Noekir

can you please write a preference for dating the peaky blinders

thank you 🤍

a/n: finally ready to post this one♡ i'm not posting as much as i want to at the moment, and i'm kind of pissed off at myself for that. it's not a time issue either, i'm just not feeling very well mentally at the moment... hope i can find a good rhythm again. will work my way through the requests i received♡ anyway, enjoy reading ♡♡

Tommy Shelby; John Shelby; Arthur Shelby; Michael Gray; Alfie Solomons

Tommy Shelby

°•𓆩♡𓆪dating Tommy Shelby is like loving a loaded gun that tries, every single day, not to go off in your hands. It is a war you choose to fight beside him, knowing full well that half the time he’ll be fighting the war inside his own head even more than the one outside.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he doesn’t just fall in love, he decides to. One day you’re just another face in the smoke of the Garrison, and the next he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in Birmingham that isn’t already owned by the devil. Those ice-blue eyes narrowing like he’s weighing every risk, every consequence, and still choosing you anyway. That’s Tommy. He loves the way he does everything else: deliberately, dangerously, and with the full knowledge that it might destroy him.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he's pragmatic about love. He knows his world is violent and short-lived, and he’ll tell you outright that being with him makes you a target, that one day he might not come home. He says it like a warning, but his eyes beg you to stay anyway.

°•𓆩♡𓆪nobody tells you how lonely Tommy truly is. Not alone - lonely. He's surrounded by people constantly: family, employees, enemies... entire rooms stop talking when he walks into them. Yet somehow there’s always a distance between him and everyone else, as if he's standing behind a pane of glass nobody can quite reach through. Even the people he loves most only get fragments, pieces, carefully measured portions of himself. That's why the moments where he genuinely lets you see him feel so significant. Because you don’t see the gangster, the leader, or the Shelby everyone fears. You just see your Tommy: tired, quiet, human. Everytime he lets you in even a tiny bit you almost want to hold your breath for fear of scaring him away forever.

°•𓆩♡𓆪loving him means signing up for a relationship where you will always come second to something bigger. His ambition is a jealous mistress that never sleeps; he will choose the next deal, the next vendetta, the next rung on the ladder over your feelings more times than you can count. You’ll watch him walk out the door at midnight with blood already on his mind, promising he’ll be back soon, while you sit alone wondering if “soon” means tomorrow or never. He loves you, yes - but the empire comes first, always. And he will justify every sacrifice with the same excuse: it’s for the family. It’s for the future. It’s for you.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy carries the war with him everywhere, even when he’s holding you. Some nights you’ll wake to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders rigid, cigarette glowing in the dark, eyes fixed on nothing. The tunnels still live inside his head: the mud, the gas, the screaming. And he won’t always let you pull him back. He believes shielding you from that darkness is an act of love, even when it leaves you aching on the other side of the wall he’s built. He’ll disappear into the study for days, bottles emptying, maps spreading across the desk like battle plans. He thinks he’s sparing you, but he isn’t. He’s just terrified that if you see the full extent of his darkness, you’ll finally do the sensible thing and run.

°•𓆩♡𓆪but god, the way he loves you when the walls come down? It’s the rare mornings he lets himself stay in bed, sunlight cutting across the scars on his back while he traces patterns on your hip and murmurs about horses and futures and the quiet life he swears he’ll give you one day (even though you both know he’ll never fully leave the empire behind).

°•𓆩♡𓆪he is at his most dangerous when he's scared. Not angry, not vengeful - scared. There are very few things left in this world capable of frightening Thomas Shelby, vut you happen to be one of them. Because money can be replaced. Empires can be rebuilt. Enemies can be buried. But once he loves you, losing you becomes the one possibility he cannot calculate his way around, the one disaster he cannot plan for. Other people panic when they're afraid; Tommy becomes methodical. While everyone else is still reacting, he's already three moves ahead, deciding who failed, who needs to be moved, and what has to happen to make sure nobody ever gets close enough to threaten you again. The frightening thing isn't that he'd kill for you. It's how calm he'd be while doing it.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he's infuriatingly protective; you will never walk into a room without him knowing exactly who’s in it, who’s looking at you too long, and who owes him a favour if they so much as breathe in your direction. He doesn’t raise his voice when he’s dangerous; he lowers it. “They won’t touch you,” he’ll say, quiet as a razor blade slipping into a cap, and you’ll believe him because the last man who tried still hasn’t been found.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he wants a family with you, but he’s terrified of it. He’ll trace patterns on your stomach at night and whisper about sons who won’t have to fight in trenches and daughters who’ll never know fear, and then he’ll go quiet because he knows his world is too dangerous for children. If you do get pregnant, he becomes even more protective, almost suffocatingly so, but also softer than you’ve ever seen him. The great Thomas Shelby, undone by a tiny heartbeat.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy hates people seeing that he's struggling. Not just because he's too proud - though he totally is - but also because somewhere deep down he still believes pain is something a man should carry alone. So he hides it: the sleepless nights, the headaches, the panic that sometimes grabs him by the throat when the room gets too quiet. He'll sit across from you with a cigarette between his fingers and tell you he's fine while looking like he's carrying the weight of the entire country on his back. Tommy has spent so long surviving that he genuinely doesn't know how to ask for help anymore, and some days loving him feels less like being his partner and more like standing outside a locked door, listening to him fall apart on the other side and praying he'll eventually let you in.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he rarely apologizes. His version of “sorry” is an expensive gift or a night of intense closeness that feels more like compensation than repair. He struggles with genuine emotional accountability because admitting fault feels like weakness - and weakness gets you killed.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he calls you “love” in that low, gravelly voice when he’s exhausted, “darling” when he’s warning you not to push him on a bad day, and “my wife” - even before you are - when he needs the world to understand that touching you means signing your own death warrant.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he will manipulate you. Not always out of malice, but because control is the only language he fully trusts. Small things at first: steering conversations away from topics he doesn’t want to discuss, using that velvet voice and those piercing blue eyes to make you doubt your own anger, framing his decisions as inevitable so resistance feels childish. He plays people like chess pieces: family, enemies, and yes, sometimes you too. When he says “trust me,” it’s as much a command as a reassurance. He needs to know every variable, including your heart, and he’ll pull strings to keep it predictable. The worst part? He does it because he’s convinced it keeps you safe. The razor blades aren’t only in his cap.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy is fiercely proud of your intelligence. If you have opinions on business or politics, he listens. Sometimes he even changes plans because of something you said; you are the only person whose counsel he truly values outside the family. It's how he says "i love you" without actually saying the words out loud.

°•𓆩♡𓆪there are days when he looks at you like you're evidence in a case against fate itself. His gaze lingers just a second too long, and suddenly there's something unbearably sad in it, as though he's looking at a life he was meant to have but somehow missed. A version of himself untouched by trenches, blood, and grief. A man who came home from the war and stayed home. He never talks about it because he doesn't waste words on things he can't change; but sometimes he'll pull you closer for no reason at all, press his lips against your hair, or stay in bed an extra ten minutes on a morning when he should already be gone. And you'll realize that Tommy Shelby doesn't just love you - he mourns you a little too. He mourns the future the two of you might have had if the world had been kinder to him.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he wants to give you the world, but only on his terms. Expensive dresses, a house with gates and guards, influence that makes doors open before you even knock. He shows love through power and provision because softness was beaten out of him a long time ago. Yet every gift carries the same promise: “No one will ever give you more than i can.”

°•𓆩♡𓆪dating Tommy Shelby means loving a man who has already decided your future before you’ve even fully understood his past. He moves through the world like a strategist, and you were claimed as his the moment he let you past the sharp exterior he puts on.

°•𓆩♡𓆪it’s not sunday picnics or handwritten notes left on the pillow. It’s the low rasp of his voice in your ear at 3 am when the rest of the world is asleep and he’s wide awake, cigarette burning down to his fingers, telling you things he’s never told anyone.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he does not love lightly, and he does not love halfway. Once he’s decided you belong to him, it’s less like falling and more like a quiet, irreversible acquisition. He studies you the way he studies a rival gang - every habit, every weakness, every strength - until he knows you better than you know yourself. He’ll anticipate your needs before you voice them, clear obstacles from your path before you even see them coming, and weave you so tightly into his empire that leaving him would feel like tearing out half your soul. That’s the danger of loving Thomas Shelby: he doesn’t just take your heart. He rearranges your entire life around his.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy Shelby will never be the man who gives you a white picket fence. But he will burn the whole world down to keep you warm inside the ashes. And you'll let him. Because once he decides you’re his, there is no leaving - only staying. Only loving him in the way he needs: fierce, patient, a little bit mad. Just like him.

John Shelby

°•ꨄdating John Shelby is like running full speed into a summer storm: wild, electric, a little bit reckless, and so full of life it makes your heart race. He’s laughter and gunpowder, warm hands and sudden chaos, the kind of man who makes ordinary days feel like an adventure.

°•ꨄhe’s the most affectionate Shelby by a mile. This man cannot keep his hands off you; he’s always pulling you onto his lap, kissing your neck whenever he can, sliding his hand into yours while walking down the street, or spinning you around the kitchen like you're still two teenagers hopelessly in love (and, honestly, you are). Physical affection comes as naturally to John as breathing, and half the time he doesn't even seem aware he's doing it because to him, it's instinct. Habit. Proof that you're there. Proof that you're his and he's yours. There’s something almost boyish about it, the way he lights up the second you walk into a room, the way his entire face softens when you lean into him. In a world where people disappear overnight and tomorrow is never guaranteed, he loves like every embrace might be the last one. Like if he lets go for too long, his world might finally catch up and steal you away from him.

°•ꨄJohn's loyal to the bone. If someone hurts you, he takes it personally. If you’re upset, it ruins his mood too. Your happiness becomes tangled up with his so completely that he doesn’t know how to separate the two anymore.

°•ꨄhe’s ridiculously proud of you and brags about you to anyone who’ll listen; his brothers, his mates, random people at the market. “That’s my girl. Smartest fuckin' woman in Birmingham, she is.” His chest puffs out every time you stand your ground or make his family laugh, and he shows you off like you’re the greatest prize he’s ever won. And lets face it: you totally are.

°•ꨄhe’s got a massive praise kink and nobody can convince me otherwise. Compliment him once and this man is insufferable for the rest of the day. Tell him he looks handsome? He’s smirking for hours. Tell him you’re proud of him? You’ve just unlocked the softest version of John Shelby imaginable. Underneath all the bravado, he desperately wants to feel like he’s doing something right.

°•ꨄhe would propose in the most emotionally chaotic way imaginable because this man does not know how to experience feelings normally. There’s no carefully rehearsed speech, no perfect moment planned weeks in advance. It happens the second the idea becomes unbearable to keep inside. He’ll just look at you with sudden intensity and say it like a fact: “Marry me.” Not will you? Just marry me. Like the thought of you being anything other than his wife has become completely ridiculous to him. And when you laugh in shock or ask if he’s serious, he gets almost offended by the question. “Course i’m fuckin' serious.” Because to John, marriage isn’t some formal arrangement - it’s permanence. It’s waking up beside you for the rest of his life. It’s your kids carrying his name. It’s coming home bloody and exhausted and knowing there’s still one good thing in the world waiting for him with the lights on.

°•ꨄJohn carries the fear that he’ll never be enough. He jokes about being the least clever Shelby, the one who uses his fists instead of his head, but late at night when the house finally falls silent, it slips out of him. He’ll hold you against his chest, fingers tracing your spine, and confess how scared he is of failing the kids, of not measuring up to Tommy’s ambition or Arthur’s strength. In those moments he’s not the loud, cheeky gangster - he’s just John, vulnerable and desperate to be worthy of you. And all you can do is kiss his worries away and remind him that his big, golden heart is more than enough.

°•ꨄfights with him are pure fire. He’s hot-headed and stubborn, quick to raise his voice and say things he doesn’t mean when his temper gets the best of him. You’ll scream, he’ll slam doors, and for thirty dramatic minutes it feels like the world is ending. But John can never stay away from you for too long; he’ll come back with those big, remorseful eyes, flowers in his bruised hands and a sheepish smile, mumbling “i'm a fuckin' idiot, love. Can’t do this without you.” Making-up is always intense; desperate kisses, clothes torn off, laughter breaking through the heat because even when you’re angry, you can’t stay mad at each other for too long.

°•ꨄhe is incredibly impulsive, and that impulsiveness will test you daily. He makes big decisions without talking to you first: spending money you don’t have, picking fights he shouldn’t, promising the kids things you both know you can’t deliver. You’ll often feel like you’re dating a grown man with the impulse control of a teenager, and it gets exhausting.

°•ꨄJohn has this way of making you feel like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him, because he loves with pure wonder. Sometimes you'll catch him looking at you across a crowded room with this almost boyish disbelief, like he still can't quite figure out how he got so lucky. And it never really fades, either. Years into the relationship he'll still grin when you walk into a room, still pull you onto his lap like he hasn't seen you all day, and still introduce you to people with pride in his voice. As far as John's concerned, he won something the day you chose him, and he's never stopped celebrating it.

°•ꨄhe talks about your future constantly and with zero shame. Big houses, more kids, horses, sunday dinners that never end. He paints the picture so easily, so excitedly because he can’t wait for it to happen. “You, me, little versions of us… proper family. That’s what i want with you, love.”

°•ꨄhe’s going to be the most incredible father to your children. You can already see it in the way he lights up when he talks about it: big dreams of a loud, chaotic house filled with little ones running around. He wants to fill your home with laughter, muddy boots, and the sound of kids calling you both mum and dad. The thought of getting you pregnant makes his eyes go soft and hungry at the same time; John wants a big, wild, beautiful family with you - and he wants it yesterday.

°•ꨄboy, does this man get jealous; the second another man gets too familiar with you, John changes. His smile sharpens. His posture stiffens. And suddenly he’s all over you: hand on your thigh, arm around your waist, kissing your temple mid-conversation like he needs everyone watching to understand exactly who you belong to. And god help the poor bastard flirting with you, because John gets mean when he’s jealous. Smirking insults, territorial touches, picking fights he absolutely does not need to pick just because somebody looked at you too long. The worst part is that underneath all the possessiveness is insecurity. He genuinely cannot understand why someone like you would stay with someone like him forever, so jealousy hits a nerve deeper than pride.

°•ꨄhis temper is as quick as his smile: he explodes, loud and sudden, like a grenade with the pin pulled. He yells, storms out slamming doors hard enough to shake the walls, and says cruel things in the heat of the moment that he’ll regret almost immediately after. You’ll hear words that sting for days, spoken by the same mouth that laughs with you and calls you “my love.” Dating John means learning how to stand in the fire without getting completely burned.

°•ꨄJohn can be suffocatingly overprotective. He doesn’t want you walking alone at night, doesn’t like you getting too friendly with certain people in the Garrison, and has started full-blown fights because someone “looked at you funny” or smiled for half a second too long. It comes from fear - the terror of losing you in his dangerous world. Some days it feels like you’re dating a man who wants to wrap you in cotton wool and keep you locked away from everything except him and the family. His protectiveness is loud, overwhelming, and at times makes you feel more trapped than safe.

°•ꨄhe never stops courting you, no matter how long you've been together. Years into the relationship and he's still showing up with flowers every week, still looks unbearably pleased with himself whenever he manages to make you laugh, and still kisses you like there's no tomorrow; he loves being your husband, loves being the man who gets to call himself yours. The world has made John many things, but it never managed to make him cynical about love.

°•ꨄJohn has zero filter and even less shame. He’ll tell you exactly how stunning you look while you’re still half-asleep with messy hair, or whisper the filthiest compliments in your ear while you’re trying to have a serious conversation with Polly. His mouth gets him in trouble almost as often as it makes you weak in the knees.

°•ꨄeven when he’s being an absolute idiot, his love never wavers. You’ll never have to wonder where you stand with John Shelby. He may mess up, he may be loud and reckless and stubborn, but his heart has been completely yours since the moment he decided you were the one. He’ll pull you onto the dance floor at the Garrison even when you’re tired, spin you around like you’re the only two people in the room, and kiss you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your laughter. With him, you will always know - because he’ll shout it, show it, and prove it with every beat of his heart.

°•ꨄhe loves with his entire body and soul. He’s the kind of man who wakes you up with kisses down your spine, picks you up and spins you around when he comes home happy, and holds you like you’re the only safe thing in his violent world. There’s nothing half-hearted about him; when he’s in love, he’s all in - teasing you, adoring you, fighting for you, and building a life with you.

°•ꨄdating John means accepting that your life will never be quiet again. The house is always full: of children running through the halls, of his brothers shouting in the kitchen, of loud laughter and doors slamming and the constant chaos that follows the Shelby name. But in the middle of all that noise, John becomes your anchor; he’ll come home covered in dirt and blood, scoop you up like you weigh nothing, and kiss you so hard you forget whatever worries were weighing on your mind. With him, love is loud, physical, and so fiercely present that you feel it in your bones every single day.

Arthur Shelby

°•✿˖dating Arthur Shelby is like loving a wounded wolf who’s just as likely to tear you apart as he is to curl up at your feet. He is raw, bleeding emotion wrapped in muscle and razor blades - a man who laughs like it’s his last day on earth and cries like the war in his head will never end.

°•✿˖when he’s in a good mood, Arthur is pure sunshine. He’ll pick you up and spin you around, laugh that big booming laugh, tell terrible jokes, and dance with you in the middle of the street. These moments feel like stolen heaven because you both know how quickly they can disappear.

°•✿˖this big, violent man, all scars and muscle and barely-contained rage, becomes almost childlike with you. He’ll pull you into his lap without warning, bury his face in the crook of your neck like he’s trying to disappear into you, and stroke your hair with those large, scarred, trembling hands. He clings so tightly you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest, like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even a little, you’ll vanish. Touch is his language when words fail him; it’s his salvation, his proof that he’s still human, still capable of something soft.

°•✿˖Arthur’s scared of being too much for you. Some nights he’ll pull back suddenly, convinced his intensity, his moods, his need for you will eventually drive you away. He’ll sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands and whisper, “i'm a lot, aren't i? Too fuckin' much.” It takes a lot of time and care to make him believe that you actually want to stay.

°•✿˖he loves hearing you talk, even when the subject itself doesn't interest him in the slightest. You could spend fifteen minutes explaining something completely mundane and Arthur would still sit there listening like you're telling him the secrets of the universe. Sometimes you'll stop halfway through and ask whether he's actually paying attention, and he'll repeat the last three minutes of the conversation back to you almost word for word. Because it isn't really about what you're saying - it's about you. Arthur's entire life is noise: shouting, gunfire, arguments, business, violence. People are always demanding something from him, always pulling at him. But your voice is one of the few sounds in the world that doesn't ask anything of him. It doesn't require him to fight or lead or prove himself. He can simply exist beside you and listen. Some nights he'll deliberately ask questions he already knows the answer to just so you'll keep talking a little longer. Just so he can sit there and enjoy the feeling of peace while it lasts.

°•✿˖Arthur calls you his angel. Not as a cute nickname, but because he genuinely believes it - you’re the one good thing in his blood-soaked life. When the darkness gets too loud, he’ll whisper it against your skin like a prayer: "My angel… you're too good for this world. What are ya doin' with a man like me, eh?"

°•✿˖if anyone speaks to you disrespectfully, looks at you too long, or makes you even slightly uncomfortable, he sees red instantly. There’s no warning, no calm conversation, just pure, explosive rage. He’ll break bones and spill blood without a second thought, all because someone dared to threaten or disrespect what’s his. The same man who falls apart in your arms at night, trembling and whispering your name, will destroy anyone who tries to take you away from him; it’s born from deep, animalistic terror and the constant fear that the cruel world he lives in will try to rip away the only good, pure thing he’s ever had.

°•✿˖he's loyal to the bone. While his brothers will always come first in the business, in his heart you sit on a throne above everyone else, and he would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping you safe. He’d go against Tommy, hell, against his own name if he had to. You are the one thing he refuses to lose, even if it costs him everything.

°•✿˖Arthur genuinely believes he’s the stupid Shelby. The mad one. The disappointment. The brute who ruins everything he touches. The world sees a dangerous man with heavy fists and an even heavier temper; Arthur sees something far worse. He sees every mistake he's ever made, every person he's hurt, every moment he lost control. He carries them all around with him like stones in his pockets that weight him down step by step until he's literally drowning in self-hatred. And no matter how much love you give him, there are days when he simply cannot understand why you're still here. And late at night, it spills out between sobs: how he's scared he'll destroy you without meaning to. How he thinks you'd be safer with someone kinder, calmer, better. How sometimes he looks at you and feels guilty for loving you at all because he can't shake the belief that everything good eventually gets ruined by having his hands on it. Arthur doesn't just fight enemies; he's at war with himself every single day. The cruelest part is that the man who sees so little worth in himself would give away every last piece of his heart to make sure you never doubt your own.

°•✿˖some days, the war wins and he becomes a ghost of himself. He’ll go quiet for hours or days, eyes distant, barely speaking, lost somewhere between the past and the present. In those moments he barely lets you touch him, convinced he doesn’t deserve your comfort. But eventually he always cracks. He’ll crawl back into your arms like a broken child, shaking, clinging to you as if you’re the only thing keeping him from disappearing completely.

°•✿˖his rage is terrifying. It comes out of nowhere, like a switch flipped too fast, too violently. One moment he’s laughing with you, the next furniture is shattering, his voice is cracking the walls, and he’s saying awful, cutting things he’ll regret for weeks. Then comes the guilt - crushing, suffocating, vicious. He’ll disappear for hours or days, get blind drunk, pick fights, or hurt himself just to punish the monster he believes he is. When he finally comes back, he looks like hell: bloodshot eyes, broken voice, sometimes still shaking. He’ll drop to his knees if he has to, begging through tears, “please don’t leave me… i’m so fuckin' sorry.” Arthur expects you to walk away. Some days he almost wants you to, because he’s convinced he’ll destroy you eventually.

°•✿˖but when he’s steady? When the light breaks through? Arthur Shelby is one of the most tender, devoted, and adoring men alive. He’ll dance with you in the kitchen at 2 am, sing horribly off-key just to hear you laugh, and proudly parade you around like you’re a miracle he can’t believe is real. “This is my woman,” he’ll declare to anyone listening, chest puffed out, eyes shining with pure pride.

°•✿˖he sees you as his last remaining piece of light in a world that’s gone almost completely dark. Arthur has done terrible things - things that haunt him, things that make him sick when he looks in the mirror. You become his proof that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t been completely damned. Loving you is the only thing that makes him want to keep breathing when everything inside him wants to stop.

°•✿˖he wants to marry you so badly it makes his hands shake when he thinks about it. He doesn’t dream of a big fancy wedding; he dreams of standing in front of you, promising forever, giving you his name like it’s the only good thing he can offer you. “Marry me, love. Let me call you my wife before i fuck it all up.” To Arthur, marriage isn’t just love - it’s safety. It’s proof that you chose him even knowing how broken he is.

°•✿˖he talks about the future with you like a man who’s never really believed he’d have one. He’ll lie in bed with you at night, painting pictures of a small house far from the noise of Birmingham, somewhere with green fields. He dreams aloud about waking up next to you without the weight of the empire on his back, about growing old together, about maybe even finding some kind of peace. But there’s always a tremble in his voice, because deep down he’s terrified he’ll never be able to give you that life. Still, he keeps dreaming. Because imagining a future with you is the closest thing he has to hope.

°•✿˖because for all the violence in him, Arthur has always secretly wanted a simple life. Not an easy life, just a simple one. The kind of life he sees in passing through train windows or while driving through the countryside. Small houses, laundry hanging outside, children playing in gardens - ordinary people with ordinary problems. But reality always catches up eventually. Tommy needs something. Business calls. Violence returns. But every now and then you catch him staring into the distance with that look in his eyes, and you realize Arthur isn't imagining a different place. He's imagining a different version of himself. One that never had to become the man he is now.

°•✿˖Arthur’s love is heavy. It’s desperate. It’s worshipful. You are his reason, his religion, his last shot at being a good man; he will never be easy, and he will never be stable. But no one will ever love you with the same broken, ferocious, all-consuming intensity as he does. Because even when he hates himself, he loves you more - and that love is the one thing that keeps pulling him back from the edge.

°•✿˖Arthur sees you as his last chance at being a good man. You’re his proof that there’s still something worth fighting for inside him, even when he feels rotten to the core. Loving you isn’t just love to him - it’s survival.

Michael Gray

°•♕✧dating Michael Gray is like falling in love with a man who has spent his entire life trying to prove himself. He's ambition wrapped in expensive suits and carefully controlled emotions; the sort of man who walks into a room already planning three moves ahead. But beneath all that confidence is someone still searching for a place where he doesn't have to earn his worth. Loving Michael means slowly becoming the one person he stops performing for.

°•♕⋆he is incredibly difficult to read when you first meet him. Michael has perfected the art of looking calm, composed, and entirely in control of himself. Even when he's furious, nervous, jealous, or heartbroken, very little shows on the surface. Then you start dating him and slowly realize he's actually feeling everything with surprising intensity; he's just far better at hiding it than most people. Loving him means learning to read the emotions he never says out loud - because they're there. They're always there. He just guards them like state secrets.

°•♕⋆he doesn't chase people. He never has. He's used to being the one pursued, the one people gravitate towards. That's why it's so obvious when he's genuinely interested in someone; suddenly he's finding reasons to see you, stretching conversations longer than necessary, and looking for excuses to keep you around.

°•♕⋆Michael likes certainty. He likes numbers that add up correctly, plans that unfold the way they're supposed to, and conversations where he already knows where the other person is heading before they've reached the end of the sentence. Then he falls in love with you and discovers that loving someone is, perhaps, the least predictable thing he has ever done. That's what unsettles him so much; not the feeling itself, but the complete lack of control that comes with it. For a man who has spent most of his life trying to secure his place in the world, there is something deeply frightening about handing another person the power to break his heart. But he does it anyway. And then one day he realizes that somewhere along the way, your happiness started influencing his own.

°•♕⋆hr likes feeling like the two of you are a team against the rest of the world. He wants partnership in the truest sense of the word; someone who stands beside him, challenges him, supports him, and understands him without needing endless explanations. He loves those moments where the two of you exchange one glance across a room and immediately know what the other is thinking. There’s something deeply intimate to him about being understood without having to perform.

°•♕⋆Michael falls hardest when he realizes he respects you. Attraction gets his attention. Intelligence keeps it. But respect? That's what ruins him. The moment he starts seeking out your opinion before making decisions, listening when you challenge him instead of dismissing it, genuinely caring what you think of the choices he's making, he's already in deeper than he intended to be. Michael admires competence. He admires people who can stand on their own two feet. And once he realizes you're someone he can learn from, someone whose judgment he trusts as much as his own, the walls come down faster than he'd ever admit. Because for Michael, love isn't just wanting someone. It's respecting them enough to let them influence the direction of your life.

°•♕⋆he hates looking weak in front of anyone. The world sees a sharp suit, a clever smile, and a young man who always seems to know exactly what he's doing. What the world doesn't see is how hard he works to maintain that image. He wants to be respected. Admired. Taken seriously. Which means dating him often involves peeling back layer after layer of carefully constructed confidence until you reach the person underneath. The man who's scared of failing, scared of being ordinary, scared that one day you'll look at him and decide he isn't enough after all.

°•♕⋆he spoils you rotten. Michael loves seeing you dressed up, loves taking you places, loves watching heads turn when you walk into a room together - there's a certain pride in it. Not because he sees you as a possession, but because he genuinely thinks you're the most beautiful person there and wants everyone else to realize it too.

°•♕⋆he has no interest in a woman who needs him to survive. What captivates him is watching you hold your own in a room full of dangerous men, voice your opinions without hesitation, or build something for yourself. The more self-sufficient you are, the more obsessed he becomes; he doesn’t want to be your saviour. He wants to be your equal - and your partner in conquest.

°•♕⋆he has an ego. A massive one, actually. Most of the time it's charming; sometimes it's absolutely insufferable. He likes being good at things, likes being right, likes impressing people. And if you're dating him, you'll quickly discover that he loves when you are impressed by him too; it's part of his identity. He'll pretend not to notice, of course. Act completely unaffected, maybe even roll his eyes if you compliment him. But the tiny smirk that creeps up on his face afterwards gives him away every single time. The truth is that for all his confidence, there’s still a part of Michael that craves recognition from the people he loves. Not because he needs constant praise, but because your admiration means more to him than anybody else's. He wants to be impressive in your eyes. Wants to be the man you look at and think, yes, that's him. That's my Michael. He'll act nonchalant about it, but internally he's preening.

°•♕⋆one of Michael's biggest flaws is that he assumes he can fix everything. Bad situation? He'll handle it. Financial problem? He'll solve it. Relationship issue? Give him a day. It comes from confidence, but also from fear. Because if he can solve the problem, then he doesn't have to sit with the possibility of losing something he loves.

°•♕⋆he loves seeing you wear his clothes. If you walk into the kitchen wearing one of his shirts half-buttoned, this composed, intelligent man forgets how conversations work. He’ll just stare for a second too long before pulling you into his lap with that smug little smile.

°•♕⋆he can be frustratingly stubborn when he thinks he's right. The kind of stubborn that turns a simple disagreement into a two-day debate because he refuses to surrender a point before he's exhausted every possible argument. He'll sit there looking infuriatingly calm while you're ready to throw something at his head, picking apart your reasoning with that smug little smile that makes you want to kiss him and strangle him simultaneously. The worst part? Half the time, he'll eventually realize you were right. But instead of admitting it, he'll quietly change his position three days later and start repeating your argument back to you as though it was his idea all along. And when you call him out on it, he'll have the audacity to look genuinely confused and ask, "didn't i say that from the beginning, darling?"

°•♕⋆Michael is one of those men who somehow always looks composed, even when he's furious. That's what makes his anger so unsettling; while other people shout, Michael gets quieter. His jaw tightens. His eyes go cold. His words become sharper. The temperature in the room drops, and suddenly you'd almost prefer yelling.

°•♕⋆he pretends he doesn't need reassurance, but he's lying. For all his confidence, there is something almost painfully vulnerable beneath it. He wants to know you'll choose him; not the Shelby name, not the money, not the future he promises you. Him. Michael spends so much of his life trying to prove he's worthy of a place in the world that being loved by you becomes the one thing he never stops hoping he's earned.

°•♕⋆Michael has a habit of shutting down emotionally the second he feels too exposed. The moment an argument stops being intellectual and starts becoming genuinely vulnerable, you can almost watch the walls go up in real time. His expression smooths out, his voice turns colder. Suddenly everything becomes about logic instead of feelings because logic is safer. Easier. Controllable. Meanwhile you’re standing there wanting honesty and getting careful restraint instead. Loving Michael means understanding that his distance is rarely indifference; it’s fear disguised as composure.

°•♕⋆he has a habit of looking at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention: across crowded dinner tables while everyone else is talking, from the doorway when you’re busy with something and haven’t noticed him yet, late at night when you’re half-asleep beside him and the rest of the world has finally gone quiet. Michael spends so much of his life observing people, reading them, calculating them, that sometimes you catch him doing the same thing with you. But with you, there's no strategy in it - just fascination. As though he's still trying to understand how someone like you ended up becoming such an important part of his life. But the moment you catch him staring, he immediately looks away and pretends he wasn't. Though every now and then he's too slow, and for a split second you see it clearly: terrifyingly intelligent, ambitious Michael Gray, bound to stare at you like you’ve personally hung the moon just for him.

°•♕⋆he doesn't propose on impulse. By the time he asks you to marry him, he's already spent a lot of time thinking about it. He's imagined the house, the future, the life you'll build together. He's considered every detail and every possible risk because that's who he is. So when the proposal finally comes, it catches you off guard precisely because of how calm he is: no grand speech, no dramatic performance. Just Michael looking at you with complete certainty and saying, "i'm going to marry you, my love." Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was never going to be any other outcome. And somehow that's infinitely more romantic than any rehearsed declaration could ever be.

°•♕⋆he is deeply loyal once he commits, but that loyalty is earned, not given freely; he’s seen too much betrayal in the family to hand his heart over easily. But when he does decide you’re his person, it’s absolute. He will choose you over business if it ever truly comes down to it - though he’ll move heaven and earth to make sure it never has to come to that choice.

°•♕⋆you become the one person who makes him feel like he finally has a real place in the world - not just a seat at the table, but a home.

°•♕⋆the thing nobody tells you about loving Michael Gray is that beneath all the ambition, all the confidence, all the carefully constructed composure, he's still just a boy who spent years wondering where he belonged. That's why he loves so fiercely once he finally lets himself. Because home has never been a place to him. It's a person. And somehow, against all odds, that person became you.

Alfie Solomons

°•✵dating Alfie Solomons is like falling in love with a thunderstorm. He’s loud, unpredictable, half-mad, and strangely tender; one minute he's threatening a man over a business deal, the next he's handing a stray dog half his lunch because "look at the poor little bastard… eyes all big like that. Starvin', innit? Proper tragic."

°•✵he falls in love by accident. That's the problem. Alfie is prepared for enemies, betrayal, bullets, and god himself showing up to collect a debt. What he is not prepared for is waking up one morning and realizing he cares whether you've eaten today. Realizing he listens for your footsteps. Realizing your bad mood ruins his. Love sneaks past every defense he has because it never occurs to him that you're a threat until it's far, far too late. At first he tells himself it's temporary, a distraction, a habit he'll break when it becomes inconvenient. Then one day somebody mentions your name and his entire attention shifts before he can stop it. That's when the panic sets in; because Alfie can handle almost anything, but caring about someone means they can hurt you without ever intending to - and that's the real danger.

°•✵he trusts very few people. Not because he's incapable of loyalty, but because life has taught him exactly how expensive trust can be. That's why the first time he tells you something genuinely personal, it feels enormous. Alfie doesn't hand people pieces of himself - he buries them. If he's showing you one, it's because he's already decided you're staying.

°•✵Alfie's infuriatingly good at reading you. You can walk into a room determined to hide your mood and he'll take one look at your face before sighing dramatically. "Oi. Who's upset you then, eh? Tell me who's got you lookin' all sour." He notices every tiny shift in your voice, every nervous habit, every forced smile. You can lie to almost anyone else, but not to him.

°•✵he talks constantly, but very rarely about himself. You will know his opinions on politics, religion, dogs, whiskey, human stupidity, and approximately four thousand unrelated subjects before you learn anything truly personal about him. Every conversation is a maze, and every answer leads somewhere unexpected. And then one night, half asleep beside you, he'll casually mention something heartbreaking from his childhood like it's the weather. But before you can say anything, he'll immediately change the subject. Because that's Alfie: willing to discuss the meaning of life for three hours but allergic to genuine vulnerability.

°•✵Alfie has an entire love language built around bread, and it's ridiculous how seriously he takes it. Most people buy flowers or write apologies; Alfie starts kneading dough. Had a bad day? A fresh loaf appears on the table still warm from the oven. Feeling anxious? He somehow decides the solution is baking something complicated that takes hours to make. Got into an argument? You'll find him in the kitchen the next morning, sleeves rolled up, covered in flour, aggressively working his feelings into dough because that's apparently easier than admitting he was worried about you. To Alfie, feeding someone is practical, necessary, and one of the simplest ways to say i care about you. And whenever you sit down and eat something he's made, there's always this tiny shift in him; a quiet satisfaction, a subtle easing of tension. Like some stubborn part of his brain finally relaxes because you're here, you're fed, and for the moment, everything is alright.

°•✵he loves listening to your laugh. Not just because it sounds pretty, though it absolutely does. But because there's something about your laughter that settles him, that makes the constant noise in his head go quiet for a minute. You'll catch him deliberately saying outrageous things just to hear it, starting arguments he has no intention of winning, or telling stories that get increasingly ridiculous every time he tells them. Entirely for the selfish purpose of hearing that sound again.

°•✵Alfie is one of the only men you'll ever meet who can make an insult sound suspiciously like a compliment. "You're a nightmare, you are." Then he'll pull you closer. "Lucky for me I’ve always had terrible taste, yeah? Thank god for that." The trick is learning to hear what he's actually saying.

°•✵Cyril liking you is far more important than Alfie will ever admit. The dog is family as far as he's concerned, one of the few living creatures on earth he trusts without reservation, so the first time Cyril chooses your side of the sofa instead of his, Alfie looks genuinely betrayed,and he'll spend the next week claiming you've bribed him somehow. Yet every single time Cyril curls up beside you, Alfie gets this oddly pleased look he can't quite hide. Because as much as he'll complain about being replaced, there's something deeply comforting about seeing the two beings he loves most getting along.

°•✵he has an annoying habit of acting as though your presence doesn't affect him nearly as much as it does. You'll walk into a room and watch him continue whatever conversation he was having without missing a beat; same tone, same expression, same endless stream of commentary. And yet somehow, within thirty seconds, you've been pulled into the conversation, handed the better chair, given the last biscuit, and positioned within arm's reach. He'll spend an entire evening pretending he isn't paying special attention to you while unconsciously rearranging the world to keep you close. The worst part is that if you point it out, he'll deny it with the confidence of a man arguing before a judge. "What are you talkin' about, heh? You're sat there because that's where the bloody chair is."

°•✵he is unbelievably stubborn. Catastrophically stubborn. There are arguments where he knows you're right. You know you're right. The dog probably knows you're right. But Alfie will continue debating the point out of pure commitment to the bit. Sometimes hours later he'll suddenly agree with you in a completely different conversation and act as though he'd held that opinion from the start; it's enough to make a saint violent.

°•✵Alfie is stupidly proud when you match his madness. Not because he wants you to be reckless, but because he's spent most of his life surrounded by people who either feared him or tried to control him - then you come along and somehow manage neither. The first time you stand your ground in a room full of dangerous people, he notices. The first time you refuse to be intimidated, he notices. The first time you come up with a solution so completely unhinged that even he has to stop and stare at you for a second, he notices that too. And god, the look on his face. Pure delight. Alfie loves intelligence, loves nerve, loves people who can think on their feet, and nothing makes him happier than realizing you're every bit as formidable as he suspected. Because for all his talk, for all his confidence, nothing captivates Alfie quite like someone who can keep up with him and occasionally leave even him speechless.

°•✵he likes when you steal his things. His coat. His scarves. His books. He'll complain about it, of course; "unbelievable behaviour, this." Yet somehow he never actually asks for them back. In fact, he'll start leaving things where he knows you'll find them, entirely by accident, obviously.

°•✵he can be maddeningly dismissive of his own wellbeing. Sick? Doesn't matter. Injured? Fine. Exhausted? Irrelevant. You'll spend half your relationship trying to convince this man that bleeding is, in fact, a valid reason to sit down for five minutes.

°•✵Alfie is not a jealous man in a loud, explosive way. He doesn't immediately start fights or throw punches; no, that's far too simple. Instead he'll stand there quietly listening to some poor bastard flirt with you while slowly developing the expression of a man considering several highly illegal solutions to a minor inconvenience. The man won't even realize he's made a mistake until Alfie casually inserts himself into the conversation and starts asking increasingly uncomfortable questions. By the end of it, the poor soul will practically apologize for existing.

°•✵nobody warns you how protective he becomes once he truly loves someone: Problems disappear before they reach your doorstep. People who cause trouble suddenly decide to cause it somewhere else. Doors open. Obstacles vanish. And whenever you ask how it happened, he looks deeply offended by the question. "What d’you mean ‘how’? It sorted itself out, didn’t it? These things have a way of..." - gestures vaguely with hands - "resolvin’ themselves when you apply the right amount of pressure in the right places. Simple as, darling."

°•✵Alfie doesn't protect you the way other men might; they post guards outside your door, Alfie becomes the reason nobody wants to go near the door in the first place. You won't always know he's handled a problem because he rarely tells you. You'll just notice that the man who was bothering you suddenly crosses the street when he sees you coming. And when you ask Alfie about it, he'll blink innocently and say, "what? People move about, don’t they, sweetheart? It’s London. That’s the game, yeah?"

°•✵he isn't the sort of man who showers you with poetry. He's the sort of man who notices your favourite flowers at a market three months ago annd then somehow they keep appearing in the house just because.

°•✵there are very few people capable of making Alfie feel safe. That's the funny thing about men like him: everyone sees the danger and forgets the vulnerability underneath it. But some nights you'll find him half asleep beside you, tension finally gone from his shoulders, breathing steady and peaceful in a way he never is around anyone else. And you'll realize something that makes your chest ache: for perhaps the first time in years, he's resting because he trusts someone else to keep watch.

°•✵the thing nobody prepares you for is how startling the difference is between the Alfie the world gets and the Alfie you get. Everyone else gets the businessman, the gangster, the man who can make an entire room nervous just by walking into it. You get the version that comes out when the door closes behind him. The version that immediately loosens his tie, drops heavily into the nearest chair, and asks how your day was before he's even taken off his coat. The version that remembers tiny details nobody else would notice, that reaches for your hand without thinking about it, that occasionally falls asleep halfway through one of his own stories because he's finally relaxed enough to stop performing. It's not that he's pretending with everyone else; those versions of him are real too. But with you, he doesn't have to be on. He doesn't have to dominate the room, control the conversation, or keep one eye on the nearest exit. The rest of the world gets Alfie Solomons - you get the man underneath all the noise.

°•✵Alfie Solomons is not easy to love. He's stubborn, secretive, impossible to argue with, and entirely too clever for his own good. But if he gives you his heart, he gives it completely; piece by piece, day by day. Until one morning you wake up and realize you've become the safest place in the world for one of the most dangerous men in it.

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

⋆˚꩜｡ jealous foreman headcanons

includes: unestablished relationship, foreman and reader are very close friends, foreman doing the most (house parallels, foreman's slightly unhinged), corporate sabotage, and silly times! notes: i miss you foreman i love you foreman !!! there are barely any fics for him, i should've done this weeks ago. i really do think he's one of the best characters in house md so it's such a shame he doesn't get as much love compared to other characters. i hope you enjoy !

𑣲⋆ foreman tries his best to be rational, he really does. at work, he strives to be the one people turn to when they need someone cool and levelheaded in every situation. and he's succeeded... to an extent. something that will get to him every time is his jealousy. despite the exterior, he can be a pretty jealous person! the calm and collected persona he tries to keep up is just something he does to stay sane and do his part at princeton plainsboro. in reality? he can be just as irrational and idiotic as his coworkers.

𑣲⋆ if it's someone from your past that you've been getting closer to recently, he manages. he trusts you, of course he does. he thinks that you two are close enough where, if someone was pursuing you, you'd tell him. and he'd live with that! if you don't want him, you don't want him. he has too much respect for you to push that. or if it's house and his odd way of sneaking into everyone's personal life, creating really weird, unnamable relationships with his coworkers? yeah, he even tries to move past that. house is a case study. you can't hold him to any standard. he tries to be patient, really, he does.

𑣲⋆ but there's one kind of person that gets to him, and that's people who think they're better than him. foreman's smart, capable, respected by many. even house holds him in high esteem (when he cares to admit it). so if a new guy comes sauntering into work, trying to shoot his shot, alarms go off. because yeah, he's got an ego. but how can he not? when he's one of house's most trusted, when he's ran a hospital and his own diagnostics team before? he watches the guy squirm for validation from you and he's sick of it. you deserve more than a freshly budded med student.

𑣲⋆ there's two ways he goes about his jealousy. the first is that he waits to act. he watches your conversations with him, you being too humble to assume the new guy has other intentions. people mention the guy's possible interest, but you smile and shake your head. foreman feigns agreement. meanwhile, he's taking notes: what the guy brags about, how he tries to bait you into hanging out outside of work. chase actually catches on later and thinks to tease foreman, but that's until he catches the glint in his eye. and this is when he's reminded of the familiarities between him and house. foreman's plotting. chase backs off (and is thoroughly invested). it takes weeks of data.

𑣲⋆ but soon the strike comes down, silent but deadly, and squishes any relevance this guy was cultivating. does he have a vacation home? foreman rekindles old connections and is suddenly entrusted with looking after a lake house during the owner's vacations. "yeah, it's no big deal," he says after mentioning it subtly. "but if you want a weekend away with your friends, just let me know." is the guy well read? foreman looks into the books you love, then catches you during lunch break and gets you into a riveting conversation. "i get why you like the book so much. no one's inherently right or wrong, and you can't be too mad about the ending. what did you think?" is the guy into cooking? foreman invites you to his home with a three-course meal of dishes you admitted to liking in passing through the span of months. "please, take some home too. i can't eat all this."

𑣲⋆ to no surprise, it works. you end up refusing the guy's offer for coffee and spend time with foreman in the park instead. walking around, you admit that he did seem a bit self-centered. foreman nods. "he did seem a bit all talk, didn't he?" but that's if foreman plays nice, disregarding the obsession. the second option is a lot dirtier. working in princeton plainsboro, he's more than used to ludicrous cases. many new hires aren't. so, he tricks the guy into humiliating himself. he'll get him to argue for typhoid fever when the patient hasn't left upstate NY in a year. he'll swap test tubes, so he gets impossible results. he'll even stay silent when the guy voices a new theory, then waits to call out medical inconsistencies until he's in front of the patient's family, pitching his idea. you're immediately unimpressed.

It's about doing it in a way so that the reader doesn't know.

Self-inserts! Do them! I won't read em but do em anyways! You're not supposed to appeal to me!!!

a/n: thank you very much♡ i hope you enjoy this one as well♡ apologies for the long wait🥺

Peaky Blinders Masterlist Masterlist

Michael Gray being protective💪

°•♡he notices danger before you do. Michael has always been observant - dangerously so. The kind of man who walks into a room and has measured every person in it before he’s even taken his coat off: who’s armed, who’s nervous, who’s watching too closely, who’s drunk enough to become stupid. It’s instinct at this point, sharpened by the Shelby world and the constant understanding that danger rarely announces itself before it arrives. And once you’re part of his life, that awareness sharpens around you tenfold. He notices the man staring too long before you ever feel it. Notices when somebody steps too close, when their tone shifts, when their intentions stop being innocent. And Michael does not wait for things to escalate - he acts at the first sign. And later, when you ask how he knew something was wrong, he’d barely look up from his cigarette and mutter, “because i was watching.” Like it’s obvious. Because to him, it is.

°•♡he always positions himself between you and everyone else. It’s instinctive: crowded rooms, busy streets, family meetings - it doesn’t matter. He places himself where he can see everything and where nothing can get to you without going through him first. A hand at your back guiding you through doors; his body shifting in front of yours when tension rises; his arm brushing yours like an anchor. All while his expression remains unchanged, almost calm, which somehow makes it more unsettling. He doesn’t make a show of it, but once you notice it, you realize he does it every time. Michael protects through positioning, through presence, through making himself the barrier before danger ever reaches you.

°•♡he’s protective in small, almost invisible ways no one else notices. It’s not always about life-or-death Shelby danger. It’s the way he drapes his coat over your shoulders the second the night air turns colder. The way he orders your drink or your food exactly how you like it before you even fully sit down, because he’s catalogued every preference. The way he keeps his body angled toward the door in restaurants or pubs, even during calm nights. It’s so seamless you almost miss it - until you realize he’s been quietly insulating you from discomfort since the moment you met.

°•♡he gets colder when he’s worried about you. He doesn’t wear worry well; if you’re late getting home, if you disappear longer than expected, if something feels off and he can’t reach you, he doesn’t unravel outwardly. He goes still. Quiet in that particular way that means his mind is running through every possibility, every outcome, every place you could be. And by the time you walk through the door, relief is already tangled up with irritation, because he hates the feeling of not knowing, hates the helplessness of waiting. Worry makes him restless, and restlessness makes him sharp. But the real tell would be afterward: how he lingers near you longer that night, how his hand stays on your waist or your knee like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here, safe, and in one piece.

°•♡he listens when you speak about people - and remembers. If you mention that someone made you uncomfortable, he doesn’t brush it off. He listens carefully, asks just enough to understand, and stores it away. Names, faces, places; he remembers all of it. And the unsettling part is that you never know when that information becomes relevant to him again. Because he treats discomfort as warning. If someone made you uneasy once, he watches them twice as hard the next time. He trusts your instincts, even if you think you’re overreacting.

°•♡he controls the situation before it can become dangerous. His protectiveness has never been about brute force; it’s about control. Prevention. So he manages things almost invisibly: if it’s late, he’s walking you home. And if he can’t, somebody else is. If you mention going somewhere he doesn’t trust, he’ll ask questions - not out of suspicion toward you, but because he’s already assessing the environment, the people, the risks. Michael’s mind works like that: constantly moving ahead of the moment. And if he doesn’t like what he sees? He changes it. Simple as that. Different route. Different company. Different plan; he’d never phrase it as concern either. Never "i’m worried about you". It would always come out colder, firmer. “You’re not going alone.” End of discussion. That's because he has seen how quickly things turn ugly, and if there’s a way to stop that before it reaches you, he will. You can be sure of that.

°•♡disrespect toward you becomes personal to him. He takes disrespect toward you as insult to himself; because if you’re under his protection, your dignity becomes part of his responsibility. If someone speaks over you, mocks you, dismisses you, he feels it as if it's directed at him. You see it in the way his face stills, the way his jaw tightens just once before he smooths it over. He wouldn’t interrupt right away. Michael likes to observe first, to understand exactly who he’s dealing with. But once he decides the line has been crossed, that’s it. He’d step in with a voice so calm it becomes eary, correcting them in a way that makes people understand they’ve made a mistake. And the worst part? He remembers. He never forgets who made you uncomfortable. Even if he smiles, even if he lets the moment pass, it stays filed away in his head. And he is the type of man who settles things later; when it’s quieter, cleaner, and out of your sight.

°•♡he teaches you how to protect yourself - then hates it. Michael will teach you practical things: how to hold a gun steady, how to spot someone following you, how to use a knife without hesitation. He wants you capable, not helpless. But every lesson leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; you can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his touch lingers a second longer than necessary after correcting your grip. He’s proud of how quickly you learn, yet it eats at him. Every new skill is a silent reminder that his world could still reach you when he’s not there.

°•♡he remembers the little things that scare you. You mentioned once that loud arguments make your stomach twist, or that a certain type of alley makes you anxious, or that you hate being grabbed suddenly - and he files it all away like ammunition. He will shut down shouting matches around you instantly. He’ll steer you away from certain streets without a second thought. If someone reaches for you too quickly, his hand is already there, blocking, redirecting. He never makes you explain yourself twice; your fears become his rules.

°•♡if you’re hurt, he becomes terrifyingly quiet. That’s when he is at his most dangerous - not when he’s angry, but when he’s calm. If you’re injured, frightened, bleeding, shaking, his entire body stills. No panic, no chaos - just focus. He’d be in front of you in seconds, hands steady, voice low, assessing everything with cold precision. Where are you hurt? Who did it? How bad? But even while he’s taking care of you, there’s another part of him already working through the second half of the problem: the person responsible. He can hold your face in his hands and ask if you’re alright while deciding what happens next to the man who touched you. And the colder his voice is, the worse it usually means it’ll be for them.

°•♡physical comfort as protection. When the world feels too heavy, he protects you by simply pulling you into him. No soft words, just his arms locked around you, chin resting on your head, one hand slowly stroking your back or threading through your hair; he holds you like he can physically keep the darkness away. In bed he often sleeps with an arm draped heavily over your waist or curled around your back - positioning that says even in unconsciousness, he’s between you and anything that might come through the door.

°•♡he would never let you face his world alone. Michael understands better than most that being connected to a Shelby means inheriting danger you never asked for. And that knowledge would weigh on him heavily, even if he never says it aloud. If there are meetings, family business, tense gatherings, men with bad tempers and worse intentions, he would never leave you alone in it. Not once. And if he had to leave, he’d make sure someone he trusted is near you. Because Michael knows his world shifts fast: violence can erupt from nothing, deals can turn, tempers can break. And the idea of you being caught in the middle of something he understands but you shouldn’t have to? It would eat at him. So if you’re in his world, he’s making sure his world doesn’t swallow you.

°•♡he will get angry when you put yourself at risk. This is where Michael gets complicated; if you do something reckless like walking somewhere dangerous alone, involving yourself in Shelby business, or stepping into a situation that could get you hurt, his first internal emotion would be fear. Real fear. But he rarely shows fear honestly; it comes out as anger instead: sharp words, a hard jaw, that cold, clipped voice that means he’s holding himself together by force. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?” And it would sound harsh, harsher than he means, because underneath it is the image of losing you. It would never really be about what you did. It would be about what almost happened, what he almost had to face. And later, when the anger fades, that’s when you’d feel the truth of it: his hands lingering on you longer than usual, checking you over as if convincing himself you’re still there. Michael’s protectiveness gets roughest when he’s been frightened, because fear, for him, always seeks something to control afterward.

°•♡he would never let you leave upset without fixing it first. He is not the kind of man who lets things fester - not when it comes to you. If you’re angry, hurt, or visibly shaken, he won’t let you walk away and sit in it alone. Even if you’re arguing with him, even if the tension is thick enough to choke on, he would stop you before you got too far. “Don’t walk away from me like this.” He hates unfinished things, unfinished conversations, unresolved tension, words hanging in the air. He needs to understand where the damage is before it gets worse. And if someone else upset you? That need doubles, because once he knows the source, he can do something about it. He is not good at comforting with words, but he’s good at staying. At keeping you close until the shaking stops, until the anger settles, until he knows you’re alright. He doesn’t fix pain delicately, but he refuses to leave it untouched.

°•♡he’ll choose you over the family if it comes down to it. This is the choice that terrifies him most. Loyalty to the Shelbys is carved into his bones, but if a situation ever forces his hand - your safety against a risky job, your comfort against one of Tommy’s orders - Michael will choose you. The decision would tear at him, and he might brood for hours afterward, chain-smoking in silence, jaw tight, eyes distant while he deals with the consequences alone. He won’t regret it, but it would change things. From that moment on, the way he moves within the family shifts: you become the line he refuses to let anyone cross, even his own blood.

°•♡if someone hurt you, his first instinct would be revenge. Before comfort, before logic, before anything else - revenge. That’s the Shelby in him, and Michael has more of it in him than he likes to admit. If someone put their hands on you, scared you, threatened you, left bruises where there shouldn’t be bruises, his mind would go straight to them. Who they are. Where they are. How close they still are to you. He’d take care of you first, of course: sit you down, clean the cuts, check the bruising, make sure nothing is worse than it looks. His hands would be steady, careful even. But there’d be a distance in him while doing it, a coldness settling behind his eyes. Because part of him is already gone, already thinking about what comes next. And Michael’s revenge is never impulsive. That’s what makes it worse. He wouldn’t storm off in anger. He’d finish taking care of you, make sure you are safe, make sure you aren't alone - and then he’d leave to handle it. He can tolerate pain aimed at him. But pain aimed at you? Oh boy, that's personal. And personal things never go unanswered.

°•♡he protects your peace from his own world. Michael knows the Shelby name brings noise, pressure, and blood. So he tries (in his own imperfect way) to give you pockets of normalcy. He’ll shut down business talk the second you enter the room. He’ll take you out of Birmingham when he can - quiet drives, weekends away - where no one knows you as “Michael Gray’s girl.” He hates the idea of his ambition or the family’s chaos staining you, so he builds small walls of calm wherever he’s able, even if it means lying about how bad things really are.

°•♡protectiveness makes him vulnerable. The only time the mask truly slips is after the danger has passed. Once he has you safe in his arms, tucked against his chest in the quiet of your room, the same man who was ice-cold and terrifyingly strategic just an hour ago, will let out a long, shaky breath and press his face into the crook of your neck. He doesn’t speak; he just holds you, breathing you in like he needs the proof that you’re real and unharmed. These moments are rare, but they reveal everything: all that iron control, every calculated move, is built on a raw, aching fear of losing you. In the silence, you feel just how deeply you affect him.

°•♡in the end, protecting you is the only peace he has. Michael Gray was born into chaos and raised in blood. He’s always understood the world as something sharp and unforgiving. But with you… protecting you becomes more than instinct or duty. It becomes the closest thing he has to control in a life that constantly threatens to spiral. Every calculated move, every cold decision, every quiet act of shielding you is his way of saying what he rarely puts into words: you are the one thing he refuses to lose. In a world that has taken so much from him, you are the single soft place he will burn everything down to protect. And as long as he’s breathing, no one - not even the devil himself - will take you from him.

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

with reader as receiver and aerion as sender?👀 just need some possessive clingy aerion also in his sleep

{ aerion brightflame x you } a/n: anon i need you to understand that this had me completely internally screaming and pacing circuits around my apartment. i had to set my phone down and walk this off, because oh my god. wc: 1050

It had been a simple thing, when you woke.

A cool breeze brushing slow and languid along your skin. The reprieve was welcome, a balance to ease the heat of a shape next to you, that had not been there when you drifted off to sleep only a few hours before.

Upon realizing this, pushing the gossamer veil of sleep away from your senses, stubborn as it was – you shifted, covers pooling at your waist, an arm tightening almost immediately around you. Which, of course, limited your mobility even further. Especially once it was punctuated with a rough voice, still sharp in the hours of night, mumbling for you to ‘stop moving’. And ‘you're not leaving’.

No matter this was, of course, your bed, and your bedchamber.

On nights like these, Aerion always won, in the end. A dragon curled around you like a hoard of precious gemstones made flesh, given shape, gifted breath, the lingering tendrils of smoke tying you together even when apart.

It's why you mumble something half intelligible, but no less an unmistakable agreement as you shift enough to reach for him, too. Your dragon come to you, once more seeking out what calls to him while spitting in the face of propriety as he does it. A bonus, really, considering what's proper is always so terribly constricting as it is.

Much as he is around you, in this moment.

Though – maybe you don't mind this. Being something to someone who never hides who he is, who may whisper 'mine' in the quiet safety of moonlight spearing shadow like a claim – but never the kind that bleeds disrespect, leaving blood blooming along your nightclothes like some sort of night blooming garden. But the kind that means being seen wholeheartedly, completely, accepted, and chosen by someone just as sharp as you can be. The kind that means you're his to keep, not neglect. To protect, even when he knows you're perfectly capable all on your own.

And you let him. Let him sneak into your bed and nestle close as he does now, all warm and sleep-soft because this is the only time he lets you see him as anything other than polished. Held together by pride and an ever present ache that runs so deep, he does all he can to break it. Every day. Every moment. Every second.

Your hand slips idly through his hair, silver strands like silk and mussed through fingertips as you press closer into his embrace. Let yourself relax back into the familiarity of a moment, stolen, a new memory added to the list of nights exactly like these, joining golden hours spent off on some forgotten balcony in a wing of the castle largely left alone, because part of Aerion always, always, hopes someone will see you with him.

aftertaste of a favor { lyonel baratheon x you } author's note : you guys wanted me to write lyonel baratheon, so im gonna give you lyonel baratheon!!!! we are absolutely not going to subscribe to the purity westerosi bullshit bc u cannot convince me people actually care, even as a noble lady, which - im not sure if this qualifies as gender neutral like usual? im...unsure how to make it work properly in a world that is way less fluid in acceptance of deviation from their two primary genders in terms of titles and roles? reader adheres to the female presenting roll of a Lady for the sake of the Event in this fic, but if anyone has notes on how to navigate this, id love to hear them!! i want to keep making these as inclusive as possible <3 sidenote: have fun u chaotic baddies, i see u. u can take him. and in this? YOU GIVE HIM A RUN FOR HIS MONEY, GO YOU. lovely divider by @uzmacchiato word count : 2996 ( holy shit )

It started with a favor.

Night descended upon Ashford Meadow like the fist of a vengeful god, the anticipation thick and loud and bleeding out into the air between a tightly closed palm before the blow could even connect. It drifted all the way up to Lord Ashford's keep, winding it's way through stone halls clamoring with preparations and the celebration of Lady Gwin's nameday – of which you, of course, were in attendance whether you wished to be, or not.

Yet even you couldn't deny the thrill weaving around your bones as you settled into your place on the bench, the stands already filling up quickly with other nobles eager to see the first bloodshed of the tourney. Torch light burned hot and bright, chasing away the darkness with an almost cheerful warmth, illuminating the subtle flash of gold dragons already being exchanged in wagers. Lords and Ladies and their whispers were still heard clear as day over the rising cacophony of growing crowds bringing the familiar musings of idle gossip, like which of the knights had come to Ashford simply to find himself a lady wife.

You, of course, were not here for such things. Even if you were partial to a man who proved to be more than competent with a sword or mace in hand.

As soon as the thought crossed your mind, the volume around the field rose; the eight knights entering the lists for the opening tournament had begun to mount their horses, spurring them along the muddy field in a few spirited circuits along the lanes. Squires dashed around, trying valiantly to make absolutely certain that everything was in place, that armor was secured and horses readied, lances heaved into the waiting hands of men already astride horses growing restless with each passing moment. Your eyes scanned them all, along with everyone else – and that anticipation began to rear it's head once more, now that the first joust was already in sight.

It was difficult to miss him.

The impressive figure he cut was enough to draw more eyes than your own, almost immediately. Tall, imposing, vibrant not only from the adornment of bright Baratheon golds, but in the air of his vitality as well. Larger than life itself, Ser Lyonel Baratheon made chaos bow and fold and yield, the raging thunder of Storm’s End incarnate made flesh right before your very eyes, great stag helm balanced on the saddle before him.

There were very few people in the world Aerion Targaryen treated kindly.

It was not merely that he was proud though he was, terribly so. Nor was it only his temper, quick and bright as wildfire, or the cruel edge in him that made lesser men lower their eyes and wiser men hold their tongues. Aerion had been born with dragon’s blood and knew it. He wore arrogance like silk, as natural to him as breath, and he had little patience for those who disappointed him, which was nearly everyone.

Most people feared him.

Many had reason to.

Servants stiffened when he entered a room. Courtiers measured each word before speaking it. Men who laughed too loudly or looked too long found themselves skewered by one of his cold, beautiful smiles. Aerion was not a man given to softness. Not in public. Not in private. Not at all, if rumor was to be believed.

And yet every rumor about him became useless the moment his wife was brought into the picture.

Because with you, Aerion was another creature entirely.

No less dangerous, perhaps. No less proud. No less possessive. But where the rest of the world received his sharpness, you were met with a tenderness so private and so instinctive that it almost felt unnatural, as though a wolf had decided, for reasons known only to itself, to guard one small bird with perfect devotion.

No one understood it.

No one dared comment on it either.

Not after the first few times they had seen the prince’s face soften when you entered a room.

Not after noticing how his hand would settle at your waist before you even reached him, how he looked at no one while you were speaking, how the restless cruelty in him quieted not vanished, never that but quieted, as if your presence put a silk leash on something otherwise ungovernable.

Tonight was no different.

The feast had gone on too long.

Aerion had been in a black mood from the start, irritated by some lord’s unnecessary boasting, by the musicians missing notes, by the sheer noise of too many people desperate to impress one another. He had sat draped in black and red like a prince in a story meant to end badly, silver gold hair catching the firelight, pale eyes cool with boredom and disdain.

No one mistook the warning in his expression.

Not even you.

Especially not you.

Yet when the evening dragged on and weariness tugged at your bones, you had gone to him without asking leave, without hesitation, simply stepping between his knees where he sat and laying a hand on his shoulder.

Aerion had looked up at once.

The chill in his face had dissolved so quickly it almost seemed impossible.

“You’re tired, My Heart” he said quietly.

It was not a question.

You nodded, a little embarrassed by how plainly he always read you.

The hall was still loud, voices crashing over one another, goblets clattering, laughter rising too harshly in the smoky air. You had meant only to stand beside him for a moment. To rest your hand on him. To breathe.

Instead, Aerion’s fingers closed around your wrist not hard, never hard with you and with a practiced ease he drew you down onto his lap as if there were nowhere else in the world you ought to be.

A few eyes flicked your way and away just as quickly.

No one wished to witness too much of Prince Aerion’s private affections.

You settled against him sideways, your skirt spilling over his legs, your cheek finding the familiar line of his shoulder. His arm came around your waist at once, firm and enclosing. Not merely holding you.

Keeping you.

“You should have said sooner,” he murmured near your temple.

“That I was tired?”

“That you wanted to leave.”

A small smile touched your mouth. “I did not say I wanted to leave.”

“You are nearly asleep on me.”

“Not yet.”

Aerion’s hand spread over your side, thumb moving once in a slow stroke that sent warmth all through you. “Mm,” he said, unconvinced.

The prince beside whom men sat rigid with unease was now adjusting the fall of your skirts so they would not crease beneath you. He drew part of his cloak over your lap to shield you from the draft curling through the hall. He shifted his goblet aside with visible annoyance that it occupied one of his hands, then gave up on it entirely and rested both arms around you instead.

You heard the faintest scoff from somewhere nearby.

Aerion’s gaze lifted instantly.

The expression that crossed his face was enough to freeze blood.

Whoever had made the sound lowered their eyes at once.

Then his attention returned to you, and all that cold violence in him went smooth as still water.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

You might have laughed if you had not been so sleepy. “You ask that after trapping me?”

His mouth curved not the smile he gave others, all teeth and mockery, but the rare one that belonged only to you. Small. Real. Almost boyish, though there was nothing boyish in the possessive hold he had around you.

“If you wished to move,” he said, “you would have done so already.”

“That is terribly smug.”

“And true.”

You made a soft, half-hearted sound of protest and tucked yourself closer instead, proving him right in the worst way. Aerion, delightfully insufferable when he knew he had won, said nothing. He only tilted his head enough to rest his cheek lightly against your hair.

The firelight painted him in gold and shadow.

To anyone else, Aerion Targaryen was sharp angles and danger: elegant hands made for rings and reins and violence, beauty honed to something cutting, every glance carrying the threat of humiliation or worse. But from where you sat, folded against him, you could feel the quiet things no one else was permitted to know.

The way he loosened his grip if he thought it too tight. The way his thumb kept tracing idle patterns at your waist, soothing you without thought. The way he leaned his head slightly toward yours, as if your nearness satisfied some restless instinct in him.

You were not foolish. You knew the man he was.

You knew what others whispered. You knew what they feared. You knew there were parts of Aerion that would never be soft, never be safe.

But somehow, impossibly, he had made a sanctuary of himself for you alone.

Your eyelids drooped.

Aerion noticed at once.

“There it is,” he murmured.

You did laugh then, quietly. “There is what?”

“You are falling asleep.”

“I am listening.”

“To what?”

You paused. “You.”

He gave a soft hum that sounded suspiciously pleased. “Liar.”

You did not bother arguing. It took too much energy. Instead, you let your head slip more fully into the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of leather, smoke, and the faint clean sharpness that always clung to him. Beneath your cheek, his pulse beat steady.

His hand moved to the back of your head.

Not to control, not to tilt your face where he wanted it.

Only to cradle.

The gesture was so instinctively tender it made your chest ache.

Across the table, someone began speaking to Aerion some hedge lord’s son, eager or witless enough to seek his attention while he held you. You felt the subtle shift in him before he answered: the cooling of his body, the return of that princely disdain.

“What is it?” Aerion asked, voice flat.

The man stammered something forgettable.

Aerion replied with a remark so dry and precise that nearby listeners went silent at once, uncertain whether to laugh. The young man flushed crimson, muttered an apology, and retreated.

Against Aerion’s chest, you smiled faintly.

“Cruel,” you whispered, eyes still closed.

“For him?” he asked. “Yes.”

Your fingers curled loosely in the dark fabric at his shoulder. “He only wanted to speak with you.”

“Then he ought to have chosen a better time.”

“You could be kinder.”

His hand on your hair gentled further. “To you, I am.”

The words were simple. Matter-of-fact. As if this were explanation enough for all things.

To you, I am.

Your heart gave one slow, helpless pull.

There was no use pretending Aerion loved in a gentle way. He did nothing gently not his pride, not his anger, not his wanting. Even this tenderness had a fierce quality to it, a possessive intensity that wrapped around you as tightly as his arms. He was sweet with you, yes, but it was the sweetness of a dragon allowing one cherished thing to sleep beside its flame.

You tilted your face up just enough to look at him.

His pale eyes dropped immediately to meet yours.

In public, no less.

That alone was enough to make courtiers stare if they were foolish enough.

He watched you with that hidden softness he never spent on anyone else, his thumb brushing once beneath your ear. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Aerion narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “That is rarely true.”

You smiled, drowsy and fond. “I was only thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime.”

“For me?”

“For anyone.”

Your smile widened. “I was thinking you’re nicer when I’m sleepy.”

A huff of amusement escaped him. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps because when you are sleepy,” he murmured, “you cease arguing with me for stretches of several minutes.”

“I do not argue.”

He raised one pale brow.

Even half asleep, you recognized the look and felt the urge to protest solely on principle. But then his hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his knuckles brushing your skin so carefully that the objection dissolved before it could leave your lips.

“There,” he said softly, watching your eyes flutter. “Better.”

Your answer came slurred with drowsiness. “You sound pleased with yourself.”

“I am pleased.”

“Why?”

His mouth bent near the corner in that secret almost-smile again. “Because you are where you belong.”

Heat bloomed low in your chest at the words, at the certainty in them. Aerion never questioned his right to you. Not in a way that felt careless, but in the way one might speak of the moon belonging to the night sky. To him, your place was obvious.

Here. In his arms. Trusted with the softness no one else received.

The noise of the feast blurred around the edges. The candles burned lower. Somewhere a harp was being plucked badly enough that Aerion would surely have mocked it on another night. Now he said nothing. He only let you sink further into him, one hand spread warm at your back, the other resting over your clasped fingers.

You drifted on the edge of sleep.

In that hazy warmth, you felt him shift and heard the faint scrape of his chair moving back from the table.

“Aerion?” you mumbled.

“Hush.”

“I can walk.”

“I know.”

But he rose with you still in his arms.

Of course he did.

The movement should have woken you more fully, yet his hold was so secure and the rhythm of his steps so smooth that it only made you nestle closer. One of your hands slid weakly against his chest, wrinkling the fine dark fabric there.

Behind him, chairs shifted and voices lowered. No one attempted to stop him. No one would have been fool enough.

You did not open your eyes, but you could imagine the sight of it well enough: Prince Aerion Targaryen, silver-haired and imperious, carrying his half sleeping wife from the hall as though she were the only thing in the room worth tending.

You smiled against him.

He felt it immediately.

“What is amusing?”

“You,” you whispered.

“Dangerous answer.”

“Mm.”

He passed from the heat of the hall into the quieter corridors beyond. The air there was cooler, carrying the scent of stone and torch smoke. His cloak had slipped partly around you now, cocooning you against his chest.

You were nearly asleep in earnest when he spoke again, so quietly you might have thought you dreamed it.

“They do not deserve to look at you when you’re like this.”

Your lashes lifted a fraction. “Like what?”

“Soft.”

The word settled over you like a touch.

Aerion’s jaw tightened faintly, as though annoyed with himself for saying so much, but he did not take it back. He only adjusted you higher against him, his hand spanning almost all of your back.

“You are mine,” he said, not harshly, but with a kind of low certainty that made your stomach flutter. “I will not have them staring.”

There was dragonfire even in his gentleness.

Especially in his gentleness.

You should have scolded him for that possessive streak, should have told him you were not some jewel to be locked away from admiring eyes. On another evening, perhaps, you would have.

Tonight, tucked safe in his arms and sleep heavy besides, all you did was press your face into his shoulder and murmur, “Then take me somewhere they cannot.”

Aerion went very still for half a heartbeat.

Then he bent his head and kissed your hair.

A rare enough thing. A precious enough thing. Done where no one else could see.

“With pleasure,” he said.

And if the prince carried you the rest of the way as though you were something sacred stolen from the world, if his sharp mouth softened only once your chamber door closed behind you, if the man who gave everyone else steel and scorn laid you down as gently as a prayer

well.

That was no one’s business but yours.

Because Aerion Targaryen was not a kind man.

Not to his kin. Not to the court. Not to the world.

But for you, half asleep in his lap, warm and trusting and wholly his, he could be sweet enough to make monsters seem tender.

thinking about letting vampire!aerion feed on you as if the meaning of his immortal existence lies solely on the blood coursing through your veins.

he'd have a fistful of your hair, holding the strands aside to expose the thin skin of your neck. the hand placed at the back of your head pulls you closer towards him, and he can hear the fragile beats of your heart falter for the split, lingering second in which he barely grazes the shape of his fangs against your pulse point.

aerion targaryen x wife!reader

WARNINGS: dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.

disclaimer : english isn't my first language :/ gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.

You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.

"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."

She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.

Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.

And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.

At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.

Your husband. The one you were meant for.

A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.

Aerion Targaryen.

A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.

Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.

After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.

Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.

You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.

"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."

But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.

Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.

"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."

Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.

Oh.

You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."

"He will be the last."

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.

Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.

The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.

You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.

Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.

He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.

And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.

Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.

The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.

“A cruel fate for one so young.”

“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”

"May the Gods have mercy upon you."

You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.

Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.

Gently, almost tenderly.

"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.

You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.

You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.

He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."

Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.

There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.

He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.

"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.

A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.

You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.

A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.

"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.

"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?

"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."

"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."

You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.

"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.

That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."

You blinked.

Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.

How could you have missed that?

Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.

Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.

You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.

"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.

You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."

He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.

“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.

You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.

He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.

"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.

"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."

But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.

And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.

Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.

The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.

"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."

A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.

You swayed lightly. "Maybe."

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.

It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.

You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.

There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.

How wrong you were.

When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.

He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.

"Husband."

He kept silent.

Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.

"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.

No pretense, no show. Sincere.

It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.

Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.

You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.

“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”

He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."

You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.

“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.

His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.

You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.

“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”

⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.

In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.

But this time you couldn't keep it in.

It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.

Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.

He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.

The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.

"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.

Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.

You didn't respond.

"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.

You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.

"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."

A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.

It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.

And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.

At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.

Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.

His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.

And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.

It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.

Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.

He would always be a monster to them.

His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.

He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.

“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.

I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”

You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”

His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧!𝐀𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐟!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You decide it's time to end your situationship with Aerion. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't agree.

𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Alcohol consumption, Yandere and obsessive behavior, Stalking, Non-C0nsensual T0uching (incredibly not from Aerion), Creep behavior, Graphic vi0lence (not towards Reader), Manipulation, N$FW themes, Hinted and light $MUT, General toxicity and well Aerion is his own trigger warning. No use of Y/N.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.3k

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Well, here goes nothing! I sincerely hope you will enjoy this! It's the first time for me sharing something I wrote, so I would love any feedback! If you have any! :)

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤: Angel - Remastered 2019, by Massive Attack, Horace Andy

𝖡𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗋 @ladyofwoes 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍.

Note - this is for you @milkysea-02 for inspiring and encouraging me to write this. Also FEMALE Reader. Thought since I did a hotd and one for targaryens, its only fair I do this au with them too

Baelor Breakspear + Sharing your soulmate's emotions

Soulmates were a favorite subject among poets and bards. Tales sung so often the prince couldn't escape the word even if he tried. It was an endearing concept but Baelor knew how things worked in Westeros. Soulmates meeting were a rarity and even rarer if they fell in love. Yet the prince could feel you, so strongly in fact. To many it’s a curse, but the prince found it comforting. 

He adored the moments he could feel your joy. Wondering what brought you such happiness. When anger or sadness tugged at his chest, he would frown wishing he could be there to offer comfort and ask what troubles you. Yes, meeting your soulmate was almost impossible, yet Baelor often thought of you; what you might be like. As he fiddles with his rings, nervous. He wonders if you feel it too. If you too ever ponder on what's bothering him. And when one day he finally meets you. Your father eagerly greets him, introducing you and your sister. It was painfully clear your father wished for Baelor to wed your sister.

And Baelor being the good man he is, indulges the man despite him promising no intention. Yet for some reason Baelor felt something pulling him towards you. He can tell you are nervous... because he can feel it. The prince tries not to jump to conclusions, but every glance, every conversation confirms his growing suspicion. And when he finally had a moment alone with you, he reached for your hand. Feeling every ounce of your emotion. And Baelor knew. He found his soulmate; his other half. No one would ever forget the look on your father's face when Baelor announces he will indeed wed his daughter. Just not the one he planned. 

synopsis. history will remember you as aerion brightflame's wife and whisperer.

contents. fluff, established relationship, protective and possessive!aerion, wife!reader, ooc aerion

notes. he tries soooo hard to pretend he is not at your beck and call.

The morning light spilled pale and golden through the tall windows of Summerhall, catching upon the silver threads in your embroidery.

The door opened without ceremony.

“Father, what brings you to this side of Summerhall so early?” you asked, setting aside the hoop before rising to offer the courtesy due your husband’s sire.

Maekar stood framed against the corridor’s shadow, his expression carved from the same stone as the mountains of the Dornish Marches. There were few men in the realm who looked perpetually braced for battle even within their own halls; your father-in-law was one of them.

“Your idiot husband,” he muttered, striding inside as though the word itself had propelled him.

You did not so much as blink. “Your son,” you corrected gently, gesturing for him to sit.

Summary: Daniel Ricciardo falls for Mercedes race engineer YN Antonelli - which is all good until the dangers of dating rival teams shows itself

Requested - Yes / @njutul

Instagram /

liked by: kimi.antonelli, yn.antonelli, georgerussell63 and 11,792,901 others

mercedesamgf1: Two Antonelli’s in the Mercedes garage! Kimi Antonelli and his sister YN Antonelli sign contracts for the 2025 season - Kimi Antonelli will be driving for us and YN Antonelli will be joining his race engineering team!

username: she’s so pretty omg

username: Antonellis taking over merc

username: Toto Wolff is never going to know a days peace

yn.antonelli: so excited!!!

-> username: I’d be terrified to be my brothers race engineer, imagine that family dinner after a shit race

-> username: no fr you couldn’t pay me enough 

username: WAIT WHAT

-> username: yeah they’ve both been in Mercedes junior programs since forever, she was with the engineering program and obvs Kimi in the drivers program, she’s been on Kimi’s team since then so they work pretty well together and obviously he trusts everything she says which makes life easier 

kimi.antonelli: Let’s do it 💪🏻

Hit the “thumbs down.” It’s like, what’s wrong??? Was our summary wrong? Were there offensive words? Thank you for helping us improve our AI tools :)

I selected “other.”

Text box popped up. Please elaborate!

Wrote in “I can fucking read” submit comment

Then had to spend several minutes torching all my settings with a flamethrower. Let me be clear: I’m (a lawyer) notoriously picky with my words FOR GOOD REASON (lawyering) so I overwhelmingly reject Gmail’s “helpful” little assistance. My privacy settings were set to “full paranoia” a little less than a year ago when I saw the writing on the wall and knew public defenders could become a target in the future. Better to lock it all down now.

Gemini had crept in there and turned ALL that shit back on. And showed itself by saying “Jane Doe says she’s so sorry for your loss and offers to reschedule for Thursday at 3” over an email from Jane Doe saying “I’m so sorry for your loss. We could reschedule for Thursday at 3?”

Why would I possibly need this. In what universe would I need this. I have eyes and a brain and a reading speed that twenty years ago was measured at 1500 wpm with full comprehension on dense scientific text. Furthermore! If I read a summary, I’m not reading what they actually wrote. If I’m not reading what they actually wrote, I’m not using my own judgment on the words and phrases that they used.

I literally don’t understand why this is helpful at all. This is just avoidance. Using LLMs to write is specifically Not Writing. Using LLMs to summarize is Not Reading. Using them to make art is Avoiding Making Art. Just READ! Just WRITE! I was not put on this fucking planet to not read and not write and not make art! Avoidance is an anxiety symptom and indulging it gives it more power.

If I had an AI to do my most dreaded task, answer the phone for clients, I wouldn’t use it. Because an AI cannot help them. An AI cannot hear the facts of their case, make appropriate noises, be thoughtful and insightful, and then give them a realistic estimate of what could happen in court. I am unique. I cannot be replaced by machine learning. I have style. I have expertise. I don’t hallucinate unless I’m having a really great Friday night and I’m off the clock.

When I need to outsource tasks from my own brain, I give them to people I know can do them and that I trust to do them right.