pushed this man to the edge. But the real question was...

Just what did you plan to do about it?

Batting your lashes up at him, you decide it's time to let the brat in you win out once and for all. Go big or go home, you know?

"Eh, it's been awhile, big guy." You purr, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. "I'm thinkin' you might need to refresh my memory."

END

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[zablife]

Imagine Johnny Defending You

Johnny Davis Masterlist

Warnings: language, injury, mention of blood, domestic violence (not with Johnny), fighting

Read the prequel

It was past midnight when you limped into an unfamiliar bar, torn jacket, split lip and blood dripping from your hairline. The whole room seemed to come to a stand still as bikers and their ladies stopped to stare.

Kathy was the first to approach you, a warm smile radiating toward you as she gently asked, "Did ya take a spill, sweetheart?" She could tell from your trembling body and the sharp look of fear in your eye it was something more than that, but didn't want you to have to say it out loud.

You nodded numbly, wrapping your arms around your body to conceal the Renegades patch that now hung somewhere near your elbow. Brucie's keen eye had already spotted it though and he leaned in to advise Johnny. You were the girl who'd been here six months earlier on the arm of that rebellious kid wanting to join up, he was certain of it.

Dropping his cigarette into an empty beer bottle, Johnny narrowed his eyes at you, scanning your features carefully.

For a moment you worried he was considering throwing you out. However, before he could pass his judgement, Kathy extended a hand to you proclaiming, "We gotta get her cleaned up."

The words still lingered in the air as the roar of several bike engines rattled the windows by the pool table, your body jolting at the sight and sound of your ex boyfriend and half a dozen Renegades approaching like hungry lions.

Your reaction didn't go unnoticed by Johnny who turned to ask, "Friends of yours, darlin'?"

Fingertips tracing your throbbing, bloodied temple, you gritted your teeth as you spat, "Fuck, no."

As Kathy supported your elbow she whispered hoarsely, "That the guy who did it?" and you only nodded as your eyes fell to the floor.

Johnny pursed his lips as he nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, that's all I need to know." He motioned for Corky and Wahoo to follow as his boots thudded toward the exit, readying for a confrontation.

As expected, the kid was the first to meet him by the front door, an incredulous look on his face when he realized he was being denied entry.

"Take one more step toward that door and I'll knock your teeth out," Johnny informed him, Vandals forming a barrier behind him.

"M not here for a social visit, old man. Just here to get my girl," he persisted.

"Your girl?" Johnny asked, eyebrow cocked in challenge.

"You didn't notice the jacket?" the kid scoffed, turning to his friends with a laugh. "Dunno why the dumb bitch would run into a rival's bar," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Spose that's another lesson she's gotta learn the hard way," he said with a shake of his head, striding forward defiantly.

Johnny sprang forward to attack before the Renegades could react, fist connecting with the kid's jaw in quick succession until he heard a sickening crack. The boys behind him scattered in fear as the kid fell onto the pavement with a low groan.

Johnny circled him, rubbing his fist as he loomed overhead. "You know, I think you're the slow learner cause I made myself clear the first time you came around you ain't welcome here," he gritted out. Chest heaving in anger, he looked down at the boy writhing in agony, imagining what it must have been like for the girl inside. Leaning down to grasp at the collar of the denim Renegade's jacket, he hauled him to his feet, gaze scouring the fabric in disgust.

Shoving the kid into the side of the building hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs, Johnny's voice hovered at a threatening growl as he added, "And just so you know, these jackets don't make you my rival, cause you're just a fucking kid. But beatin' the shit out of a woman does." He tightened his hold until he could feel the kid's limbs twitching, mouth spluttering a bloody trail of saliva down his arm before he shoved him aside.

“Get the fuck outta here. What kind of piece of shit are you?,” he spat, wiping his arm on his shirt. He turned to Zipco and Corky instructing, “Clean him up and get him outta here."

When Johnny walked back inside, he found you pacing the floor nervously.

"He ain't gonna bother you no more," he declared resolutely. "We had a little chat and I uh...explained that to him."

You paused all movement and Johnny squinted at you in uncertainty until you threw your arms around his neck in gratitude. Raising his large hand to your back slowly, he patted between your shoulder blades cautiously until he spied Kathy giving him an encouraging nod.

"No one's ever done anything like that for me before," you cried into his shoulder.

"Well, then you deserve a helluva lot more," he assured you softly, pulling you in close to absorb the little sobs shaking your body. He wrapped you in his arms, placing one hand around your waist and lacing the other in your hair.

Comforted by his steady breathing, you inhaled a few deep breaths as well, observing his unique scent of cologne mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of motor oil.

As the juke box began to play a slow song, he swayed you gently to the music and you nearly fell asleep on your feet. It was a soothing moment of safety you never wanted to end. Luckily you didn't have to because you went home with Johnny that night and never left.

[ohlookanothercartoontofallinto]

"Do you hate me because I couldn't protect you? I-I was supposed to protect you! I'm the oldest I should have been able to protect you...."

"Spirit....How can I hate you? You're the only one I left that can make me remember any of them...."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 4: Emerald]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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Back into the sitting room, fleeing like a hare from hounds, but Rush is here trying to grab you. You careen to the door to the private promenade deck and dive out into the bitter starlit cold, your breath fog, your shoes slipping on the yellow pine planks that overlay the steel skeleton of the ship, weight that could drag you down to the ocean floor. Rush is in pursuit; he swipes at your arm and gets ahold of your coat sleeve, soft pink wool. You wrench yourself free, twisting out of the coat and dropping your handbag, colliding with the barrier, Tudor-style timber paneling beneath vast windows the frigid night air pours in through. Your hip bruises against the wood, you can hear black waves crashing below; then you collapse to the deck, your spine pressed to the wall, trying to back away when there’s nowhere left to run to. You realize you are still clutching Aegon’s small aluminum lighter and shove it beneath the skirt of your gown. Rush draws his pistol.

“No no no!” you plead, showing him your palms, cowering beneath one of the windows.

They could throw me out of it. They could say it was an accident or a suicide.

The deck is lined with potted plants and lightweight wicker furniture. Inside, you can hear Rhaenyra saying something, though her words are muffled; it’s a tone you wouldn’t have thought she was capable of. She sounds afraid. Draco and Dagmar must be asleep, Fern tucked away in the tiny maid’s room. There are no witnesses to what will happen next. Your heart thuds in your chest, swollen and sickly. Cold North Atlantic wind washes over your bare skin and leaves you freckled with goosebumps.

Like a lightning storm, like a hurricane, Daemon surges out onto the deck. He is still tying his robe shut. His hair hangs in dark, damp strands over his forehead. You picture it again, though you don’t want to: Daemon with Rhaenyra like he’s never been with you, the impulsive desire, the dire necessity.

Why not in Rhaenyra’s bed? Why would he bring her here?

Because he thought you wouldn’t be back until midnight…and to prove he can get away with it. To succeed where he failed with you this morning. To feel like a man again.

“I didn’t see anything,” you tell him, but you cannot keep the shock and disgust from your face, intractable like a wild animal.

Daemon kicks one of the wicker chairs at you. You bat it away with a scream and press yourself harder against the barrier, trying to disappear, trying to become somebody else, a girl who didn’t agree to marry a renegade of a man who showed up smirking and cavalier at her father’s Connemara marble quarry.

I want to go home, you think with helplessness like a child’s.

“I didn’t see anything,” you say again, sobbing now. With one hand, you claw at the windowsill above you so you have something to hold onto if he tries to drag you away. The wind, sweeping down from the Arctic, burns like blue fire in your lungs. “I don’t know anything.”

Daemon dives to the floor, hooks his fingers into your hair, yanks you closer as you cry out and flinch away from him. “One word, one fucking word, and you’re gone,” he is threatening, a blade-sharp hiss, and you can smell Rhaenyra’s perfume on him, marking his flushed skin like a bloodstain; but Daemon’s deep-set green eyes—emerald, malachite, jade, serpentine, Connemara marble—are fearful. This is strange; this is unlike him, this is a foreign language.

He loves her, you realize. He’s terrified to harm her, to lose her.

“I would never—”

“Over the railing,” Daemon snarls, jerking your head to the side as you whimper. “Your bones at the bottom of the ocean, your name forgotten.”

“I won’t tell, please, Daemon, please, don’t hurt me.” You look at Rush. He’s staring indifferently down at you, his pistol still in his hand. You turn back to Daemon. “I’ve never told anyone.” About the bruises, about the man you really are. “Not my parents, not a soul. I don’t want to tell. I just want to stay with you and Draco. I won’t jeopardize that. Please, Daemon, please—”

“No one would believe you,” he says; but if that was true, he wouldn’t be so frantic. “You’d be a madwoman. They’d lock you up in an asylum, put you in a straightjacket, cut the pieces off of you that made you so hysterical.”

“Yes,” you agree, yielding, toothless.

He rips at your hair again, pulling you away from the barrier and to the center of the floor. Rush steps out of the way to make room. You don’t fight Daemon. You have to convince him your fighting days are over.

Why doesn’t he kill me now? A dagger to the jugular, a body splashing into opaque waves?

Because he needs his perfect family in order to march triumphantly into the skyscrapers-and-streetlights labyrinth of Manhattan. Because he can’t eclipse Viserys if people are whispering that his wife is dead under peculiar circumstances, fallen overboard on Titanic’s famed maiden voyage, insane or drunk or maybe—just maybe—murdered by a man’s rough rageful hands.

“What did you see?” Daemon says, testing you.

“Nothing.”

His palm cracks across your face. You yelp, more startled than in pain. Your skin is going numb from the cold; he’s hit you harder before. Now he doesn’t want to bloody or bruise you, he doesn’t want to leave evidence others could notice. He wants his threats imprinted irrevocably into you like scars. He wants you to listen. “What did you see?!”

“Nothing,” you moan, and then the door to the sitting room opens. You, Daemon, and Rush all whirl towards the noise.

In the doorway stands Fern with a silver-plated tray of tea and biscuits. Her black dress and white apron appear hastily thrown on, rumpled fabric and some buttons left undone. She blinks a few times, but she seems more nervous than shocked. Her eyes flit to you and then settle benignly on a wicker table. She ignores the chair that Daemon kicked earlier, lying overturned at the edge of the deck.

She knew what was happening, you think, grateful, a little awed. She’s here to try to stop it.

“It’s so cold out tonight,” Fern says at last. “I thought I’d make tea.”

Daemon doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never cruel to the staff, that’s one of his charms. His miners worship him, his valets believe him to be their true friend, his housekeepers fret over him as if he’s their husband or their son. Daemon rarely acknowledges Fern directly, as if she doesn’t quite exist to him, a ghost whose silhouette appears on eerie nights, squeaks of door hinges and objects nudged a few mysterious centimeters. He chooses his enemies with great care, like a gardener pruning diseased leaves. Daemon understands that the ones who toil beneath his feet are in the best position to rise up and devour him.

Fern sets the tray down on the wicker table and waits, her hands clasped decorously in front of her. “Will you be requiring anything else, sir?”

There are several electrified seconds—waves thrashing against the ship, wind howling as it tears through your hair—and then Daemon laughs and releases you, as if this has all been a comical misunderstanding. He stands and goes to the tray, picks up a cup of tea, and slurps on it as steam billows up into his face. “How kind of you.”

Fern bows her head in a nod, not leaving. Rush glances between them, then slides his pistol back into its holster.

“Draco should have a mother,” Daemon tells you, looking down from a great height. It sounds like it is meant to be a compromise.

“He should,” you reply. Even if I cannot touch him, cannot be alone with him, cannot teach him to love me.

“It’s not good for boys. When their mothers up and die on them while they’re still so young.” Daemon is reflective for a moment—an unusual skin for him to wear—and then slinks towards the doorway. “Fern, darling, change the bedsheets, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” She follows him back inside, a brief glimpse at you over one shoulder. Rush glowers at you and disappears with them. You are left alone on the private promenade deck.

Your head spinning, your bones freezing, you struggle to your feet: palms flat on the pine planks, black opal ring glimmering in the moonlight, knees groaning as you lift them. Slowly—stunned, aching—you pull on your pink wool coat. You find Aegon’s lighter and hide it in your handbag, then stand there clutching it like you’re on your way to some glittering social engagement, a tea party, a dinner, a gala, a Christmas party. But what you’re on your way to is purgatory, like the one Dante wrote of, a prison where you will sweat out your sins over and over again.

Why did I believe him? Why did I marry him? Why can’t I find a way out?

You leave the deck like an autumn frosting into winter, bleak, hushed, listless. You do not return to your staterooms but pass through the doorway that leads to the B-Deck hallways. The corridors are quiet and still, occasional stewards running the last errands of the night, a few men in black suits puffing on pipes and cigars, swirling clinking glasses of brandy, ruing all the blights that have incumbered their earnings: foolish wives, Democratic politicians, dissolute immigrants.

You flee towards the stern of the ship, far from the first-class sections. Outside there is a greenish hue to the sky—dim echoes of northern lights—and stars that sparkle like jewels. There is no one lingering by the back railing of Titanic, and for good reason; the air is so cold it bites like fangs, and the roar of the propellers is terrible, so loud and so guttural, sea monsters like the ones early explorers drew into the margins of their maps clawing up from the depths. You fall to the deck and sit with your knees to your chest at the end of a pair of benches—hiding in the shadows where you will not be seen by wandering passengers or lookouts scanning for icebergs—and gaze into the east as Titanic chugs westward, away from Ireland, away from everything your life could have been.

Tears bleed down your cheeks and turn from magma to ice there. You wipe them off your face with the sleeve of your pink wool coat. You ignite a cigarette with Aegon’s aluminum lighter and smoke it all the way down. You light another, and another, poisoning your blood with each breath, polishing the barbs off reality. It’s not enough. You need a drink. How long until you’re just another languishing housewife addicted to laudanum or cocaine? How long until you’re a drunk like Aegon once was?

I want to go home. I want to go home.

There are footsteps, sluggish and clumsy. An intoxicated man. You are about to scramble to your feet and escape when you see who it is. Aegon flops down beside you in a stolen black coat, the pungent miasma of Guinness wafting off of him and his face splotchy and red, looking away from you, ashamed of himself.

You say: “I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“And obviously there’s a reason for that,” Aegon slurs. He rubs his eyes, watery and unfocused, bloodshot and despondent. “I’m having a bad night.”

Me too. “Did you know?” you ask, a hoarse voice, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

Aegon is confused. “Know what?”

“That Daemon can’t get hard for me because he’d rather be sleeping with his niece.”

“What?” Aegon gapes at you, incredulous, revolted. “Daemon is fucking Rhaenyra?”

You nod, taking a drag. There is a faint orange glow, a warm hit of nicotine to your blood.

“I can’t believe that.”

“I can. I saw it.”

“Jesus,” Aegon mutters, staring out into the endless ink spill of the Atlantic Ocean. Then, more sympathetically: “No, I didn’t know.”

“You never heard anything?”

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean, I remember when I was a kid and people were talking about Daemon being a bad influence on her. But they said he was teaching Rhaenyra to go to parties and stay out too late and swear and smoke, not…you know. Not that he was committing incest with her. That’s some Richard III mischief.”

“Now I understand why you know so much Shakespeare.”

“My parents couldn’t send me to boarding school fast enough. I was shipped off the same week I turned five. Cake and presents one day, shoved on a train the next.”

“I’m afraid Daemon will do that to Draco.” You can’t keep the quiver from your words. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me now that I know the worst of his secrets.”

Aegon turns to you, and through the haze of dark bitter Guinness that’s still sloshing from his stomach into his bloodstream you can see he fears the same thing.

“I want to go home,” you sob, breaking down. Ashes build on your cigarette until you toss it away. Tears spill from your eyes, the River Shannon, the River Clare. “Nobody here cares about me.”

“I do,” Aegon insists, touching your face, trying to make you listen. His sand-colored hair lashes in the wind. “I care about you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Why do you care? Why can’t you leave me alone? Did you go to O’Connell’s Bar to spy on me, was all of this to spite Daemon and—?”

“No,” Aegon says, a truthful boyish confession. “No. I didn’t know you’d be there. I didn’t know anything about you except that Daemon had married some quarry heiress. I heard he’d be there for an interview, and I was curious, and I kind of thought it’d be fun to fuck with him if he ended up recognizing me, and so I got a job at O’Connell’s and made sure I’d be playing the night Daemon showed up. That’s all there was to it. And then I saw you in that bar in Galway and you were…” He shakes his head. His voice drops to a whisper, aching and reverent. “You were so sad, and so beautiful, and I…I’ve never done anything important in my entire life. I’ve never helped anyone. But I looked at you and I felt like…I thought…I could save her. And maybe that would make all the rest of my mistakes worth it, the wasted years of drinking myself to sleep every night, the aimlessness, the emptiness, the way I abandoned my mother and Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. I followed you onto Titanic because I had to try to help you. But by leading me home, by bringing me back to my family in New York…maybe you’re helping me too.”

I wish I was yours, you think, so vividly you almost tell him. I wish I was a stone in your mine to be found in the darkness, chiseled from the wall, studied and cut down and polished, set in gold or silver to be worn on your ring finger, your blood pulsing beneath my ageless gleam.

“Please stay away from me,” you beg him. “Please, Aegon. I don’t want you to die.”

He says as his thumbprints clean tears from your cheeks: “What if Daemon was gone?”

“You mean what if I pushed him over a railing and into the Atlantic Ocean?” you ask, sniffling. “Assuming I could get him alone, and he didn’t stab me first or drag me overboard with him, they would know it was me. Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra. And they would make me pay. If I lived, I’d spend the rest of my life in a prison or an asylum. I wouldn’t get to go home. I wouldn’t get to keep Draco.”

Aegon doesn’t know what to say, and this is because there are no answers. You aren’t overlooking anything. Sometimes reality is cold and unfeeling and lethal, primordial, reptilian, mindless black eyes like a shark’s.

You smile miserably at him. “I’m going to miss you when the ship docks in New York Harbor.”

“Daemon wanting to fuck Rhaenyra doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Stop,” you say, wincing, standing to leave him. Aegon reaches for your hands, but you hide them in the pockets of your pink wool coat. He gazes up at you, drunk desperate heartbreak. You wonder how clearly he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“If you were my wife, I’d never look away.”

“You have no idea who I am. You’ve never really seen me.” Never held me, never uncovered me, never opened me and filled the void with your own rushing blood. Then you depart before someone can come searching for you and discover Aegon, rip away his disguise, toss him into the roiling frigid surf stirred up by the propellers.

In your staterooms, the lamplit air is silent and warmed by the ship’s furnaces, shoveled full of coal at all hours of the day and night. Fern is waiting on the sofa when you enter. She looks at you as if she is relieved, then vanishes into her tiny maid’s room without a word. Your bedroom has been tidied, the linens changed; but the mineral ether of sex still hangs in the space like tapestries from a wall. You try not to notice your reflection in the mirror.

Daemon never touched me like he touched Rhaenyra. He never wanted me, I never satisfied him.

Daemon doesn’t come back all night. You sleep on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the morning of Sunday April 14th, you dress in green, the color of the Emerald Isle, the color of deep poisonous envy. You affix small emeralds to your ears and one massive stone around your throat, found in Madagascar in one of Daemon’s Grandidierite mines, a lush verdant glint in a nest of cold blue like deep water, like ice.

Heavy enough to drown me, you think wryly, a swift glance at the mirror, turning away again almost immediately. I’d go straight to the bottom.

Before you leave the bedroom, you slide open the top drawer of Dameon’s writing desk, presently abandoned. His dagger is there, gold hilt and spherical gemstones like miniature planets, all fatefully aligned: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. You lift up the dagger and study it, circling the tiny emerald world with your index finger. You are jealous of Rhaenyra getting everything she’s ever wanted. You are jealous of any woman who’s ever touched Aegon, who knows what it feels like to lie beneath him, to be known by him.

You place the dagger back in the drawer and slam it shut; the whole desk rattles. Then you go out into the sitting room, where Fern is attempting to wrestle Draco into his black wool coat, a small version of Daemon’s.

“No!” Draco is bellowing. “I don’t want to wear it, I don’t want to, let me go!”

“You’ll freeze to death out there, lad,” Fern says, strands of her long copper-colored hair escaping from her bonnet and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead, looking like she’s been to war.

Draco is stomping on the toes of her shoes to little effect. “No I won’t!”

You peer around, searching for your geriatric nemesis, a banshee, a vampire. She is nowhere to be found. “Where’s Dagmar?”

“She’s feeling seasick,” Fern replies, still struggling with Draco. “So she’s lying down in Draco’s bedroom. I’m sure she’ll be up and around again before you know it. She’s a tough old Cailleach.” And there’s no danger in being overheard; Dagmar wouldn’t know what that means, just like you don’t understand her when she mutters her strange Scandinavian curses.

You immediately scoop up Draco and run with him out of the staterooms, Draco giggling shrilly, you beaming as you fly down the corridors and ascend the Grand Staircase two steps at a time, your green shoes slipping on the English oak wood as you zoom past the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock. All around you are first-class passengers watching with startled looks, a little baffled, a little amused. High above is the dome of glass and wrought iron, brisk white-gold sunlight streaming through. You carry Draco out onto the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and take him to an unoccupied portion of the railing beside one of the lifeboats. You hold him so he can see over the barrier and out into the calm murky blue of the North Atlantic Ocean, hundreds of miles southeast of Newfoundland. The breeze is icy, the sky infinite and cloudless.

You spot slate grey fins cutting up through the water in arches, a whole pod of them. “Look, look! Dolphins!”

“Dolphins?” Draco says doubtfully. “Dolphins are real? Not just in books?”

“Of course they’re real. And they’re friendly, too. Back in Galway, sometimes they swim right up to the pier hoping the fishermen will share the catch of the day.”

“Neat!” Draco shouts. “Can I throw things at them?”

You pause, unsure how to reply. You resist the urge to shake him and say: Do you crave violence like Daemon, are you burning up inside with his fire? Do you want to be a monster like your father? One day will you paint amethyst bruises on your wife? “Why would you want to do that?”

Draco shrugs. “I like throwing things.”

“Well, throwing things can be fun, but if you throw something at a dolphin you might hurt it. Do you want to hurt the dolphin? It’s a living creature just like you. They have friends and families, and blood in their veins. They can feel it if you cut them.”

“No,” Draco decides. “I don’t really want to hurt the dolphins.”

“You can throw things in other situations, like if you play cricket or hurling or Gaelic football. Or baseball, I guess. Now that we’ll be living in America.”

“Okay,” Draco says, gazing at the ocean. Fern trots over to you, breathing heavily from trying to keep up, but she’s grinning. She has brought the coat Draco refused to put on, and this is fortunate, because now as you hold him on your hip you can feel your son is shivering.

“Do you want to put on your coat now?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” Draco says reluctantly, and you lower him down to the deck and help him tug the sleeves over his tiny arms. You suddenly remember when he was born and being so fascinated by his hands—so small and wrinkled, so powerless, always grasping—and Dagmar forever clawing him out of your arms, bundling him up in blankets and whisking him away to other corners of the castle.

“Fern was trying to help you when she told you to wear your coat. She knew you would be cold, and now you are, aren’t you? When adults tell you to do things, it’s not for no reason. They just want what’s best for you.”

“But I don’t like to do what other people say. I like to do what I want.”

“And that’s totally understandable,” you say. “Sometimes you will get to make your own decisions, especially as you get older. But right now you’re very, very young, and there are just a lot of things you don’t know yet, so you need adults more. Please be kind when Fern is trying to help you with your coat or your shoes. She doesn’t mean to upset you. She wants you to be safe and healthy.”

Fern gives you a modest, thankful smile. Draco is mulling this over. “The older someone is, the more they know?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” you say.

“So Dagmar knows a lot more than you.”

He’s not trying to be cruel; he’s trying to figure things out. The world is so new to him. You wish you could recall what that feels like, to see everything with vast light wonder. “Well…” you begin delicately. He loves her; you cannot win by bludgeoning her into a mess of bloodstains and bone shards. “Yes, she probably knows more about certain things.”

You pick Draco up again to distract him, and he is captivated by the seagulls swooping through the air, laughing and tracking them with his wide eyes, a sunlit green beneath pale blonde hair that is disheveled from the wind. There is a figure lurking on the periphery of your vision, a man in black, a coat and a hat, hands in his pockets. You turn to see it’s Aegon, perhaps ten feet away and pretending to survey the horizon. Your heartbeat quickens; you stomach drops.

What on earth is he doing here? Why can’t he leave me alone?

But of course, you don’t want him to. You stare at him and instinctively touch the emerald that hangs from your throat, Madagascar, Ireland, treasure, envy. You think of how your bedroom smelled when you returned to it late last night.

Fern seems oblivious to Aegon. “I feel so much better knowing there are lifeboats aboard,” she says, looking at the vessel you are standing beside.

“There aren’t enough of them,” you tell her, a low murmur that Draco pays no attention to.

Fern is alarmed. “No?”

“They can fit about half the passengers, no more. So if anything happens, make sure you don’t waste any time finding yourself a seat.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,” Fern says, troubled.

“Have you seen Lord Targaryen today?”

“No, ma’am,” Fern answers, trying to keep her tone neutral. She isn’t sure if it will be a relief to you or a knife to the heart. “He moved some of his things to Rhaenyra’s rooms before he departed last night. I suspect he will spend the rest of Titanic’s journey there.”

“He’s so fond of his niece,” you say flatly.

“Yes.”

“And she is in need of company, as her own husband is always fraternizing with the Parisians.”

Fern isn’t sure what she’s allowed to say. She smirks and bows her head to hide it. Now Aegon is strolling closer, ostensibly casual. “Good morning, ladies!”

Fern curtsies politely. “Good morning, sir.”

He casts Draco a glance—Aegon seems puzzled by him, maybe a little wary, certainly not accustomed to being around children—then extends an open hand to you. “What an engagement ring! Might I trouble you for a quick look?”

You set Draco down and he is promptly enamored by an orange-sized rubber ball someone has left here. “Of course.” You try to act indifferent, but when Aegon takes your left hand in his own you feel a jolt of warmth travel like a wave up the length of your arm.

Aegon turns your hand one way and then the other, inspecting it. Underneath, his fingertips stroke the lines of your palm. A tremor cascades down the rungs of your spine, helpless hypnotic longing. “What is that, onyx? Obsidian? Jet?”

“Black opal. From Australia.”

“A prison colony,” Aegon says, grinning at you from under the brim of his hat. “A place for villains and beasts.” Swiftly, he takes his right hand from his coat pocket and presses something into your palm: a folded piece of paper, a note, a message in a bottle from a castaway. Then he steps back from you as if it takes great effort.

“There you are!” a craggy voice cries out, and Dagmar is crossing the deck. She seems restored, if a bit wan. She swishes over in her charcoal-colored gown, her white hair twisted into a severe bun, and when Draco bolts to her she kneels down and catches him in a fierce, territorial embrace, her gnarled hands encircling his diminutive body. “Out and about without me? And I wager you haven’t even had breakfast yet, have you, my love?” She glares over his little shoulder at you. “You must be famished. How terribly irresponsible to let you suffer.”

“He ate some tea and biscuits when he woke up to tide him over,” Fern offers meekly.

“I was having fun with Mam,” Draco tells Dagmar, and you see the calculations on her cunning ancient face. She can’t scold him, she can’t correct him. She can’t defeat you with naked wrath any more than you can demand he stop loving Dagmar. You have sailed into new waters, a subtle silent war.

Aegon is receding, disappearing into the crowds of first-class passengers strolling the Boat Deck. Dagmar glances at him and then looks again, her jaw dropping open, her attention captured like a jewel in the pocket of a thief.

“What is it?” Fern asks, peeking bewilderedly at the stranger. Draco is chasing the rubber ball around again. Your pulse thuds hot and hectic in your ears.

Dagmar’s sharp blue eyes are uncharacteristically dazed; she shakes her head as if she’s just seen something impossible, an angel or a ghost. “He looks just like Viserys when he was young.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Dagmar spirits Draco off to breakfast, Fern returns to the staterooms to complete her chores for the day. You take the Grand Staircase down to A-Deck and slip into the Reading and Writing Room, mostly unoccupied this early in the day, to read Aegon’s note. Outside on the Promenade Deck, you can hear Daemon and Rhaenyra strolling by with a number of companions, chuckling and chatting away in a world where all their wishes are granted.

Daemon is saying: “There is an Armenian legend about a so-called Queen of the Serpents, who carries in her fanged mouth a stone made of light. Some nights she tosses it up into the air, where it becomes the moon, full and shining, until it inevitably drops back down to the earth. And as the proverb goes, happy is the man who shall catch the stone where it falls…”

You know that story. It was in one of the books you gifted Daemon for your first anniversary.

With trembling hands, you unfold Aegon’s note. He has written in black ink:

Petra,

One last painting?

Don’t go to dinner tonight. Meet me at the stern.

- Picasso

[eupheme]

— take it slow

joel miller x f!reader

Rated E - 3.2k

tags - soft smut, established relationship, sloppy make out session, softdom!joel, grinding/dry humping, teensy bit of jealousy, teasing, begging, PiV, 1 spank, creampie

A/N: one-shot! (but could be read as a sequel to renegade)

“I want you to kiss me until I’m begging for it.” You can barely make out his eyes in the dim light, the dark glitter as they drop to your mouth.

“And then you can have me any way you’d like.”

The couch creaks as you shift your weight on it - the old frame worn down after the years. No longer built for a family. Barely strong enough for two.

But this is better, his thigh fitting snug between yours. Giving you another few inches to move closer, while your lips press against his neck.

It’s cold - the sun fleeing the sky before dinner. The clouds above heavy and grey, the cry of the wind and a steady swirl of snowflakes keeping everyone inside.

That chill is what has you here, sharing a couch with him. The body heat warming you both - the two of you at a loss, the sudden storm wiping out any carefully-laid plans.

So used to never being able to take a breath.

Funny that after the earth came to a stop, there never seemed to be enough time.

His skin is hot under your mouth. The flex of his muscles as he swallows, jumping beneath your tongue as it peeks out to taste him.

With this angle, you can feel him. A rock of his hips, a strong thigh pressing against your core. The nudge of his clothed cock dragging across your inner thigh, hip.

Your teeth scrape his jaw on the way to his mouth, your own fingers smoothing across a half-unbuttoned shirt. Sliding over worn fabric, the coarse hair dusting over his sternum.

Eventually traveling up. The rough sound in his throat as his lips press to yours. Another shift as he tugs you closer, a bright spark seeming to throb in your core as his tongue brushes your lip.

The hand at the small of your back drifting down, to the waistband of your prized pair of sweatpants. Rolled up at the ankle and pilling - but after everything, it feels like a soft luxury.

Sliding under the fabric, against the swell of your ass at he starts to tug it down.

But you want more of this. The soft gasps as Joel’s lips slot with yours, as your tongue meets his. The way he leans into it - his licking into your mouth - as your hips roll again.

Everything was so rushed, now. Barely enough hours or energy for a slow seduction - a quick brush of mouths and fumbling hands was usually all you had time for.

“Wait.” You gasp into his mouth.

He goes still. Leaning back, as his hand withdraws.

“What is it?” Joel’s voice is a low drawl, the mark between his brows deepening.

“Sorry. Nothing is wrong.” Your hands smooth over his chest, “Just… can we do this, a little longer?”

This was nice. Finally warm and half-dressed and kissing him. You think you could do this all night. It’s been years since you kissed someone like you used to.

Close to ten years, you think. Not since college. Not since it happened.

Soft things that turned messy, teeth and tongue as something low in your belly built and built. The need that grew until your were both desperate.

“This?” He asks - always wanting to know the details, seeking clarification.

“Yes, this.”

You mouth tips up, but he stays just out of reach. Waiting for more, until you’re sucking in a breath. Your answer coming as an exhale, the confession of what you truly want.

“I want you to kiss me until I’m begging for it.” You can barely make out his eyes in the dim light, the dark glitter as they drop to your mouth.

“And then you can have me any way you’d like.”

He makes a sound then, a low noise in his throat.

Joel wasn’t kissed often. There were years where he hadn’t been kissed at all. It can be easier that way, sometimes.

There was something too intimate about it. Something he never had to worry about before - but that was a different lifetime, now.

But you’re soft and sweet.

And he thinks he likes kissing you. Likes the little moan in your throat when he licks into your mouth.

When he kisses down your stomach. To where you’re so warm and wet for him. It’s easy then, he knows he likes kissing you there. His own groans hidden under your cries as he fucks you with his tongue.

Much less vulnerable.

He doesn’t know how to answer, so he deflects.

“You already beg for it, whether or not I kiss you.”

His words, so deep and smooth, make you clench. Fingers twisting in his shirt, another button slipping free.

You both know you do. He’s able to wind you up like no one else. Just thinking about him gets you squirming, and you can’t pretend that you don’t already need him now.

“Sure do.” You huff a laugh, an acknowledgment, “Don’t have time to make out like a couple of college kids. But I miss that sometimes, you know?”

He watches you, a tilt of his head. There’s a shine on his lower lip from your own tongue, a flutter in your stomach as you think about it.

Joel hums, and you frown.

“We have time tonight, don’t we?” You ask, and then you’re pushing yourself up on an elbow, “Are there other things we need to be doing?

It’s half-rhetorical, half-confirming.

There’s a few things he could be getting to.

Cleaning his gear properly, instead of the quick wipe down from yesterday. Finally taking a look at the sink in the kitchen, that slow drip that’s been going on for about a week, now.

But then again, it’s cold. And you’re warm and in his arms, and if he’s being honest - he wouldn’t mind staying like this.

For a long time.

He could leave the sink. With the freezing temperatures, he would have needed to leave it running anyways.

Your voice breaks his train of thought.

“Please, Joel.”

He can pretend it’s your idea.

That he’s doing this just for you.

A hand cups the back of your neck, twisting in your hair. Holding you in place as his mouth lifts to press to yours again.

You moan gratefully, kissing him. Shifting against him as your hand cups the back of his, feeling the curls with your fingertips.

Another whine as it turns a little sloppy - his teeth scraping over your lower lip, his other hand finding your breast over your top. Palming you, the brush of his thumb as you arch into him.

Rocking against his thigh, the press against your core easing a bit of the ache that has you so worked up already.

Fingers pinch the tight bud of your nipple. His mouth dropping to your chin, lips dragging to the hollow under your ear. All the things he does to you when you’re bare, the sensations dampened with the layers of clothes.

But the memories are fresh.

Your own hands wander. Plucking the last of the buttons free. Roaming over scarred skin, feeling the muscles jump under your palms. His own hips grinding into yours, starting a slow rhythm, as his hand drops from your hair to curve around your waist.

Holding you against him. The brush of his facial hair against your neck as his lips seal against your skin. Sucking a bruise for later, marking you for himself.

In the dark like this, all the hard edges soften. Going blurry and fuzzy, your thoughts going with them.

“Joel,” You moan, meeting the rock of his hips. The seam of your sweatpants rubbing against your clit - his mouth an accelerant to the pleasure that burns in your belly.

His lips lift from your neck, “You beggin’ already, honey?”

Fuck, you’re tempted. It would be so easy to say yes - for him to give you what your both need.

“Not yet.” You manage, in a voice that’s almost level.

The smooth hum of his laugh is like sin.

“Guess I’ll have to try harder, then.”

His hand drifts low, again. To your waistband, and then under the fabric of your shirt. Palm flat against hot skin as his fingers trace patterns, rising higher.

Your mouth finding his greedily again, and this time it’s your tongue brushing against his lip, waiting for them to part for you.

As his fingers tug down the cups of your worn bra, knuckles sliding over the tight peaks beneath.

The moan seems to come from your chest, high and long - pushing into his touch. Letting him move you with him, the steady grind where you need it most enough that you’re sure you’re dripping and soaked beneath.

Your fingers skating lower - down past where his shirt hangs open. Tracing the dark trail of hair that disappears below his jeans, your hand cupping where he’s thick and hard for you.

He grunts with your touch, a harsh thrust that presses you against the back cushions of the couch.

Before he’s curving over you, and you’re pressed half-beneath him. His hips grinding against yours, your hand.

Leaning back, his eyes opening. His gaze heated, burning for you, “You touch the others like this, while you were makin’ out?”

Your fingers flex against him, the tips dragging over where his length presses against the fabric. Back and forth, your answer coming out breathless, “Only if I liked them.”

He inhales a breath, hissed through clenched teeth. The word “fuck” ground out, a harsh bite to it as your lips press against his jaw.

“What about you, cowboy?” You ask, your voice rasping with want, “You drive all the girls crazy like this?”

There’s a look in his eyes, as he hovers above you. A moment where his guard drops, his voice low and smooth.

“Only if I-”

Even though the words cut off, they feel as sweet as the honey of his voice. It’s not the same admittance as yours.

But for Joel, it was more than enough.

He swallows, and you come to his rescue. Bringing out mouth to his. He doesn’t have to continue.

Because by now, you know.

The hand at your breast mirroring your own. Trailing down, working between his thigh and yours so he can touch you. Fingers pressing against your cunt over the thick fabric of your sweatpants.

Slow circles right where you need it, as you moan again. Pressing the damp fabric against your slick skin, over and over.

The touch isn’t enough - too teasing, too slow. Your breaths growing shorter, gasping as you rut into each other’s touch, until it’s too much.

“Okay, okay.” You whine, your fingers fumbling to the button on his jeans, “Fuck, Joel. I can’t-“

He lets you tug his zipper down, easing some of the pressure, before his hand grabs your wrist.

“Show me how much you want it.”

You blink up at him - lips parted, brow pinched. Making a needy sound in your throat, but all he does is ease back, holding himself over you.

Leaving you to tug your shirt up, show him the soft curves of your breasts. The pretty peek of your nipples from your bra, from where he tugged it down.

A shift of your legs as you work the waistband of your sweats and underwear down, your knees falling open. Baring yourself to him.

His eyes dropping down, to where you’re glistening. Dripping - not used to the slow tease anymore.

Joel’s hand moves without thought, fingers sliding over slicked skin. Your moan bursting loudly from your chest when a calloused tip drags over your clit, your hips jerking into his hand.

“Joel, please-”

He hums, low in his throat, “Turn over, darlin’.”

Rocking back onto his heels so you can roll over, push up onto your knees. Hands bracing on the padded arm of the couch, your back arched as you glance over your shoulder.

Watching as his shoulders roll, the shirt dropping on the couch. Broad hands tugging at his jeans, unable to help watching him pull his cock free, hanging flushed and heavy.

His fist closes around the base, the other bracing on the small of your back. Dragging himself against your slit, smearing his length with your arousal.

You’re bracing yourself - ready for the sweet stretch when he presses into you. Shifting and eager as your fingernails press into the fabric.

But he doesn’t. His cock dragging against you again, pulling away when you rock back against him.

“Joel.” You bite out, glancing back again.

His eyes are fixed down, and the heat in your chest creeps up to your ears. Where he’s looking at you, all of you.

The tip presses against you, parting your swollen folds. Barely nudging inside, as you sigh - before he’s drawing back again.

Before doing it again.

You whine, rocking back again. The hand on your back keeps you from moving too much - from taking more of him.

“Keep beggin’.” Joel’s voice is ragged, the words drawn out, “Once more, for me.”

Fuck. He’s cruel - turning your own word against you like that.

“Please fuck me.” You beg, just like he asked, “Joel, I need you so fucking bad.”

Months ago, it would have been “I need your cock so fucking bad.”

You both know it - you’d been so careful with your words back then.

It does something to him, finally giving you what you need. Fitting himself into you - filling you - as you moan at the stretch.

His own sound, echoing yours.

Until his hips are flush with your ass, and you’re already squirming back against him. Your release simmering with all the teasing, his words.

It’s funny how things work, now. Words meaning more and less at the same time.

Not many spoken when you fell into bed together, the first time.

Fewer, the night when you snuck in for the last time. How you had just stayed - a silent offering late one night, and an equally silent acceptance.

For all the communication needed in the day-to-day, sometimes words weren’t needed if things were working out right.

And they were, because your things have mixed with us. His shirts on your back when you go out. Your scent on his pillows and on some mornings, he finds himself wanting to stay for just a moment longer.

Wanting to keep you for himself.

Like he’s wanting now.

There’s something about seeing you like this - eyes glassy and half-lidded when you look back at him. As his hips work in quick circles, all those words in your head getting lost on their way to your lips.

How tight and warm you are around him, how you thrust back to meet him because it’s never deep or close enough.

He never leaves you waiting long. Drawing back before he fills you again. The sound of skin-on-skin, and the wet suck as you take him.

Heavy breaths and the creak of the couch as he sets a rhythm that sends sparks up in your head.

You won’t be able to hold on for long. He’s deep like this, hands on your hips, tugging you back as he drags against your inner walls.

The sound you make is just noise - a long, high whine, your eyes closing. Focusing on the swift coil in your belly, each stroke winding it tighter.

He can’t fuck you like he wants to. The couch is too old, wouldn’t survive the way he wants to pound into. The old girl would break, and you’d end up sitting on the floor for the next month while he looked for something else.

But it works, this way. Each thrust deep and long and slow, as you concentrate on where you’re connected. Each one knocking you higher and higher.

“Fuck.” The rasp of his voice has your eyes fluttering open, the hand on your back tracing around your hip, then thigh, “Makin’ all those pretty noises. You gonna come already?”

You hadn’t realized you had - each of your breaths open-mouthed, ragged gasps. When his fingers reach their destination, pressing down against your clit, you keen.

“Yes. Oh my god, please-”

He makes a low groan in his throat, fingertips teasing the tight bud as his hips snap just a little bit faster.

“Did they fuck you like this?”

You can barely breathe, right on the cusp. About to fall over. It takes you a second to realize he’s asking about those boys again - all those years ago. Never taking him for the jealous type, but maybe he’s as good at hiding things as you are.

“Make you come as hard as I do?”

Or maybe - he just likes hearing how much you want him.

“No.” The word is ragged, a rough gasp, “J-Just you, Joel. Only you-”

Your voice cuts off, failing you. Turning into a long moan as you’re there - hurtling off the cliff. A hand comes down to crack against your ass, more sound than pain, and it’s enough to tip you over.

Crying out with relief as you come hard, pulsing around his cock. Gripping him as he fucks you through it, his fingers rubbing until you’re grasping at his wrist, holding them still.

You weren’t stroking his ego - only Joel makes you come like this, makes you see stars. Turning you into a mess as you soak his cock, as he tells you just how fucking good you feel.

Joel’s grown tired of a lot of things, but not this. Your pretty sounds, the tight, hot flutter. His name on your lips, sounding like salvation.

How you want him. Need him.

He can’t deny there was something about this, tonight. Won’t say it out loud, but he too was affected by the soft touches, the slow build. The pressure ignited low in his own belly, even before he sunk into you.

Liking the way you wanted. How you begged.

Delayed gratification, he notes for later - tucking it away.

One of the last coherent thoughts before his thrusts turn shallow and quick. Unable to help but follow, gritting out a string of curses as he finds his end. One of them standing out, because you know it. It’s a part of you, bone-deep.

Your name.

Pretty on his lips as you feel him flood you. Warmth spreading as his hands curl around your hips, pulling them flush against his own. Letting you milk every drop as you clench down.

It’s new. Something you haven’t done with him until recently, but you like how he feels in you. The way he curves over your back, an arm wrapped around you to keep you tugged close. The slight twitch of his cock, the pulse that slows ebbs until he starts to go soft.

Staying like that, for just a second. Hands sweeping over skin as your head turns. One last press of his mouth to yours, sharing a sigh.

Before he’s gently easing from you. Sitting down heavily on the sofa with a deep, contented groan. As you follow, twisting around - legs feeling like jelly.

Before you push yourself up, a cozy warmth spreading from fingers to your toes - before padding off to the bathroom to clean up.

Leaving him on the couch, where the cushions are still warm from where you laid beneath him. He fits himself into the space, waiting for you to come back, for his own turn.

Head turned to look out the window. The chipped white frame with it’s locked latches. Almost looking like a painting, with the quiet streets outside, the swirl of drifting flakes that still fall down. Just as heavy as before.

He thinks… maybe he wouldn’t mind.

If it kept snowing.

Would love to know what you thought! 💕 Thank you for reading!

[gigabyte-flare]

There’s No Escape (Part 1)

Summary: You are going through a rather nasty breakup as you escape your ex-boyfriend’s apartment while he’s away on a top secret government assignment. You move to a completely new state in hopes he won’t find you. You clearly underestimated his determination because he has no intention of letting you go. 

Pairing: yandere!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Word Count: 1.1k (Next part should be longer! Wanted to get story building stuff out of the way before getting to the good stuff ;) )

If any of the warnings below trigger you, please kindly pass on this fic 

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, actions depicted in this story are not condoned in real life; if you feel this way, please go touch grass

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL YEET YOU INTO THE GODDAMN SUN. Thank you!

Warnings (may not apply to all parts): Sex, gaslighting, swearing, stalking, acts of violence, blood, dubcon, kidnapping, pet names (baby, doll, angel, sweetheart, etc.), PTSD triggers, unprotected sex, forced breeding, daddy kink, manipulation, oral (m and f receiving), choking, overstimulation, knife play, gunplay. Long story short, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. More warnings may be added in the future

A/N: @dollrxst, @hxllfiredoll, @nexyswrites, @ghostkennedy, @lipglossanon and like a bunch of others who’s fics I’ve consumed and have been inspired by, this is all your fault and I’m not even mad about it. Please excuse grammatical errors and such, it’s been a hot second since I’ve written stuff like this. Enjoy!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was now or never.

Leon Scott Kennedy, your soon to be ex-boyfriend, is away on some top secret government assignment and isn’t due back for about three days. You had been seeing each other for about six months and he insisted you move in with him after three months. He seemed wonderful at first, but living with him proved to be way more than you had signed up for.

He was bat shit insane.

You weren’t sure if it was due to unaddressed trauma from his line of work or whatever but his controlling and sick nature was ludicrous to you. He was controlling, manipulative and sick in the head. His idea of fun was holding a knife to your throat while fucking the absolute shit out of you. That was just the tip of the iceberg on the things he forced you to do for his pleasure. 

Anything you absolutely could not live without was getting stuffed into your little Jeep Renegade. If it didn’t fit, it was getting left behind because you had absolutely no intention of coming back. Clothes, toiletries, some of your books, your video game console and games, a couple pillows and some sheets all got stuffed in. When you were confident you had everything essential for your impromptu move, you closed the back hatch on the Renegade and grabbed your purse, phone and car keys from the kitchen counter, making sure to leave the copy of the apartment key you miraculously found behind. You lock the apartment door and shut it. You lean up against it and take a deep breath before you rush back down to your car. You had a long ride ahead of you; Washington D.C. to Boston was about a 9 hour drive.

It was now or never; you weren’t about to squander this opportunity to escape.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

It was dark by the time you finally arrived in Boston. You navigate the confusing winding streets and find your apartment that you got with your best friend, Becky. You see her come out of the front door as you pull up in your car and park. You see her wave as you step out.

“Hey, you made it! I trust you had a good ride,” she inquires.

“Yeah, long as hell, sorry I’m so late. What time is it?”

“It’s like 9:30, come on in! I ordered pizza for us,” she says, motioning you in. 

You grab your purse, keys, phone and one of the pillows you had stuffed into your car and go inside the apartment. You decide you can unload your stuff in the morning. The kitchen is the first room you end up in and you set your stuff down on the small island before stumbling your tired legs into the living room where the smell of pizza was calling your name. You practically collapse in a reclining chair after grabbing a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table. You let out a loud sigh of relief. You made it. You escaped.

“How are you feeling?” Becky asks before taking a bite out of her slice of pizza.

You finish chewing on yours and swallow hard, “I’ve never been so happy in my life. I’m honestly surprised I’m not dead from some of the bullshit Leon pulled.”

Becky shifts nervously on the couch. She was the only person you confided in about your sick, demented ex-boyfriend. You didn’t even tell your parents, you didn’t want to worry them. 

When you moved in with Leon, he forced you to quit your well paying I.T. job and forbade you from ever leaving the apartment alone. He took your phone away, but you found ways to sneak it back so that you could at least contact Becky. You didn’t want to think about the things he made you do; it was an absolute miracle you weren’t dead or pregnant from the amount of abuse you endured. 

“He hasn’t contacted you yet, has he?” 

You shake your head, closing your eyes as you lean back in the recliner, “nah, he won’t be back from whatever assignment he’s on for another few days, and I blocked his number.”

“Good,” Becky replies with a nod.

“I’m going to hit the sack,” you say suddenly as you get up from the chair and begin to walk back into the kitchen to collect your stuff. 

“No problem, I’ll help you unload your car tomorrow. I was able to get the day off from work.”

“Thanks, Becky.”

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

It’s late in the afternoon when Leon finally gets home from his excursion, his forearms covered in scraps and bruises. He couldn’t wait to see his baby girl, his cock growing hard from the anticipation. 

He fumbled with his keys in the low light until finding the correct one to unlock the front door to the apartment. He unlocks the door and opens it.

“Sweetheart, I’m home!” Leon calls out.

But there’s no response.

“Sweetie? Are you asleep?”

Nothing.

Leon could feel adrenaline rush through his veins as he starts to frantically search each room for his sweetheart. He became hyper aware of the dead silence of the apartment the further he searched. When he got to the bedroom, he ripped the closet doors open and found most of your clothes were gone. He ran into the bathroom; your toiletries were gone. Almost all your belongings were gone.

“No, no, no, no, nO, NO, NO!”

Where could you have gone? He never in a million dreams imagined you would ever leave him. You belonged to him. You were his everything. Everything he did, he did it for you, he did it to keep you safe from the disgusting world. Pure rage began to flow through him as he stalked back into the kitchen. Unsheathing his knife, he stabbed it into the center of the small dining table before he used both hands to flip it, letting out a primal growl as he did so. 

“That fucking ungrateful bitch!” he growls before walking over to the overturned table to retrieve his knife. 

“I loved you, took care of you, protected you… and this is the thanks I get…”

He pulls out his cellphone, dialing your number and putting the phone to his ear.

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time. Please check the number and try again.”

Taking a deep breath, he then attempts to send a text to the number.

We’re sorry, the number you have entered is not valid.

Breathing heavily, he puts his phone back in his pocket, balling both his fists and closing his cobalt eyes. He stood there for a moment, seething when he suddenly appeared to have a revelation. His eyes snap back open and he digs his phone back out from his pocket and opens an app. A smile slowly overcomes him as stares down at the phone like he was staring down at a long lost lover.

“There you are. Don’t worry baby girl. Daddy’s coming to get you.”

Part 2

[90s-music-tourney]

Here are the final 33 songs that will feature in the 70s music tourney

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme by ABBA

Killer Queen by Queen

Rasputin by Boney M

September by Earth Wind & Fire

American Pie by Don McLean

The Chain by Fleetwood Mac

Hotel California by the eagles

Brandy (you're a fine girl) by The Looking Glass

Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin Rocket Man by Elton John

Don't Fear the Reaper by Blue Öyster Cult

Jolene by Dolly Parton

Imagine by John Lennon

Baba O' Riley by The Who

I will survive by Gloria Gaynor

Let it be by the Beatles

Renegade by Styx

the Devil went down to Georgia by Charlie Daniels

Starman by David Bowie

Blitzkrieg Bop by The Ramones

Carry On my Wayward Son by Kansas

The Logical Song by Supertramp

Piano Man by Billy Joel

Stayin Alive by The Bees Gees

Midnight Train to Georgia

Ballroom Blitz by Sweet

Boys don't cry by The Cure

Horse with no Name by America

Mr. Blue Sky By Electric Light Orchestra

Psycho Killer by the Talking Heads

Blinded by the Light by Manfred Manns's earth band

Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple

Take me home County Roads by John Denver

Me and Bobby Mcgee by Janis Joplin

[santaasi]

☾ – smut; ☁︎ - angst; 𖤓 - fluff

JJ MAYBANK

☁︎ shadows (x routledge!fem!reader) – 2.3k

summary: when emotions take over and shadows are swallowed up, all you need is to find a person who will become your light (based on shadows by sabrina carpenter)

☁︎ 𖤓 dance with me (x dancer!fem!reader) – 5.9k

summary: jj maybank loves the sea, the sandy beach of north carolina and the warm sun. new york is the exact opposite of all this. and he hates it. but she... she changes everything.

☁︎ 𖤓 violence (boxer!jj maybank) – 4.7k

summary: jj maybank wants to put the whole world at her feet, but the only way he knows in this life is violence

☁︎ 𖤓 hate to be lame (fwb!jj maybank) – 4.3k

summary: you hate to admit it but you might love jj maybank (inspired by hate to be lame - lizzy mcalpine, finneas)

☁︎ 𖤓 iris – 3.9k

summary: jj maybank struggled all his life just to finally find his home in your arms (inspired by iris - goo goo dolls)

☁︎ 𖤓 die with the smile – 3.9k

summary: a love once haunted by nightmares finds solace in a sunrise, where promises of healing and hope turn dreams of a future into quiet, steady certainty.

☁︎ story of my life – 2.8k

summary: what are you willing to do for the love of your life?

☾𖤓 enjoy the now (x gf!reader) – 3.2k

summary: left alone in the car, the tension grows by the second… and none of you are ready to resist it

𖤓 moonstruck (x fem!reader) – 2.6k

summary: who could have known that jj maybank would steal your first kiss beneath the stars, all to evade the pursuing police?

justice (fbi!jj maybank) – ongoing

↳ renegade – 1.9k

summary: your first day in the criminal investigation division introduced you to a partner who had already made up his mind — he didn’t like you, and he wasn’t hiding it

↳ 𖤓 top secret – 1.3k

summery: you and JJ are the best FBI agents who went undercover at a charity dinner to catch a dangerous criminal. but JJ can't concentrate on the case at all, because all he can see is your smile

JAMES POTTER

𖤓 raison d'être (x shy!reader; muggle au) – 2.3k

summary: james potter never thought that the most terrible day of his life could give him a new reason for existing

☾𖤓 moth to a flame (x black!reader) – 3.7k

summary: what could be more forbidden than loving your brother's best friend?

☁︎ yours: forever and always (ex!james potter) – 1.6k

summary: even after betrayal you're still ready to accept James in your heart.

☁︎ waiting for you (x bsf!fem!reader) – 1.4k

summary: loving james potter has become the biggest mistake of your life

↳ stay (part 2) – 1.7k

summary: james potter’s life doesn’t make sense without you.

☁︎ walking in the wind (rockstar!james potter) – 2.4k

summary: when you no longer have the strength to fight, you need to find a light that will help you move on

✧ latest update: 23.11.24 ✧