Frog @fr0ggy9 - Tumblr Blog

Posts

077-vikkus

Kratos- General Romantic Headcannons.

From this ask.

TW: MDNI, 18+, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, death, weapons, insanity, pregnancy, and marriage.

teamhelaena

Lady Lannister

Aegon The Conqueror x Lannister reader Request- "Aegon takes a Lannister wife after Rhaenys, many thought because of your house riches but it becomes known that was not the reason for he dotes and loves you. Screams of pleasure come from the chamber he had shared with you despite having your own" This is a little short and lazy because I'm still having writers block </3 TW :-smut/little manipulation

The castle stank of stale wine and grief. Aegon's boots left dark streaks across the solar floor where he'd kicked over another goblet, the dregs pooling like half-dried blood between the stones. Six months of this...six months of his chambers reeking of sweat and parchment, of his hands shaking from too much blackberry wine at dawn, of the way servants flinched when he passed. Even Visenya had stopped bringing him reports, tossing them at the door instead like one might feed a caged beast.

Then the Lannisters came.

Not with fanfare, not with the gaudy spectacle Aegon had expected from the wealthiest house in Westeros, but like a knife sliding between ribs. Lord Loren entered first, his boots silent on the solar’s wine stained floor, his crimson cloak barely stirring. And then you.

You didn’t shimmer. You didn’t simper. You just were, like sunlight hitting the edge of a blade, impossible to look away from even as it burned. The curtsey was perfunctory, your gaze lifting to his before propriety dictated it should. And Aegon? He forgot how to breathe. Your mouth was a wound. Your hair was wildfire caught in slow motion. And when your father cleared his throat twice before mentioning Visenya’s summons, the king realized he’d been staring at the way your pulse fluttered beneath your jaw like a trapped bird.

"Ah… my wife called for you—" Aegon started, then choked on the words. His fingers flexed, empty. Wife. Rhaenys had been dead half a year, and the word tasted like rust. He waved a servant over with a jerk of his chin, the boy nearly tripping in his haste. "Fetch Visenya." The command came out too sharp, and he saw your brows lift, just a fraction before schooling your expression into something politely blank. He wondered if you practiced that in mirrors.

You didn’t wait for permission to move, which should have enraged him. Instead, he watched, transfixed, as your gloved fingers trailed along the arm of the throne, slow, curious, like a thief testing a lock. The smelted swords snarled beneath your touch, catching the light in jagged fractals. Your father hissed your name, but you didn’t flinch. "It’s colder than I imagined" you mused, and Aegon’s gut twisted. No one spoke to the throne. No one touched it.

The servant boy skittered back with Visenya in tow, her silver braid coiled tight as a noose. She took one look at you, your fingers still lingering on the throne, your chin tilted toward the shadowed rafters and her mouth thinned. "Lord Loren" she said, though her eyes never left you. "Your daughter lacks manners."

You withdrew your hand, slow, deliberate...letting the hilt of a half melted sword snag your glove’s stitching. A thread unraveled, catching on the jagged edge. "Apologies, Your Grace" you murmured, but the words curled like smoke. Your gaze flicked to Aegon again, lingering on the wine stains darkening his sleeves. He wondered if you could smell it on him, the sour tang of grief drowned in Arbor gold.

Visenya sighed through her nose, a sound like steel being drawn. Your father seized your wrist, tugging you back a step, his grip tight enough to bruise. She ignored the tension, turning instead to Aegon. "I wish for Lord Lannister to join our council." Her voice was too smooth, testing. Aegon should have balked, should have remembered the way Loren’s men had burned beneath Balerion’s flames not three years prior.

But his pulse hammered in his throat as you flexed your fingers, the torn glove gaping at the knuckle. "Yes" he said, too quick, too rough. His gaze skittered from Lord Loren’s startled face to the way your skirts whispered against the floor.

In the chambers assigned to House Lannister, rooms too grand for mere guests, too close to the king’s own, your father paced before the hearth. "This is a trap" he muttered, twisting a signet ring around his finger. The firelight caught the ruby in his lion’s maw, staining his cheek bloody. You shrugged out of your cloak, letting it pool at your feet like spilled wine. "Or an opportunity."

You tilted your head toward the adjoining door, the one that led to Aegon’s private corridors. Your father stilled. "You wouldn’t." His voice cracked. You smiled, slow and sharp as a dagger drawn from silk. "He seems to like me father…Do you not wish or me to one day be queen?"

The knock came at midnight, three staccato raps against the oak. You opened it to find Aegon barefoot, his tunic unlaced to the sternum, his breath smelling of mint instead of wine. He didn’t speak. Just stared at the way your shift clung to your thighs, sheer as dragon wing in the candlelight. You stepped aside. He crossed the threshold like a man walking to the gallows, jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides. The door clicked shut behind him.

"You are barefoot, Your Grace" you murmured, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. The rushes whispered beneath your toes as you tugged your shift up just enough to expose the delicate bones of your ankles. Innocence was a game you played well, tilting your head, blinking slow as a cat in sunlight, but Aegon wasn’t looking at your face. His gaze snagged on the ribbon of bare skin above your ankle, where the linen had ridden up. A muscle leapt in his throat.

He crossed the room in three strides. You didn’t flinch when his fingers closed around your calf, callouses scraping the softness behind your knee but your pulse jumped beneath his palm. "Do you often visit ladies' chambers at midnight, my king?" you asked, sweet as poisoned honey. His thumb pressed into the hollow beneath your kneecap, hard enough to bruise. "No" he admitted, voice rough. The admission cost him, you saw it in the clench of his jaw, the way his free hand flexed as if aching to grab something. You let him push the shift higher.

The ribbon of skin became a flood, the curve of your thigh, the dip of your hip, the dark shadow between. His breath hitched. You’d expected hunger. Not this...this trembling reverence, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh like a man mapping a relic. "You’re staring" you murmured, though you weren’t certain he could hear you over the roar of the hearth. His pupils swallowed the violet of his eyes, black as the tunnels beneath Dragonstone.

He knelt. Not the graceful descent of a king, but a collapse, his knees striking the rushes with a dull thud. The sound should have been comical. It wasn’t. His hands bracketed your hips, his thumbs pressing into the sharp crests of your pelvis as if he could imprint himself there. You inhaled soap, the faint metallic tang of his rings and realized he’d bathed for this. The thought unspooled something low in your belly.

Your foot pressed against his sternum, the arch of your bare sole flush with the heat of his skin through the thin linen. He shuddered. “The hour is late, Your Grace” you murmured, curling your toes just enough to feel the pound of his heart. His nostrils flared. You expected fury...the infamous Targaryen temper flaring at being denied, but his grip gentled, his thumbs smoothing circles into your skin like a man soothing a spooked horse. It made your breath catch.

He exhaled through his teeth, his breath hot against your ankle. “You mock me” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. His fingers flexed on your thigh, blunt nails scraping lightly. You laughed, soft, startled and tangled your fingers in his hair. Silver-gold strands slipped through your fingers like molten metal. “Never.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “But even kings must sleep.”

His eyes flicked up...dark, fever bright, and you swore the shadows in the room deepened with it. The shift bunched around your waist now, the linen crumpled in his fists. His breath hitched when your toes pressed harder against his chest, the delicate bones of your foot shifting beneath his tunic. You expected him to tear the fabric. Instead, he exhaled, slow, deliberate, and let his forehead rest against your knee. His pulse rabbited beneath your heel.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then, his lips brushed the inside of your thigh, featherlight. You stiffened. Not from fear, but from the sheer unexpectedness of it. Kings didn’t kneel. Kings didn’t beg. Yet here he was, mouthing at your skin like a drowning man gasping for air. His teeth grazed the soft flesh near your hipbone, and your fingers tightened in his hair. A warning. A plea. He groaned against you, the vibration skittering up your spine.

And then...your giggle. High, bright, incongruous in the charged air. His head jerked up, eyes wild. You shoved at his shoulder with your foot, the motion sending your shift sliding back down in a whisper of linen. “My father might think it improper if I have visitors this late…” You smoothed the fabric over your knees, tilting your head. “No less the king.” The words curled like smoke in the hearth lit dark.

Aegon sat back on his heels, breathing ragged. For a moment, he just stared at your ankle, at the rushes crushed beneath his knees. Then he exhaled, sharp, through his nose. The sound was raw. Unkingly. He stood in one jerky motion, his bare feet tapping the floor as he swayed. You watched, fascinated, as his throat worked, swallowing words, swallowing pride.

"Goodnight" he rasped, already retreating toward the door. It wasn't graceful. His tunic gaped where you'd hooked a toe into the fabric. You curled your legs beneath you, letting the shift pool in your lap like spilled milk. "Will you return?" you asked, tilting your head just enough to catch the way his fingers spasmed against the doorframe.

Aegon's shoulders stiffened. The firelight caught the sweat beading along his hairline, the tremble in his jaw. He didn't turn. "Do you want me to?" The question scraped out of him, raw as a fresh wound. You smiled...slow, secret, and let the silence stretch until his knuckles whitened against the oak.

"Yes" you finally murmured, dragging a fingertip along the embroidered edge of your shift. The fabric whispered against your skin like a promise. His exhale shuddered through the room, uneven. You watched his reflection in the darkened window, the way his throat worked, the tension in his shoulders as he fought not to turn.

The first month was a dance of stolen glances and half finished sentences. You left your gloves draped over the arm of his throne, always the left one, always torn at the seam where the Iron Throne had snagged it. Aegon began collecting them like a knight gathering favors, tucking them beneath his pillow where the scent of him lingered.

He stopped drinking at dawn. Started training in the yard again, the drag of balckfyre through the air sharp enough to draw blood from the whispers trailing in your wake.

Your father caught you humming in the solar one evening, twisting a loose thread from your latest "lost" glove around your finger. "You play a dangerous game" he muttered, watching you coil the silk tighter until the tip of your finger purpled. You smiled, not the sweet, demure thing you gave the court, but something sharper. "He hasn't touched me." The thread snapped. Your father's jaw tightened. "And when he does? When he tires of chasing shadows?" You stood, smoothing your skirts with deliberate slowness. "Then I'll have him exactly where I want him."

Aegon, meanwhile, had taken to leaving his own tokens, a single dragon's scale on your windowsill, still warm from Balerion's hide, a misspelled note tucked into your embroidery hoop, you treasured the shaky "Aegon" more than the perfect "Your Grace".

The court whispered the king was courting for the wish to have the riches that come with that of a Lannister. Visenya's nostrils flared every time she caught you tracing the melted swords of his throne with your bare fingertips. But the king? The king stopped flinching at sudden noises. The king stopped drowning himself in wine. The king started laughing again, rough and surprised, when you "accidentally" spilled ink down his council reports.

The first time he kissed you, it wasn't in some shadowed alcove or moonlit garden. It was in the middle of court, with half the realm watching, when you leaned over to whisper something vile about Lord Baratheon's beard, something about it looking like a startled hedgehog, and Aegon, halfway through a sip of wine, choked. You patted his back, all false concern, and his lips caught your wrist instead. The hall fell silent. His mouth was warm, his tongue flicking against your pulse point like he could taste the lie. You didn't pull away. Neither did he.

That night, he didn't knock. The door swung open to reveal him already half undressed, his hair wild from clawing his own hands through it. You were sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over your eyes like a maiden in a mummer's farce. "You're late" you sighed, peeking through your fingers. His boot hit the floor with a thud. "You humiliated me today." A lie.

His voice was too thick with want. You stretched, letting the neckline of your shift gape. "Did I?" He was on you before the last syllable faded, his teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder. You gasped, not at the pain, but at the way his hips canted against yours, the hard line of him pressing into your thigh.

He didn't ask this time. His fingers tangled in your shift, the fabric ripping at the seams with a sound like tearing parchment. You let him. Let him push you flat against the mattress, let him drag his mouth down your throat like a man starved. When his hand slid between your thighs, you arched into his touch with a whimper that wasn't entirely feigned. "Please" you breathed, and the word snapped something in him. He fumbled with his breeches, his fingers shaking against the laces. You reached down, brushing his knuckles. "Let me." The knot came apart beneath your fingers like a promise unraveling.

The first thrust stole your breath. Not from pain, you'd prepared mentally for that, but from the way his pupils blew wide, his lips parting on a soundless gasp. You dug your nails into his shoulders, dragging him deeper.

He groaned, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and uneven. "Gods" he rasped, hips stuttering. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back. "More" you demanded, and he obeyed like a man drowning. The bedframe creaked. The headboard knocked against the wall in a rhythm that would leave bruises on the stone by morning.

His hands mapped your body like a blind man memorizing scripture, palm skimming the dip of your waist, thumb tracing the arch of your ribcage. "Perfect" he breathed against your collarbone, lips brushing the hollow there. You arched, gasping when his teeth scraped the swell of your breast. He worshipped you. Not with the practiced reverence of a king performing duty, but with the clumsy, starving devotion of a man who'd forgotten what sunlight felt like until it burned him alive. His tongue circled your skin, slow, savoring, and you twisted your fingers in his hair with a whimper.

He pulled back, just enough to see your face and the raw awe in his expression made your throat tighten. "Look at you" he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your stomach. His voice cracked. "Look at what you've done to me." His hips rolled against yours, the hot length of him pressing into you. You felt drunk with it, the way his breath hitched when you skimmed your nails down his back, the shudder that wracked him as you nipped at his jaw.

He moved like a man half-drowned in pleasure, each thrust measured, deliberate, as if terrified you might dissolve beneath him. His fingers tangled with yours, pinning your hand above your head as he pressed his forehead to yours. "Say my name" he begged, his breath hot against your lips. You arched beneath him, gasping when his free hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit with rough, reverent fingers. "Aegon—" His groan was visceral, his hips stuttering as he swallowed your cry with a kiss that tasted of salt and want.

The headboard cracked against the wall with renewed force. You could hear beyond the door, a servant dropped a tray with a rather loud clatter. His teeth sank into your shoulder, not the playful nip from before, but a claiming bite that would bruise. You clawed at his back, dragging him deeper, and he cursed into your skin when your walls clenched around him. "Again" he demanded, voice ragged. You obeyed, tightening around him with a whimper that sent his control splintering. His release tore through him with a shout that echoed off the rafters, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you with ragged, gasping thrusts.

After, he collapsed atop you, all sweat-slick skin and heaving lungs, his forehead pressed to your chest. You could feel his heart hammering against your ribs. His breath was hot against your damp skin as he murmured something incoherent…your name, a prayer, a plea…his lips brushing your collarbone. You carded your fingers through his tangled hair, and he shuddered like a storm-tossed ship finding harbor.

It was the silence that unnerved you, the absence of his usual sharp wit or biting sarcasm. He simply lay there, breathing you in, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip as if memorizing the topography of your body. When he finally lifted his head, his violet eyes were dark, unfathomable. "You'll stay" he said, and it wasn't a question. You arched a brow, but before you could retort, his thumb brushed your lower lip. "Not tonight. Always." His voice was rough, raw, the sound of a man who'd spent too long choking on his own grief.

You smiled, slow and knowing, feeling your plan click into place like the tumblers of a lock yielding to the right pressure. Your hand slid into his sweat damp hair, fingers tightening just enough to make his breath catch. "Always is a long time, my king" you murmured, but you were already lifting his face to yours, sealing the words with a kiss that tasted of salt and surrender. His groan vibrated against your tongue, his hands gripping your waist like he feared you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You nipped at his lower lip, savoring the way his hips jerked against yours in response.

Dawn crept through the window like a thief, painting the wreckage of the night in pale gold, the shredded shift tangled at the foot of the bed, his tunic flung halfway across the room, the imprint of his fingers still blooming violet on your hips. You slipped from his arms while he slept, his face slack with exhaustion, his fingers twitching against the empty space where your body had been. You dressed quickly, pausing only to press a kiss to the knuckles of his outstretched hand, the one still clutching the rumpled sheets as if they could anchor him to the dream of you.

The maids were already whispering when you stepped into the hall. Their voices cut off like a strangled gasp when you appeared, but not before you caught the words "screaming like a whore" and "the king's never—". You smiled, slow as a knife being drawn, and watched their faces blanch. One dropped into a curtsey so deep her knee hit the stone with a crack. You didn't help her up. Instead, you turned on your heel and strode back to your chambers—no, his chambers now, judging by the way he'd snarled "mine" into your skin last night, and threw the door open with enough force to make the hinges scream.

Aegon jerked upright, sheets clutched to his waist, his hair a wild tangle of silver gold. The morning light caught the fresh scratches down his chest, the bite marks purpling his shoulder. His eyes, still hazy with sleep widened when he saw you. He rasped your name, voice wrecked. You didn't let him finish. "The maids are talking" you announced, kicking the door shut behind you. His brow furrowed. "About…?" You stepped closer, letting him see the way your skirts swayed with each deliberate movement. "About how the king spent half the night making a Lannister roar..." You dragged a finger along the edge of the mattress, watching his throat bob. "I thought you should know… before the rumors reach your sister-wife"

His fingers twitched against the sheets. "Visenya won't—" "Oh, she will" you interrupted, flashing him a smile sharp enough to draw blood.

"Especially when she hears what they're calling me." You turned away abruptly, pretending to fuss with the torn hem of your sleeve. "They say I'm your whore now. That you'll never wed me properly." Aegon's breath hitched. "I never—"

"I know" you sighed, cutting him off again. "But my father…" You let your voice wobble. "He'll take me back to Casterly Rock if he thinks you've dishonored me." The bed creaked as Aegon surged forward, his fingers closing around your wrist. "No." The word came out rough, desperate. You blinked up at him, letting your lower lip tremble. "No?" His grip tightened. "You're not going anywhere." You let your knees buckle then, sinking to the rushes with a choked sob. "Then what am I to you, Your Grace?"

His hands shook as they framed your face, thumbs brushing away tears that hadn't quite fallen. "Mine" he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. "My queen." The words hung in the air like smoke from Balerion's jaws, hot, suffocating. You leaned back just enough to see his face, watching realization dawn in his violet eyes. "Seven hells" he breathed, but his grip didn't loosen. You smiled, slow, victorious, and pressed your palm flat against his chest where his heart hammered wild as a caged dragon. "Say it again" you whispered. His lips parted, then froze as the door burst open.

Visenya stood silhouetted against the torchlight, Dark Sister gleaming at her hip. Her nostrils flared at the sight of you kneeling between Aegon's bare thighs, his fingers tangled in your hair. "husband" she said, voice colder than the Wall. Aegon didn't move. "Sister." The word came out hoarse. You watched his throat bob as Visenya's gaze raked over the bite marks purpling his shoulder, the scratches down his chest. Her lip curled. "The small council awaits" she bit out, knuckles white on the doorframe. "They're voting on the Dornish situation."

You pressed your cheek against Aegon's knee, feeling the muscle twitch beneath your lips. "Tell them the king is occupied" you murmured, tracing idle circles on his calf. Visenya's sword hissed halfway from its scabbard. Aegon's hand clamped down on your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to still your fingers. "Enough." His voice cracked like a whip. You blinked up at him, all innocence, but his eyes were fixed on his sister. "We'll be there."

Visenya's fingers spasmed around Dark Sister's hilt. "We?" The word dripped venom. You smiled, slow and knowing, and rose in a ripple of silk, deliberately close enough for Aegon to catch your scent, for Visenya to see the fresh bruises peeking above your neckline. Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose. "She comes" he said, and this time his voice held the steel of command. "I have an announcement."

Visenya scoffed, not the huff of a thwarted woman, but the sound of a dragoness who'd already tasted the trap's metal. She slammed the door hard enough to make the hinges scream, leaving Aegon to dress in the wreckage of your night. You watched his reflection in the window, the way his fingers hesitated over his breeches, still damp with your shared sweat, before yanking them on with rough, jerky motions.

"Here" you mumbled, turning his head toward you as you smoothed the rumpled tunic over his shoulders. The fabric smelled of crushed rosemary and sex. His throat bobbed when your fingers brushed the fresh bite mark beneath his collarbone. "I will make you happy" you whispered, fastening the last hook with deliberate slowness. His breath hitched, not at the words, but at your thumb tracing the hollow of his throat where his pulse rabbited.

Aegon caught your wrist. "You already have" he rasped, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart hammered against your fingers, wild, untamed. You smiled, slow as sunrise, and leaned in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. "Then wait until you see what comes next." His grip tightened convulsively, knuckles whitening against your skin.

The small council chamber fell silent when you entered at Aegon's side. Loren Lannister's goblet hit the table with a clatter. Visenya's fingers flexed near Dark Sister's hilt. Only Rhaenys' empty chair remained untouched, the velvet cushions still holding the ghostly impression of her form. You felt Aegon tense beside you, his grief a living thing before his hand found the small of your back, warm through the silk.

You'd greeted each lord with deliberate grace earlier, pressing a kiss to your father's cheek, only for him to recoil when your skin carried nothing but Aegon's scent. The rosemary oil from his bath last night, the metallic tang of dragon fire, the musk of sweat and sex that clung to you both like a second skin. Your father's nostrils had flared, his grip on your arm tightening. "You let him—" he'd begun, only to choke when you smiled and whispered, "No, father. I made him."

Now, standing before the council with Aegon's palm searing through your gown, you watched Lord Baratheon's beard twitch like the hedgehog you'd mocked. The silence thickened until Aegon's fingers flexed against your spine, a king's command. You stepped forward, letting the movement pull your neckline taut enough to reveal the purpling bite above your breast. Gasps rippled through the room.

"I shall take Lady Lannister as my wife." Aegon's voice, usually so measured, cracked like dry kindling. His thumb traced your hipbone through the silk. "I trust no one objects to this decision." Not a question...a warning. Visenya's chair screeched backward, but it was your father who surged to his feet first, his golden chain clinking like shackles.

"Your Grace" Lord Loren began, knuckles white around his goblet. You watched wine slosh onto the polished oak, a spreading stain darker than the marks Aegon had left between your thighs. "Surely such matters require—"

"The matter" Aegon interrupted, "is settled." His fingers slid up your spine, proprietary and hot even through the layers of silk. You arched into the touch like a cat sunning itself, watching Visenya's nostrils flare as the movement made your gown gape. The bite mark shone livid in the torchlight.

You beamed, all teeth and triumph until your gaze caught on your father's face. Lord Loren's lips had thinned to a bloodless slash, his golden brows drawn tight over eyes gone hard as Casterly Rock. Without breaking your smile, you excused yourself with a murmur about "refreshments" fingers closing around your father's wrist with deceptive delicacy. He followed, but not before tossing a last, withering glance at Aegon, who was too busy watching the sway of your hips to notice.

The moment the council chamber door clicked shut, Loren wrenched his arm free. "You fool" he hissed, dragging you into the shadow. His fingers dug into your shoulders hard enough to bruise. "You think bedding him makes you queen?" You let your lashes flutter, all false innocence. "It made Rhaenys queen." Your father's grip tightened. "Rhaenys was Targaryen."

From beyond the door came the muffled crash of a goblet hitting stone, Visenya's voice, sharp as Dark Sister's edge. You tilted your head, listening to Aegon's answering growl. "Hear that?" you murmured, pressing closer. "He's defending me already." Loren exhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of sour wine clinging to his breath. "Defending his right to fuck you, you mean."

You smiled, slow as poison seeping through honeyed wine. "Do you not wish for your blood to be royal, father?" Your fingers traced the golden lion brooch at his throat, the one he'd fastened with such pride this morning. Now it felt like a collar. "Think of it" you whispered. "Grandsons with dragonfire in their veins. Your legacy written in Valyrian steel instead of ledger books." His grip slackened, just enough for you to twist free.

The door creaked open behind you. Aegon stood framed in the torchlight, his tunic rumpled where your nails had raked it. His violet eyes flicked between you and Loren, lingering on the reddening marks his fingers had left on your arms. "Is there a problem?" The words came out low, dangerous, more dragon than king.

You turned with a laugh bright as shattered glass, pressing your palm to your father's chest before he could speak. "None at all, Your Grace." Your fingers curled into the golden embroidery of Loren's doublet, nails biting through silk. "My father was just saying how happy…" you paused, watching Aegon's nostrils flare as your thumb traced the Lannister sigil over your father's heart, "…how very happy he is for us."

Lord Loren's jaw clenched, a tremor you felt through your grip, but when you dug your fingers in harder, he exhaled through his nose like a bull yielding to the ringmaster's whip. "Indeed" he ground out, the word scraping his throat raw. His hand rose to cover yours, the gesture almost tender if not for the way his signet ring pressed into your knuckles hard enough to leave crescents in your skin. "The honor is… immeasurable."

Aegon's eyes narrowed at the white-knuckled tension between you, but you stepped back smoothly, draping yourself against his side with a sigh. "Father's overcome" you murmured, pressing your lips to the hinge of Aegon's jaw where his pulse jumped. His arm slid around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your hip.

Everyone had been right where you wanted them to be...in the palm of your hand.

dawnsarchive

Not-So-Secret (Mihawk x Reader)

One Piece | Mihawk | 3.2k | Masterlist

When you returned home from what felt like months at sea, the last thing you expected to find was two children. Well, not real children. They were clearly far older than that but with the volume they argued at, you could think of no better term.

It was the first time the castle had greeted you with anything but stillness. Their argument bounced faintly along the vaulted ceilings and down the halls as you walked, and despite yourself, it drew a quiet smile from you.

A glass of wine waited beside your favourite chaise, set within easy reach of the fire that crackled low in the hearth. The warmth of it brushed against your skin as you passed, chasing away the lingering chill of travel. You leaned down to press a brief kiss to Mihawk’s cheek. His hand came up briefly at your wrist before you could pull away, a quiet pause more than a restraint, as though confirming you were truly there before he let you go.

You settled opposite him, the familiar weight of the room closing comfortably around you.

“Are you interested in adoption now, my love?” you asked. “I won’t complain too much but I admit, I’d have preferred to start with somebody a little younger.”

luckybrandjs

𝜗ৎ one piece x reader: random things that make them fall for you

ft. luffy, zoro, sanji, robin, ace, law

𓍢ִ໋❀ luffy

having a loud/obnoxious laugh. most jokes inevitably go over luffy's head, and he'll just look confused. what really knocks him out, though, is the incredibly offbeat laugh you let out; the joke itself doesn't have to be all that witty, but the way it has you cackling makes it the most hysterical thing in the world.

not being picky. of course, this mainly goes for food. but it also means being down for whatever, whenever; you never question it when luffy says to do something, you never bring down the mood. you just nod and trust him to keep you from ever being bored or unhappy.

expressive body language. you're very comfortable with your emotions; you're not scared to show them. you'll cry when your sad, be energetic when your excited, and smile when your happy. it just makes you an easy person to be around, and luffy can't help but be drawn to you for the same reasons people are drawn to him.

𓍢ִ໋❀ zoro

resting bitch face. obviously zoro has one. but he really likes it on you, too. it'll come out whenever your too focused, or too bored, and nothing seems too exciting. that is, until zoro appears, and the brightest smile appears on your face. suddenly you look like the friendliest and most approachable person on the planet.

having a good memory. zoro gets lost often, obviously. so its nice to be around someone who at least remembers the route they took. but it's the way you remember every little detail about him, even ones he himself forgot, that really gets him going.

competitiveness. others call you stubborn. you never back down until your proven wrong, and you won't stop playing until you win. but zoro is just like you in that sense. it could be something as trivial as a game of uno, but the amount of passion you pour into it always mirrors his. it makes winning all the more satisfying when its against someone who actually cares.

𓍢ִ໋❀ sanji

asking him for help. its not as if your incompetent, or unable to do anything by yourself, but rather you're comfortable enough in your own abilities to ask for help. and sanji knows this, too. whenever he gets a chance to go out of the way for you, he'll do it in a heartbeat (acts of service king).

being a perfectionist. you always know what you want; you always have a clear vision. but it also causes you to stress about every single detail that most wouldn't notice. yet sanji also appreciates the finer things in life, and will do everything in his power to meet your expectations. your high standards also make him feel like someone who's worth being around; if he can make you satisfied, he could really make anyone satisfied.

saying his name in conversations. the two of you could be casually talking on the deck, about something as boring as the weather, neither fully engaged. but the minute his name comes from your lips he gets all flustered. it astounds him every time, too, that just the way you say his name could really kill him.

𓍢ִ໋❀ robin

braiding her hair. you could just be leaning on her shoulder, playing with her hair while her attention was occupied by something else, and make it seem like she was the most fascinating thing there. just your presence alone was enough; she never felt the need to put on a performance or humor you to receive tenderness.

interest in her interests. robin knows her part on the crew is vital, yet none of the other strawhats seem too keen on her passion for history. except for you, that is. archaeology isn't just a hobby of hers, it was the only constant in a decade full of turmoil and isolation. your attentiveness makes her feel like she's sharing a piece of her soul with you, a reminder that she's not only needed but also wanted.

committing to a bit. i think robin's sense of humor is somewhat under appreciated. she could be gaslighting luffy and chopper of something completely false, and you'd immediately get it and play along. if they ever mentioned it to someone else, the two of you would go out of the way to convince them of it too.

𓍢ִ໋❀ ace

watching you do something you love. ace is weird in that he could see someone he loves doing something as natural as a hobby of theirs, and fall in love all over again. he's awe struck by every small thing about you; anything you do can really knock him out. he could watch you just exist and be content for the rest of his life.

adding "my" in front of every nickname. he swears it kills him. you'll never just call him "handsome" or "baby," its always "my handsome boy" or "my baby" with you. he just loves that he's someone's one and only, no matter how corny others may find it.

oversharing. not only does ace love everything about you, he wants to know everything about you, too. he practically wants to become you, just too see exactly how your mind works. and being able to talk to him about anything just goes to show how much you trust him, and how safe he makes you feel.

𓍢ִ໋❀ law

comfortable silence. law's life is full of chaos, from his crew, to his plans, and to the emotional turbulence inside his mind. but your presence has the ability to silence the rest of the world; it reminds him of his time with corazon. the two of you just mind your own business usually, but it's better than being on your own.

having niche or weird hobbies. law's never been super talkative or anything, but he loves listening whenever you talk about something you love. especially if it's something others would find strange, like lock-picking or bookbinding. it makes him feel less weird about coin collecting.

being the only one too laugh at his joke. law usually gets drowned out by others in a large group setting, but it's not as if he really minds. yet still, he can't help but feel a sort of intimate connection when you laugh at something he muttered that no one else even heard. it's just reassuring to know someone's always listening.

anything but studying for finals 🥹🥹

part two maybe 👀👀??

the-darklings

thinking about bb asking reader to describe sunlight bc he’s never seen it 🥺 all he knows is sterile lighting and pictures of it from the beach room

you’re in the nest. his head is in your lap this time. he does that sometimes now, since the “baby” incident broke something open between you. bb lets himself be the one held instead of the one doing the holding. his eyes are closed and your fingers are in his sandy hair, the fluorescent lights buzzing their eternal buzz overhead and he says, quietly, like he’s been thinking about it for a while:

“what does sunlight feel like?”

not look like. but feel like. because bb has seen pictures. the poolrooms have that strange refracted light that approximates something warm. the backrooms occasionally produce rooms with windows that open onto nothing, painted skies, set dressing, open fields with hazy sunlight. he’s seen the concept. he’s asking about the real experience.

and you have to think about it. you have to actually think, because sunlight is one of those things you never describe until you can’t have it anymore. it’s like trying to explain breathing to someone who doesn’t have lungs.

“it’s… warm,” you start, which is obvious, and you feel slightly stupid for saying. “but not like—not like heat. you know, like a fire or a radiator. it’s softer than that. it’s on your skin but it goes deeper, like it’s warming your blood directly. and it moves. clouds pass over and it goes away and comes back and every time it comes back you notice it again. just for a second, this little moment of oh, there it is.”

he’s quiet. listening with that total-focus attention.

“it makes you sleepy,” you go on. “the good kind. like your body just… trusts it. you can close your eyes and it’s on your eyelids and everything goes red and warm and you feel… safe. held. like something bigger than you is just… there. paying attention. not asking for anything. just there.”

he opens his eyes. bobby’s blue. looking up at you from your lap. and he’s quiet for a long time. processing. running your words through whatever vast and ancient architecture he uses for a brain.

then he says, simply, like he’s stating a fact about the weather or the way the carpet is always damp:

“that’s what it feels like when you touch me.”

he says it like he’s genuinely just making a connection. filing it under the same category. you described warmth that goes deeper than skin, warmth that makes you feel safe. one that doesn’t ask for anything, comes and goes and every time it comes back you notice it again… and his brain, his ancient, inhuman brain, reached for the nearest equivalent in his experience and found your hands in his hair.

you don’t say anything. you can’t. your throat closes up and your eyes burn. your fingers have gone still in his hair and he notices, and bb’s brows furrow slightly.

“was that wrong?”

“no.” your voice comes out thick. “no, that wasn’t wrong.”

“you’re crying.”

“i know.”

“why?”

because you just told me that the only sunlight you’ve ever felt is me. because you’ve been alive for longer than i can comprehend and you have never been warm until i put my hands on you. because i was trying to describe something ordinary and you turned it into the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me and you don’t even know you did it.

“happy crying,” you reassure him, which is reductive but he accepts it. adds it to his catalogue of human behaviours that don’t make sense but that he’s learning to navigate.

you start stroking his hair again. he closes his eyes. the furrow smooths out.

“tell me more,” he says softly. “about outside.”

and you do.

matsookawa

Title: A Man's Crisis

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,826

Summary: It's a humbling experience when a usually confident man finds himself emotionally threatened by a nineteen year old boy who happens to have a close relationship with the woman he loves.

Note: This was a request I unintentionally neglected for a year.

“What are the five S’s?”

Your brows furrowed and you stopped kneading your dough. You stared at the ball, concentrating on your search for the answer. Mihawk always did this. Gave you random test questions all because you once offhandedly mentioned you’d like to know more about wine.

He waited patiently, his body turned to you and his hip against the counter. It wasn’t often time allowed him to really take you in, so when you invited him to be your sous chef, he jumped at the opportunity.

Head shooting up when the answer finally came, Mihawk wished the beaming grin you gave him would stay forever. It was one of the most beautiful sights to behold.

“See, swirl, sniff, sip, savor!”

The corner of his lip twitched upwards. “Very good.”

Your smile turned teasing. “Dracule Mihawk, did you just give out praise? What if word gets out to the whole house?”

The swordsman noticed how you moved a little closer. The smell of your perfume invaded his senses and he tried committing it to memory. It was everywhere you were and over time, it became you. Your previous presence in a room was able to be traced and he was always led to where you actually were, your soft smile inviting him to make up something to converse about.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. No one would believe you anyway.”

Your giggle rung through the kitchen and it was as if the entirety of Kuraigana suddenly became exposed to sunlight.

Notoriously nonchalant, Dracule Mihawk was now faced with a truth he couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud. And certainly not to you.

He was absolutely in love with you. And you constantly seeking his praise and asking him to be the first person to try whatever new thing you cooked, was not helping his situation whatsoever.

The soft clanking of swords forced him to stop staring and instead turn to the doorway. Zoro stood, speaking only to you.

“When are you two going to be finished? It’s been two hours and even I know pizza shouldn’t take this long.”

Your gaze remained on Mihawk, but your smile turned softer at Zoro’s voice.

“Some patience would be appreciated, Zo. We’re cooking for four and pizza is not the only thing there is.”

The boy grumbled under his breath, prompting you to gesture towards the refrigerator. “There is a newly bought six pack in there to get you through this difficult time.”

Zoro grabbed the beers. As he passed you to leave, he landed a heavy hand on your shoulder, shaking it as a silent thank you. You pat his hand and he leaves shortly after.

It’s times like these Mihawk is reminded he never stood a chance. Not when you and his protégé had such a close relationship. How is he, too full of fear to even return the brush of your hand when walking side by side, supposed to compete with someone who just yesterday fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie night (which you did not invite Mihawk to, not that he cares)?

Sure, you and he playfully flirted here and there during sparring, but maybe that was just something you did when the adrenaline was rushing. Maybe the late-night conversations over a bottle of wine were friendly. Maybe when he surprised you with wine trivia, your grin was because you were reminiscing on a conversation with Zoro.

He was broken from his stewing by your hand on his bicep.

“Everything okay in that busy head of yours?”

His skin burned where your hand lay and he spared a moment to savor it.

“Perfectly fine. We should finish before Perona decides she’s had enough waiting.”

The Gods blessed him with another one of your laughs as you squeezed his arm once, returning to your task.

Later at the dinner table, you’re seated between Mihawk and Zoro. Perona sits across from you, telling a story about her day to anyone who bothered to tune in.

The owner of the house turned just in time to see you playfully shove Zoro who was smiling down at his plate as he leaned back into place.

The grip on Mihawk’s fork grew tighter and you only took notice when you saw the top beginning to bend.

You lightly kick his shin under the table. “What’s going on with you?”

He stabbed his fork into his pizza and grumbled, “Nothing.”

You shook your head and returned to your conversation with Zoro.

After dinner, you found Mihawk in his study. You didn’t bother knocking, as he never complained when you entered without permission.

He was facing the window, looking out over the small training yard. His eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. He was unmoving and his breathing steady. This was clearly a man in deep contemplation.

“Any crises swimming in that brain of yours I can help with?”

You did not receive a response. How was he meant to tell you the only crisis in his life is the fact that he’s in love with a woman he can’t have?

“I fear you don’t have knowledge in the kind of situation I’m in.”

The familiar scent of you intensified when you stood beside him. You watched him while his own gaze stayed through the glass. He couldn’t bear to look at you in such a low moment.

“Wouldn’t hurt to try,” you said softly.

“I’m in love with someone. Someone who does not see me the same.”

In his peripheral, your smile faltered. He wondered why. Maybe you just lost some respect for him. He was a mighty warlord, a legendary swordsman, known for his ability to remain calm under the utmost pressure. And now, he’s just a boy complaining about his crush not liking him back.

He was about to retract everything when,

“I know we’ve never gotten into the nitty gritty of our lives, but,” you began.

A moment passed where the only noise was the faint sound of Perona and Zoro arguing in the foyer.

“I’ve definitely been in that situation a time or two.”

Mihawk was both surprised and wanting to die at the same time. You? The most beautiful woman on the seas had experience with unrequited love? And also, you’re making the conscious choice to have this conversation with him?

“What was your strategy?”

You snorted. “It’s not sword fighting, Mihawk. There is no strategy. You say your feelings and… just hope they reciprocate. If they don’t, you learn to live with it.”

Mihawk couldn’t keep the tone out of his voice. “Is that how you approached Zoro then? With hope?”

You had furrowed brows and a confused smile when he turned to finally look at you.

“Approached Zoro? What are you talking about?”

“When you began dating.”

His ears tinged red when you guffawed.

“Dating? Are you insane? Do I look like a cradle robber?”

As much as he would like to believe he kept his composure, something in his expression must have given away his confusion because yours morphed into one of amused surprise.

He quickly tried to defend himself. “You’re both the same age.”

“Mihawk, Zoro is nineteen. I’m twenty-seven.”

The great warlord and legendary swordsman, known far and wide for his intelligence and skill, never bothered to ask your age.

“You’re twenty-seven.”

You confirm, “I’m twenty-seven.”

“I met Zoro when he was seventeen and escaping some bounty hunters on my island. He needed a place to hide, so he stayed with me for a couple of weeks. I taught him some tips with his swords and we started writing to each other.”

“You dote on him a lot.” The jealousy was so loud, you were sure Perona and Zoro could hear it from the other side of the house.

“I dote on him because he’s lonely. He doesn’t have his crew, you’re understandably hard on him, Perona annoys him, so he wrote me asking me to come visit.”

The pieces were beginning to finally form the picture.

“And he was too embarrassed to admit that, so he made it seem like you showed up on your own wanting pointers,” Mihawk concluded.

“Yeah. I’ve, uh, been handling swords since childhood.”

He hummed. “So you and Zoro are not together.”

“Correct. However, he did tease me in his letters, saying I would end up an old maid and that his mentor whose home I would be staying at was very handsome.”

You were able to maintain eye contact, but your nerves were given away when you began picking at the hem of your sleeves.

“Really? Zoro called me that?”

Where on Earth he pulled the confidence to tease you, no one could tell.

“Okay, I might have taken some creative liberties in that story.”

He huffed a small laugh and you lit up.

“Then,” he swallowed thickly, suddenly hesitant. Should he take your advice? Speak everything aloud with nothing on his person except hope? What if one of the situations you mentioned in being earlier is one you’re in right now with someone else? What if he’s misread the entire thing?

“You know,” you cut through his thoughts. “If you want to go on a date, all you have to do is ask.”

A time of death would have been pronounced if a medical examiner saw him in that moment. The way his body froze could have easily been mistaken for rigor mortis.

Your lips pressed together to suppress a grin. “Want to know how I know?”

You weren’t generous enough to allow the shock time to pass and part of him was grateful you chose not to let him suffer. His body relaxed as you explained,

“Mihawk, I’m the only person you speak to aside from Perona, Zoro, and Shanks. You refuse to spend any more time than you have to with them, but always drop whatever you’re doing to accommodate my requests.”

After searching your face for any trace of insincerity, he came up empty-handed.

“I was under the impression I was discreet.”

You shook your head. “A man in love never is.”

Silence was shared as the new information settled over you both. Mihawk didn’t notice when he took a step forward, chests almost touching.

“In that case,” he swallowed thickly. “Would you-“

“I would love to go on a date with you, Dracule Mihawk.”

You stepped forward and his hands instinctively found your hips. Your arms decided to station themselves on his biceps. It was at that moment he realized, this must be your favorite part of his body, so he thanked whatever deity is out there that he chose a physically demanding career.

He leaned down slightly until your lips were just barely brushing.

You rubbed his arms softly and teased, “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

Mihawk smirked. “That depends,”

“When do you need to aerate a white wine?” The resulting slap to his arm stung, but was definitely worth it.

Note: My headcanon is that Mihawk does not eat pizza with his hands and instead uses a fork and knife.

lasagnaforem

Part 1

Backrooms (2026) - Kane Parsons, A24

miosinee

mary kline backrooms my beloved

jinkiezzsstuff

hi! could you write something for homelander where reader (with whom he's in a relationship) is very affectionate, like he doesn't even need to manipulate or threaten her into loving him because she already does even though she's knows he's not the perfect hero he pretends to be?

Absolutely I love Homelander! Antony Starr just portrays him so well, there’s not enough fics of him to get my fill :) thank you for the request! I really appreciate it and I hope this was what you expected I actually struggled a bit with trying to write affection with Homelander that didn’t sound too OOC. LMK whatchya think if I didn’t meet the mark feel free to request again! :D

Warnings: nothing too graphic, non-sexual bath sharing, blood mentions, takes place after Homelander kills the scientist who raised him, cursing and immoral reader. Mention breifly of Homelander smelling arousal it’s a one off thing, use of homelanders real name; John.

word count: 1,112

notmeolive

⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that ²⁰

lowdown ☆ you come home with someone else’s blood on you, and everyone tries to help in the only ways they know how. ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f ) miles ☆ 2863 ride style ☆ angst/comfort danger on the trail ☆ blood aftermath, shock, first kill trauma, showering off blood, emotional distress, soldier boy being quietly soft in the most emotionally constipated way possible

𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist

the safehouse does not know what to do with you when you get back.

that is the first thing you notice. not the lights. not the old smell of coffee and gun oil and whatever awful food hughie forgot on the counter before you left. not even the blood gone stiff in your trousers, pulling cold against your skin every time you move.

it’s the silence.

byorderofana

Don’t Flinch, Mr. Shelby || Thomas Shelby x Reader

warnings: blood, injury, tension, mild danger

note: Y/n is a nurse and Tommy is far more interested in her than she is willing to be in him.

It was late into the night when you heard the clinic door open, the little brass bell above it ringing quietly through the stillness. You couldn’t help but look up, slightly startled, seeing as no one usually came in at that hour unless there was trouble, drink, blood, or all three.

You had just finished cleaning the examination table from your last patient, a young man who had split his eyebrow open during some foolish fight outside one of the pubs. You were tired, your sleeves rolled up, your apron already marked with faint stains from a long day of work, and all you wanted was a quiet hour before morning came and brought half of Birmingham back through your door.

But then he walked in.

Thomas Shelby.

You knew who he was before he even spoke.

Everyone knew who Thomas Shelby was.

He stood near the door, his dark coat damp from the rain outside, his cap low over his eyes and one hand pressed firmly against his side. Blood had soaked through his shirt, spreading darkly beneath his waistcoat, yet he looked as composed as if he had simply come in to ask for directions.

You looked at the blood first, then at his face.

He looked back at you, waiting.

Perhaps he expected you to gasp. Perhaps he expected you to be afraid. Perhaps he was simply used to women reacting to him in some way.

You did not.

“Sit down,” you said, already turning toward the cabinet for supplies.

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, almost as though he was amused.

“I won’t be here long,” he said, his voice low and calm.

“You won’t be anywhere long if you keep bleeding like that,” you replied.

For a moment, he simply watched you. Then, without arguing, he walked over and sat on the edge of the examination table. His movements were careful, although he clearly tried to hide it. You noticed anyway. Men always seemed to think they were better at hiding pain than they actually were.

“Coat off,” you told him.

He looked at you again. “You always speak to patients like that?”

“When they arrive bleeding after midnight, yes,” you said.

Thomas did not smile, not fully, but something shifted at the corner of his mouth. It was small and brief, but you saw it.

He removed his coat slowly, and you took the scissors from the tray beside you before stepping closer. The scent of tobacco, rain, and blood clung to him. He was handsome, you supposed, in the same way people found storms handsome from the safety of a window. Sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes, a tiredness about him that made him look older than he probably was. There was something dangerous in the stillness of him, something that made the room feel quieter just because he was in it.

You ignored it as best you could.

“Shirt,” you said.

He began to unbutton what he could, but the blood had made the fabric cling to his skin. You sighed quietly and cut through the ruined material instead.

“That was expensive,” he said.

“Then you should’ve avoided getting stabbed in it,” you replied.

His eyes lifted to your face again.

You could feel him watching you as you worked. Not in a vulgar way, which you were used to from men who had too much drink and not enough sense. No, Thomas Shelby looked at you like he was trying to understand something. Like he was looking for a crack in your composure.

You gave him none.

The wound was deep enough to need stitches, but it was not fatal. You cleaned away the blood with a damp cloth, pressing against the injury while he sat almost unnaturally still.

Almost.

You felt the slightest tension go through him when the cloth touched the wound.

“Don’t flinch, Mr. Shelby,” you said quietly.

His eyes snapped to yours.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then he asked, “You know my name?”

“Most people know your name.”

“And yet you tell me what to do.”

“In here, yes.”

Thomas stared at you for a second longer, and you could tell that he was not offended. If anything, he looked more interested than before, which you found rather inconvenient.

You reached for the iodine.

“This will sting,” you told him.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I didn’t ask.”

You poured it over the wound before he could say anything else. His jaw tightened, but he did not make a sound.

You noticed that, too.

“You should have gone to a doctor,” you said.

“I came here.”

“This is a clinic.”

“And you’re a nurse.”

“A tired one.”

That time, he almost smiled again.

You threaded the needle and tried not to think too much about the way his eyes remained on your face instead of your hands. It was unsettling, being looked at like that. Not admired, exactly. Studied. As if every calm breath you took only made him more curious.

“You don’t seem frightened,” he said.

“I’m not frightened of blood.”

“I wasn’t talking about blood.”

You paused only for half a second, then continued preparing the thread.

“No,” you said. “I don’t suppose you were.”

The room went quiet again. Outside, the rain had started to fall harder against the windows, soft but steady. The lamps above you gave the clinic a dull yellow glow, making the blood on your apron look darker than it was.

“You know who I am,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You know what people say about me.”

“Yes.”

“And still nothing?”

You looked at him then, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since he had walked in. They were very blue, colder in the light than you expected, though there was something tired beneath the sharpness. Something buried deep enough that most people probably never saw it.

“I know enough men with reputations, Mr. Shelby,” you said. “Most of them still bleed the same.”

He went still at that.

Not physically, because he had already been sitting quite still, but something in his expression changed. It was subtle, almost impossible to name, but you saw it. Curiosity, perhaps. Or surprise. Maybe both.

You began stitching the wound.

Thomas watched you the entire time.

It should have annoyed you. In truth, it did annoy you. He looked at you as though he expected you to eventually blush, or look away, or soften. But you had treated too many men like him to be easily impressed. Men who carried guns. Men who spoke softly because they knew they did not need to shout. Men who thought danger gave them charm.

You had seen what danger did to people.

You had cleaned it from skin and floors and trembling hands.

So you kept your voice even and your fingers steady.

“You always this calm with injured men?” he asked.

“Only when they sit still.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I make them regret it.”

He looked down at your hands, then back at your face.

“I believe you.”

“You should.”

Before you could finish the next stitch, there was a knock at the door.

You froze.

So did Thomas.

The knock came again, heavier this time, followed by the muffled voice of a man outside.

“Clinic open?”

You looked toward the door, then back at Thomas. His face had changed completely. The quiet interest was gone, replaced by something cold and immediate. His hand moved toward his coat, which you were fairly certain had a gun inside it.

“Don’t,” you said quickly.

His eyes cut to you.

“You don’t know who that is,” he said.

“No, but I know I’m halfway through closing your wound, and if you move now, you’ll bleed all over my floor again.”

He looked almost irritated by how reasonable that sounded.

Another knock came.

You set the needle down carefully and stood. “Stay there.”

Thomas said nothing, but you felt his eyes on you as you walked toward the door.

You opened it only a little, leaving the chain in place.

A man stood outside in the rain, his cap pulled low and his collar turned up. You did not recognize him, but you recognized the type. Birmingham had plenty of them. Men who came to doors after midnight and expected women to move aside simply because they were men.

“We’re closed,” you said.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Try looking tomorrow.”

His gaze tried to move past you, but you shifted slightly, blocking his view.

“A man came through here,” he said. “Bleeding.”

You gave him a tired look. “This is a clinic.”

His mouth tightened. “This man would’ve been easy to notice.”

“Most men think that about themselves.”

Behind you, Thomas made no sound, but you knew he was listening. You could feel the tension in the room behind your back, quiet and sharp.

The man’s eyes dropped to your apron, where Thomas’s blood had stained the fabric.

“That his?”

You looked down briefly, then back at him.

“It’s blood. In a clinic. Shocking, I know.”

He stared at you for a moment, clearly unsure whether to be angry or suspicious. You held his gaze, refusing to move. Your heart was beating faster than you would have liked, but you refused to let him see that.

Finally, he stepped back.

“Tell Shelby he’s got friends looking for him.”

“I don’t take messages from strange men in the rain,” you said.

Then you shut the door in his face and locked it.

For a moment, you stood there with your hand still on the lock, listening as his footsteps moved away from the clinic. Only when the sound disappeared did you turn around.

Thomas was staring at you.

He had not moved from the table, although one hand was still close to his coat. His shirt was open where you had cut it, the wound half-stitched, his pale skin marked with blood and iodine. Yet despite all of that, he did not look weak.

He looked fascinated.

It was strange, seeing a man like him look at you that way. Not with desire exactly, or at least not only that. It was something quieter. Something more watchful. As though, in the span of a few minutes, you had become a problem he wanted to solve.

You walked back to him and picked up the needle again.

“You bring that sort of trouble everywhere you go?” you asked.

“Not everywhere.”

“Lucky me.”

“You lied for me.”

“I lied for my clinic.”

“That all?”

You glanced at him. “Yes.”

Thomas looked at you as though he did not believe you, but he did not argue.

You finished the stitches in silence. His eyes remained on you the entire time, and though you did your best not to acknowledge it, you could feel every second of it. It was not that he was making you nervous. You would not give him the satisfaction. But his attention had weight to it, and you were aware of it in a way that irritated you.

When you finished, you covered the wound with clean gauze and secured it carefully.

“You need rest,” you said.

“I have business.”

“Then your business will have to wait.”

“It won’t.”

“Then bleed on your business instead of my floor.”

Again, that almost-smile.

“You speak to everyone like this?”

“Only the ones who make my night difficult.”

“And have I?”

“You walked in bleeding, tried to smoke before I could stitch you, nearly reached for a gun while I had a needle in your side, and brought a strange man to my door.”

You tied off the bandage and stepped back.

“So yes, Mr. Shelby. You have.”

He looked down at the bandage, then back at you. His gaze moved slowly over your face, and this time, you had the uncomfortable feeling that he had seen more than you meant to show. Not interest, because you had shown none. Not fear, because you had refused him that as well. But perhaps he saw the effort. The carefulness. The way you kept yourself calm on purpose.

“You’re very controlled,” he said.

“I’m working.”

“No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I mean.”

You looked away first, reaching for a cloth to wipe your hands.

“You’re done,” you said.

Thomas did not move right away.

Most men were eager to leave once the pain had passed. Some thanked you. Some tried to flirt. Some complained about the price. Thomas Shelby simply sat there and watched you clean the tray, as though leaving had become less important than understanding you.

Finally, he stood, slowly enough that you knew the wound hurt more than he wanted to admit.

You pretended not to notice.

He reached into his pocket and placed money on the table.

Too much.

You looked at it, then at him.

“No.”

His brow lowered faintly. “No?”

“You can pay for the bandages. Not my silence.”

The room went very still.

For the first time since he had arrived, you thought you had genuinely surprised him.

His eyes stayed on yours for a moment before he removed some of the money, leaving only what was fair.

“My silence is not for sale,” you added.

“No,” he said quietly. “I can see that.”

He put on his coat carefully, then picked up his cap from the table. You thought he would leave after that, but he paused near the door, one hand resting on the handle.

“What’s your name?”

You stopped.

It should not have surprised you as much as it did.

But it did.

Men like Thomas Shelby did not usually ask for names. They found them out. They had people tell them. They used names as if they were things to own.

But he had asked.

You looked at him for a moment, unsure why the question felt more dangerous than the blood, the gun, or the man outside.

“Y/n,” you said.

Thomas repeated it softly.

Just once.

It sounded different in his voice, and you did not like that you noticed.

You lifted your chin. “Try not to make me regret telling you.”

His mouth curved slightly.

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll fail.”

This time, he did smile, though it was brief and quiet. It suited him too well, which was unfortunate.

He placed his cap on his head, the shadow falling over his eyes again.

“You always this calm around men with guns?” he asked.

You looked at him evenly.

“Only the ones stupid enough to bleed on my floor.”

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the rain, the bell above him ringing softly as he left.

You locked the door behind him.

The clinic was quiet again, except for the rain against the windows and the faint dripping of water from the hem of his coat where he had stood. The room still smelled of tobacco, blood, and iodine. His ruined shirt lay in pieces on the tray, and the money he had left sat neatly on the table.

Exactly enough.

Not a penny more.

You hated that he had listened.

You hated even more that you noticed.

With a tired sigh, you rolled your sleeves higher, picked up the cloth, and began cleaning Thomas Shelby’s blood from your floor.

byorderofana

What Loving You Costs Pt 2

Gif By: @thesoldiersminute

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: thomas shelby x fem!reader

☾ Warnings: pregnancy, hidden pregnancy reveal aftermath, home invasion and threats discussed, betrayal of medical confidentiality, reader injury and mentions of blood, protective/possessive behavior, violence and implied off-screen retaliation, emotional distress, crying, arguments and raised voices, controlling behavior, complicated relationship dynamics, angst with comfort.

☾ Tags: @spn-reader, @outlanderuniverse, @waterfallu, @lavenderblue525, @justkeepingitpeachy

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

The doctor came sometime after midnight, when the rain had settled into a quiet tapping against the windows and your body had begun to give in to the exhaustion you had been fighting since you ran from your home.

Polly had taken charge of Thomas’s bedroom within minutes of arriving. She sent Arthur away for hot water, then sent him away again after he returned with it and remained hovering near the doorway, looking as though he needed someone to blame before the night was over. Frances laid clean towels beside the washbasin and brought another blanket for your legs.

Thomas did none of it.

theshelbyclan

My Girl

Summary: John gets jealous when another man at the Garrison pays attention to you

A/N: @sour-strawberry-kisses requested: Heyy I saw that your requests are open and I wanted to make one... Jealousy fics were always my guilty pleasure, can you write something involving John and fem!reader? I’ve been missing John a lot lately, so this request came at a perfect time. I wanted to chance things a little bit: not just a fight as usual or a certain kind of reader you often see on here, but a quieter, more subdued one maybe. So, here’s a short little fic for you! Thanks for requesting <3

Words: 1338

*****

It was getting late. Outside, it had been dark for a long time now, but inside the candles were flickering and the new golden lamps were bathing everyone in some kind of artificial sunlight. The people at the Garrison were letting loose and due to the alcohol and the late hour, the place felt so alive.

myfictionalcorner

Hello! I loved your John Shelby ‘falling for you head canon’ do you have an Alfie Solomons one in the works? I apologize if you’ve already done it, I’ve just found your blog.

Alfie Solomons falling for reader💕

a/n: thank you so much and thank you for the request, took a while but it’s finally here🥴... better late then never♡ also had so much fun writing his dialogue...

Peaky Blinders Masterlist Masterlist

°•♡Alfie first notices you in the chaos of his own bakery-front: not because you're obnoxiously loud or pretty in the obvious way, but because you don't flinch when one of his boys drops a crate of bottles and glass shatters like gunfire. You just step over it, calm as the sabbath, and hand him a ledger without a word - he stares longer than he means to. "Right," he mutters, mostly to himself. "You ain't scared of broken things, are ya, love?"

°•♡he starts testing you the next day: leaves a loaded revolver on the desk "by accident," watches your eyes flick to it, then back to him. You don't touch it, you don't ask. You just say, "that's one way to greet a visitor." His laugh comes out low, surprised. Something in his chest shifts, like a lock he didn't know was jammed.

°•♡Alfie doesn't do small talk, but with you he starts rambling like a child. Long, winding monologues about rum versus gin, about how the war changed men, about how "big fucks small, always, yeah?" (had to).

°•♡you listen - really listen - without interrupting. No one does that. Most people wait for the punchline or the threat. You just nod, eyes steady, as if seeing past the performance of a man chewing his own words.

°•♡one afternoon he catches you feeding scraps to Cyril out back. The dog's massive, scarred, mean to strangers, but he leans into your hand like it's the first kindness he's known. Alfie stops in the doorway, arms crossed, head tilted. "He don't like nobody," he says quietly. You shrug. "Maybe he just likes being seen." Alfie doesn't reply, but he doesn't leave either. He watches until you're gone, then scratches Cyril's ears and mutters, "traitor, you are."

°•♡he starts finding excuses to keep you close. "Need someone who can read numbers without goin' cross-eyed," he grumbles, shoving papers at you. Truth is, Ollie could do it. Truth is, Alfie likes the way the office smells faintly of your perfume after you're gone; something clean cutting through gun oil and bread dough.

°•♡the first time he gets properly jealous it's over nothing - one of his boys laughs too long at something you say. Alfie doesn't shout, he just steps between you, broad shoulders blocking the light, voice dropping to gravel. "Oi, you got somethin' funny to say, mate? 'Cause i can make it hilarious." The boy pales. You touch Alfie's arm lightly, steadying him, and he stills like you've pulled a leash he didn't know he was wearing.

°•♡Alfie notices the small things about you: how you tuck your hair when you're thinking, how your fingers trace the edge of books as if greeting old friends. He runs his thumb along his beard, and curses under his breath. "Fuckin' hell, Solomons. Get a grip."

°•♡Alfie starts touching you in small ways; thumb brushing your wrist when he hands you papers, palm on the small of your back guiding you through crowds. Each one feels like a confession. He never asks permission, he just does it, claiming territory he deep down already knows belongs to him.

°•♡he kills a man who looked at you wrong. That's the first obvious sign for him. He doesn't tell you, just comes back with blood on his knuckles and a fresh loaf from the ovens. "Baked it meself," he lies. You don't ask where the blood came from, you just break off a piece and hand it to him. And he keeps wondering: why do i bloody care so much?

°•♡the turning point is much quieter though. You're alone in the warehouse after hours, and he finds you staring at the sea of barrels, lost in thought. He leans in the doorway, prayer shawl half-on like always. "You ever think about runnin', love?" You turn. "From what?" A long pause. "From me." You step closer. "I'd have to want to leave first." His breath catches. For once, no rambling. Just a soft, "right."

°•♡after that he gets worse - or better, depending. He threatens to shoot anyone who breathes near you, then immediately backtracks. "Not that I'm possessive, yeah? Just... you're mine to look after now, ain't ya?" You smile. He looks like he's been slapped with something soft, something steady.

°•♡one night he drinks too much rum and talks about the war. Not the heroic bits: the trenches, the gas, the way men screamed for mothers they never had. You don't pity him. You just sit close, let him talk until his voice cracks. When he finishes, he rests his forehead against yours. "You make the quiet less loud," he whispers. It's the closest he comes to saying he needs you.

°•♡he gets protective in stupid ways: insists on walking you home even though Camden's his kingdom. "Streets ain't safe for doves," he growls. You tease him about it. He grumbles, but his arm stays around your shoulders the whole way.

°•♡the first time he calls you "love" without sarcasm, it's accidental. It slips out mid-rant, and he freezes. You pretend not to notice, but your smile gives you away. He spends the next hour pretending to be angry about paperwork to hide how pleased he is.

°♡Alfie starts leaving things for you. A knife "for protection," a necklace he "found" (stole from someone who deserved it), bread still warm from the ovens. Each gift wrapped in violence or excuses - you keep them all.

°•♡e tests your loyalty the way he tests alliances - pushes hard, says cruel things to see if you'll run. You don't; you push back. "You're not scaring me off, Alfie. Try harder."

°•♡one morning Cyril won't leave your side. Alfie watches from across the room, arms folded. "He's chosen, then," he says. "Reckon that makes two of us."

°•♡he admits it in the dark, after a long day. You're curled against him on the office couch because neither of you wanted to leave. "I ain't good at this," he mutters into your hair. "Fallin'. Keepin'. But you... you're makin' me want to try, yeah?" You kiss his scarred cheek. He holds you like you're the only thing keeping the world from spinning off its axis.

°•♡the moment he knows he's gone - properly gone - is when he catches himself smiling at nothing, just because you're in the next room humming while sorting files. He shakes his head, mutters, "fuck me, Solomons. You're done for." But he doesn't sound sorry.

°•♡he calls you by name less and less. It's always "love" now, or "darling," or - when he's feeling particularly biblical - "my little dove."

°•♡and by now, the jealousy isn't subtle anymore. A rival baker sends a boy with flowers "as thanks for business." Alfie doesn't even open the card, he just feeds the bouquet to the furnace, watches it curl black, then turns to you with that tilted-head stare. "Flowers die quick, love. Me? I last. And i don't wilt." You raise a brow. He grins like a wolf who's finally caught scent.

°•♡one night he comes back bleeding; not badly, just enough to stain his shirt. You don't gasp or fuss. You just sit him down, roll up his sleeve, qnd clean the cut with steady hands. He watches your face the whole time, mouth shut for once. When you're done he catches your wrist, thumb over your pulse. "You ain't runnin' from blood, are ya?" You meet his eyes. "Not yours." Something in him breaks open, quiet as a cracked rib.

°•♡Alfie starts talking about the future in hypotheticals. "Suppose a man wanted to take a woman somewhere quiet. Margate, maybe. Sea air. No guns for a day." You play along: "Suppose she said yes?" He looks away, beard twitching. "Then he'd have to make sure no one followed. Big fucks small, but sometimes small needs lookin' after too."

°•♡he gets reckless with his own safety now that you're in the picture, takes bigger risks in deals just to prove he can come back whole. You call him on it one evening. "You're not invincible, Alfie." He laughs, low and bitter. "Never said i was, love. Just said i'd burn before i let anyone take what's mine."

°•♡the first real kiss isn't romantic. It's desperate. After a close call, shots fired, glass everywhere, he hauls you into the back room, slams the door, and presses you against the wall. Not gentle, hands framing your face too afraid you'll vanish if he let's go, mouth on yours like he's drinking salvation. When he pulls back, forehead to yours, he mutters, "don't fuckin' scare me like that again, yeah?"

°•♡he confesses in fragments. Never an outright "i love you." Instead: "I used to think needin' someone was weakness. Now i think it's the only bloody strength i've got left." He exhales. "And i need you, love. Like breath. Like rum after a dry day." It's as close as he'll get. You take it.

°•♡Cyril starts sleeping at the foot of whatever bed you're in when Alfie crashes at your place. Alfie pretends to grumble about it. "Dog's gone soft." But he scratches behind the ears and lets the beast stay - it's his way of saying family.

°•♡he gets softer in private, mornings mostly. You'll wake to him tracing patterns on your back with calloused fingers, murmuring half-asleep: "World's gone mad, but you're still here. Makes a man believe in miracles, don't it?" You pretend to still be sleeping so he'll keep talking.

°•♡the first time he says it outright - sort of - is after a nightmare. He wakes thrashing, sweat-soaked, calling names from the trenches. You hold him until the shaking stops. In the dark he whispers against your neck: "I love ya, y'know. Proper. Not the poetic shit. Just... love." You feel the words land like a stone in still water.

°•♡Alfie starts referring to the distillery as "ours". You tease him about it. He blushes - actually blushes - under the beard. "Slip of the tongue," he mutters, though he can’t hide the grin.

°•♡his possessiveness turns tender after some time; he'll growl at anyone who looks too long, then immediately turn to you with soft eyes: "You alright, love? Tell me if anyone bothers ya. I'll sort it, right?" You smile. "I know you will."

°•♡he writes you a letter once - actual pen and paper, terrible handwriting. It's mostly threats to the world if anything happens to you, mixed with one line buried in the middle: "You're the only thing i don't want to ruin." You keep it folded in your pocket like a talisman.

°•♡the moment he accepts it fully, the fact that you belong in his life, is when he sees you laughing at something stupid he said, head thrown back, unguarded. He watches like a man seeing color for the first time. Later, when he's alone, he mutters to the empty room: "Right. That's it then. Done for. Properly done for." And for once, he doesn't sound like that's something bad.

°•♡and when he knows for sure, he needs to make it official as fast as he can. Because Alfie Solomons is not a man of patience when it comes to loving you.

°•♡one night, out of the blue, he takes your hand and slides a thin gold band onto your finger. No proposal speech. Just: "Ain't askin'. Just... makin' it official, yeah? World needs to know you're mine proper now." The ring is plain, old, probably lifted from some fool who crossed him - but it's warm from his pocket, and it fits like it was always meant to be.

°•♡from that night on, everything shifts just enough to feel permanent. He starts referring to the future without hypotheticals now: “Margate next spring, love. Just us. Cyril can chase seagulls till he drops.” Or: “When this business quiets down - if it ever does - we’ll get a place with a garden. You can grow whatever the fuck you want, you know? I’ll build the fence.” You tease him about turning domestic. He shrugs. “Oi, man’s gotta have somethin’ worth protectin’ besides rum and revenge.”

°•♡being married to Alfie (paper or no paper, church or no church) doesn’t make the world softer. It just gives him something to come back to when the blood’s still warm on his hands. He walks through the door at dawn smelling of rum, smoke, and bread, drops his coat, and immediately finds you - not with words, just with the weight of his arms pulling you against him like you’re the only solid thing left in a world full of crime.

°•♡he calls the distillery "ours" deliberately now, not by slip. When deals go south, his first thought isn't revenge; it's getting back to you whole. And when you wear the ring openly, his boys notice. Ollie smirks once. Alfie levels him with a look: "Eyes up, mate. That's Mrs. Solomons you're gawkin' at." The title lands proud, official. His.

°•♡arguments can be loud, circling, full of thunder. He’ll pace, rant about how you’re too bloody stubborn for your own good. You don’t shout back though. You just stand there, arms crossed, waiting for the storm to break. When it does (it always does), he stops, exhales, rubs his beard. “Right. You win again, love.” Then he pulls you close, muttering into your hair: “Don’t ever stop fightin’ me, yeah? Keeps me honest.”

°•♡public Alfie is still a menace wrapped in charm; the bear showing teeth to anyone who gets too close. But private Alfie… that’s different. Mornings when Cyril’s sprawled across the bed and work can wait, he’ll trace the ring on your finger with his thumb. “Still can’t believe you said yes,” he says once, voice rough from sleep. You smile. “Well, technically you didn’t ask, but i would've said yes every time.” He laughs, pure and honest. “Is that so, Mrs. Solomons?”

°•♡he still calls you “love” and “dove” in front of his boys, but now there’s an edge to it - possessive pride instead of testing.

°•♡he keeps a photograph of you tucked inside his wallet; not one of those posed studio shots, just a candid you didn’t know he took - you laughing at something Cyril did, wind in your hair, the distillery in soft blur behind you. He never shows it to anyone. But once, when a deal goes quiet and the room’s full of men who’d kill for less, he pulls it out just to look at it for a second, to remind himself why he's doing this.

°•♡small things become rituals; he bakes bread at odd hours when he can’t sleep and leaves a warm loaf on the counter for you. You leave notes in his coat pocket: “Don’t die today. I like my husband breathing.” He pretends to grumble about them, but you catch him rereading them when he thinks you’re not looking.

°•♡jealousy doesn’t vanish, but if someone flirts (rare, because they know better), he doesn’t explode anymore. He just steps behind you, hands on your hips, chin on your shoulder, and murmurs loud enough for them to hear: “She’s taken, mate. Properly taken. And i ain’t in a sharin’ mood.” Then he kisses your temple - claim made, message sent.

°•♡or when a new lad stares too long, Alfie doesn’t raise his voice, he just tilts his head, lets the silence do the work, then says low: “Eyes up, mate. That’s my wife you’re lookin’ at.”

°•♡he never stops being surprised that you chose him. Not in a self-pitying way - more like quiet awe. You’ll catch him staring across the room sometimes, expression soft in a way no one else ever sees. When you ask what he’s thinking, he shrugs, rubbing his neck. “Just wonderin’ how a man like me ended up with a woman like you. Must’ve done somethin’ bloody right in a past life.” You walk over, slidding into his lap. “Or maybe you’re doing something right in this one.” “Yeah. Maybe.”

°•♡the bakery becomes your shared space in a way it never was before. He still bakes at strange hours, but now he leaves space on the counter for you to sit and watch. Flour dusts your skirt, his beard, the air between you. Sometimes he pulls you close mid-knead, hands messy, and kisses you slow and deep like there’s no one else in town. “Tastes better with you here,” he mutters against your mouth. You laugh. He smiles, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle. “Don’t tell the boys. Ruins my reputation.”

°•♡loving Alfie isn’t gentle, but it’s fierce and real. It’s him waking you with calloused fingers on your cheek, it’s you steadying him when bad memories claw too deep, it’s the way he still looks at you sometimes like he can’t quite believe you stayed - after the betrayals, the blood, the chaos. In a life that’s always been about surviving, you’re the reason he wants to live instead.

°•♡and at the end of the hardest days, he doesn’t speak. Just finds you, pulls you into his lap on the old office couch, and buries his face in your neck. “You’re still here,” he whispers once, as if it’s a miracle. You thread your fingers through his beard. “Always will be.” He holds you tighter; there are no more words needed. In a town that chews men up and spits them out, Alfie Solomons has finally found something, someone, worth keeping whole. And it’s you.

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means more than you know ♡

Thank you for stumbling onto my blog, enjoy reading 💫

theshelbyclan

My Girl

Summary: John gets jealous when another man at the Garrison pays attention to you

Words: 1338

*****

byorderofana

What Loving You Costs

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: thomas shelby x fem!reader

☾ Warnings: pregnancy, hidden pregnancy, unplanned pregnancy, break-in/home invasion, threats related to shelby business, reader being chased, minor injury and mentions of blood, fear for pregnancy after a fall, emotional distress, crying, shouting/argument, tommy being protective and angry, references to violence and danger, complicated relationship, angst with comfort.

☾ Tags: @spn-reader

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

By the time Thomas realized the threat was meant for you, the glass had already been broken.

He had been in the back room of the Garrison with Arthur when the boy came rushing in, hat clutched against his chest, cheeks red from running. Finn had been sent to watch one of the warehouses after a deal turned sour two nights before. Nothing unusual. Nothing Thomas had not expected after telling the Hanley brothers they would no longer be permitted to move liquor through streets controlled by the Peaky Blinders.

A few men posted outside buildings. A brick through a bookmaker’s window. Perhaps one poor bastard dragged from an alley with his face split open for refusing to pass along a warning.

Thomas had expected all of that.

deebris

Save you from yourself

Silco (from Arcane) x Wife reader

Synopsis: The tender moment between you and your daughter, Jinx, is interrupted by your sudden fainting, and Silco takes control of the situation.

Warnings: Fainting, self-neglect, based on real symptoms of dehydration, the reader is a motherly figure for Jinx, and Silco is somewhat possessive in the end, angst with fluff.

Word count: 2.3k

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Frog