brunettemarionette

[brunettemarionette]

Happy from Sons of Anarchy + quality time with a little physical touch, very very romantic, thank you!!

✨ 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: Sons of Anarchy 🧠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫: Happy Lowman ❤️ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞: Quality Time (+ a little physical touch)

The sun dips low over Charming, painting the sky in hues of peach and gold. You’re sitting on the worn leather couch in Happy’s small, cluttered living room, the faint scent of motor oil and pine cleaner lingering in the air. The TV is off, the clubhouse is quiet for once, and it’s just the two of you. Happy’s not one for grand gestures, but tonight, he’s carved out this moment, this sacred slice of time, just for you.

He’s sprawled beside you, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his calloused fingers brushing the nape of your neck in slow, absent-minded circles.

The touch sends a shiver down your spine, not because it’s cold, but because it’s Happy—the man who’s all sharp edges and quiet intensity, letting his guard down enough to let you in. His dark eyes, usually scanning for threats, are soft tonight, fixed on you like you’re the only thing in his world.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and gravelly, like he’s checking if this moment is enough.

You nod, leaning into his side, your head finding that perfect spot against his shoulder. “Better than good,” you murmur, and his lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your heart skip. Happy doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t need to. His presence, the way he’s here with you, fully present, says everything.

He shifts, his hand sliding from your neck to your shoulder, pulling you closer until you’re tucked against him, your legs tangled together. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, grounding you in a way that feels like home. “Thought we could just… stay in,” he says, almost like he’s testing the waters. “No club shit, no noise. Just us.”

Your heart swells at the simplicity of it. Happy’s life is chaos—blood and bikes and brotherhood—but tonight, he’s chosen you over all of it. Time with him isn’t candlelit dinners or poetic declarations; it’s this. It’s him turning off the world, shutting out the roar of his Harley and the demands of the Sons, to sit here with you in the quiet.

You tilt your head to look up at him, catching the way the fading sunlight highlights the sharp lines of his jaw, the ink peeking out from under his sleeve. “I like just us,” you say softly, and this time, he does smile—a rare, fleeting thing that makes your chest ache with love.

His hand moves again, fingers threading through yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gentle, possessive way. It’s not much, but it’s everything—Happy’s love language isn’t loud, but it’s steady, like the beat of his heart under your palm when you rest your hand on his chest.

He leans down, his forehead pressing against yours, and for a moment, you just breathe together, the world outside fading into nothing.

“Love you,” he mutters, so quiet you almost miss it, his lips brushing against your temple. It’s not a grand confession, but it’s Happy, raw and real, and it sets your soul alight.

You don’t need fireworks or flowers. You need this—his warmth, his time, his touch. You need Happy, here and now, choosing you in the stillness of a Charming sunset.

“I love you too,” you whisper, and his grip on your hand tightens, sealing the promise of this moment, just the two of you, forever.

[brunettemarionette]

John Shelby from Peaky Blinders + Physical Touch please! Thankyou!

✨ 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: Peaky Blinders 🧠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫: John Shelby ❤️ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞: Physical Touch

The door creaked open, but you didn’t look up from the book in your lap. Only one person in the Shelby household slammed a door like that and still whistled on the way in.

“Hello?,” John’s voice was warm, low. Tired, maybe.

You didn’t get a word out before he dropped onto the couch beside you. His shoes hit the floor with a thud, hands already pulling you toward him.

“I just sat down,” you chuckled, though you were already shifting into his lap. “You’re like a bloody heat-seeking missile.”

John pressed his face into the crook of your neck and breathed in like you were the only clean thing left in Birmingham. “’S been a long day.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension in his shoulders start to bleed out. His hands settled on your thighs, firm and grounding, thumbs brushing slow circles through the worn fabric of your dress.

“Everything alright?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer at first—just nuzzled closer, lips ghosting along your collarbone, barely-there kisses tracing the edge of your skin like he was mapping you all over again. “It is now.”

His voice cracked on the words. You felt it more than heard it. Not just in your ears, but in the way his arms locked tighter around your waist, as if letting go might undo something inside him.

You let him stay like that for a while. In the background, the ticking clock and distant hum of the city blurred together. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress, calloused but gentle, like even after all this time, he still wasn’t used to being allowed to hold something soft.

He tilted his head to look at you, blue eyes clearer now. “I missed this.”

“Touching me?”

He smirked. “Being reminded I’ve got something worth coming home to.”

You leaned forward, kissed the corner of his mouth. “You always do.”

He kissed you properly after that—slow and deep, all hands and quiet groans and the kind of closeness that didn’t need words.

For John, this was the language he spoke best. Not flowers. Not long letters. Just the constant, steady pressure of a palm on your thigh, a kiss pressed into your shoulder as you passed, the solid weight of him against you at the end of the day.

He never said I love you much. He showed it. Over and over again.

click here to see the love languages event. want to request? go here.

[brunettemarionette]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐌.𝐂. 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.

𝗘𝗭 𝗥𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

You walk into the scrapyard with someone who knows the club, just tagging along, not expecting much.

EZ spots you before you even realize where you're going. He stops mid-conversation, his voice dying in his throat.

There's a quiet, weighty pause as he watches you. Something about you punches the air out of his lungs—your eyes, your energy. It’s not just attraction—it’s recognition.

He's too controlled to show it outright, but his brows lift ever so slightly, and his jaw tightens.

He approaches with a calm smile, but his heart's hammering in his chest. You catch him scanning your face like he's trying to memorize it.

He stumbles slightly over his introduction. EZ Reyes doesn't stumble—ever. That alone tells him you're trouble, the kind that gets under your skin.

“You just passing through, or should I be hoping you’ll be around for a while?” he asks, smooth but laced with genuine curiosity.

Later, he keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You catch him once. He looks away with a soft smirk, caught red-handed.

That night, he goes home and sketches you. He doesn't even understand why.

𝗔𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗹 𝗥𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Angel’s first reaction? Whistle-low under his breath, muttering, “Damn…” before he even realizes it slipped out.

You don’t even make eye contact with him right away, but that doesn’t stop him from soaking you in.

He’s all charm and cocky swagger at first—approaches you like he’s already got you figured out.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he grins, flashing those dimples.

But when you talk? That voice, that fire in your eyes? He freezes for half a beat. His smirk fades slightly—his attraction deepens into something sharper, more unsettling.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, turning away briefly like he needs a second to recalibrate.

Angel's drawn to chaos, but you? You make him want something more stable without even trying.

Later that night, he scrolls through his phone, wondering if asking for your number the same day is too much—then says screw it and does it anyway.

𝗝𝗼𝗵𝗻𝗻𝘆 “𝗖𝗼𝗰𝗼” 𝗖𝗿𝘂𝘇 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Coco’s sitting on the curb, smoking, one leg pulled up when you walk by.

His eyes follow you instantly, lips parting slightly. His cigarette nearly burns to the filter while he watches you.

“Damn… Who’s that?” he asks nobody in particular, blinking like he just woke up.

He tries to play it cool, real casual. Calls out something half-flirty, half-stupid like, “You got any idea what kinda trouble you’re causin’ out here, girl?”

When you throw a witty remark back at him without missing a beat, he chokes on a laugh.

That’s when it hits him. He’s not just attracted—he’s hooked.

The feeling creeps up his spine, makes him shift uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since someone made him feel this awake.

“Shit, you dangerous,” he mutters, grinning, scratching at his neck like he’s trying to shake it off.

Spends the rest of the day telling himself he doesn’t need this—then actively finds reasons to walk by you again.

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝘂𝘀 Á𝗹𝘃𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘇 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Marcus isn’t a man who gets shaken easily. He’s calculated, measured, composed.

But when you walk into the room, it’s like something short-circuits in him.

He doesn't react outwardly—he doesn’t let himself. Not in front of the boys. But internally? There’s an unsettling heat in his chest he hasn’t felt in years.

He watches you with hawk-like eyes, assessing everything—your poise, your smile, how you carry yourself.

“Who is she?” he asks Bishop in a low voice, trying to sound offhand. He fails.

He’s direct when he finally speaks to you. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Marcus Álvarez,” he says with a slow nod, voice deep and unreadable.

But you feel the tension in the air when you shake his hand. His fingers linger just a second too long. His eyes hold yours like they’re searching for something.

Later, he’s alone in his office, pouring himself a drink, wondering what the hell this pull is—and if he’s too old to chase it.

𝗢𝗯𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗼 “𝗕𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗽” 𝗟𝗼𝘀𝗮 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Bishop’s usually all business—he doesn’t waste time on distractions.

But you? You’re a disruption from the first second.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you from across the lot. At first, it’s curiosity. Then… something else.

He crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.

He doesn’t approach right away. He wants to know who you are, what you're about. Sends someone else to make introductions and watches your reactions carefully.

Eventually walks up, nods, says, “Bishop. You got a name to go with that smile?”

He’s trying to keep things light, but his voice is low, rough. There's a note of seriousness he can't shake.

You laugh, and it punches through his chest like a shotgun blast. He doesn’t smile often, but you make him.

That night, he’s in the clubhouse, nursing a drink, staring at the wall, trying to talk himself out of the idea that you might be exactly what he didn’t know he needed.

𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Manny’s instantly warm when he sees you. His smile hits fast and wide—eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas.

“Whoa… Hey there, querida,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag as he walks over.

You can feel his energy before he even reaches you—bold, flirty, but not overbearing. It’s like gravity.

He’s not shy about the way he looks at you. It’s appreciative, reverent even. Like he’s not just seeing your beauty—he’s feeling it.

He tells a joke to make you laugh and beams when you do. That sound? He’s addicted already.

Later, he offers you a drink at the bar, pulling out a stool for you before you even get the chance to say yes.

“I don’t know what brought you here, but I’m real glad it did,” he says, tapping his glass to yours.

He leans in a little closer than necessary when you talk, hanging on your words like they’re gospel.

And after you leave? He’s already planning how to see you again without making it obvious he’s smitten.

[brunettemarionette]

You're in love. You're clingy. You're his.

Part One.

It’s been a few weeks since the annual staff party at The Bear, and the crew’s decided to keep the good vibes going with an impromptu night out at a dive bar a few blocks away. The place is loud, packed with off-duty chefs and bartenders, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the clink of beer bottles.

Three cocktails in—something fruity Sydney insisted you try—and you’re feeling it. The room’s a warm blur, and your usual filter is long gone.

Carmy’s at your side, nursing a single beer he’s barely touched, his eyes sharp and watchful. He’s been quieter than usual lately, still riding the high of the restaurant’s latest review but always on edge, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tonight, though, his focus is all on you. You’re giggling, leaning into him, your hand resting on his arm as you ramble about how you swear you could make a better cocktail than the one you’re drinking.

“You’re so cute when you’re serious,” you slur, poking his cheek, your voice loud enough to draw a chuckle from Tina across the table. Carmy’s cheeks flush, but he doesn’t pull away, just gives you that small, lopsided smile that makes your heart skip.

“Alright, babe,” he says, voice low and steady, “maybe slow down on the drinks, yeah?” He slides your half-empty glass out of reach, ignoring your pout.

“Nooo, Carm, I’m fine,” you protest, reaching for it, but he’s faster, his tattooed hand gently catching yours. You lean closer, draping yourself over his shoulder, and he tenses for a second before relaxing into it.

“You’re so warm,” you mumble, nuzzling into his neck, and Richie lets out a loud “Get a room!” from the bar, making Marcus snort into his drink.

Carmy’s not laughing, though. He’s hyper-aware of every move you make, every slurred word, every time your hands wander a little too low on his chest. “Carmy, you’re, like, the best,” you say, eyes glassy as you look up at him.

“Like… the best best. Let’s go home. Just you ‘n’ me.” Your voice drops, suggestive, and you tug at his shirt, trying to pull him closer.

Sydney raises an eyebrow, hiding a grin behind her hand, while Fak whispers, “She’s worse than Carm was!”

Carmy’s ears go red, but he shakes his head, gentle but firm. “Not happenin’, sweetheart,” he says, prying your fingers off his collar. “You’re drunk as hell. I’m not doin’ that.”

You pout again, dramatic, and slump against him. “But I love you,” you whine, loud enough that the whole table hears it.

Tina cackles, and Richie yells, “Yo, she’s stealing your moves, Carm!”—a clear jab at Carmy’s clingy performance at the last party.

“Love you too,” Carmy says quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But you’re goin’ to bed, not… that.” He’s trying to keep it together, but you can tell he’s fighting a smile. You’re a mess, and he’s secretly loving this rare, unfiltered version of you, even if he’s gotta play the responsible one.

He stands, pulling you up with him, and you wobble, clinging to his arm like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Time to go,” he says, nodding to the crew. “I’m gettin’ her home.”

“Good luck, chef!” Sydney calls, raising her glass, while Richie adds, “Don’t let her sweet-talk you, cousin!”

The walk to the car is slow, mainly because you keep stopping to kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated, your hands grabbing at his jacket. “You’re so hot,” you mumble against his lips, and he pulls back, shaking his head, though his eyes are soft.

“Stop it,” he says, half-laughing, half-serious. “You’re makin’ this hard, y’know.” He gets you into the passenger seat, buckling you in while you pull him into a deep kiss, which he reciprocates before shutting the car door.

At his apartment, he guides you inside with a steady hand. You’re still trying to be flirty, tugging at his shirt, whispering things that make his jaw tighten, but he’s not having it.

“C’mon, babe, shoes off,” he says, kneeling to help you when you fumble with your sneakers. He gets you to the couch, wrapping a blanket around you, and hands you a glass of water. “Drink this. All of it.”

You sip it, grumbling, then try to climb into his lap. “Carmy, c’mere,” you slur, but he gently pushes you back, tucking the blanket tighter.

“Nope. You’re sleepin’ this off,” he says, sitting next to you but keeping just enough distance. He’s not mad, just… careful, like he’s handling something fragile. You pout, but the alcohol’s hitting hard now, and your eyes start to droop.

“Love you,” you mumble, head lolling against his shoulder as you finally start to crash.

He brushes his thumb across your cheek, voice soft. “Love you too. Now sleep.” By the time he grabs you some aspirin and another glass of water, you’re out, snoring softly against the couch.

He carries you to bed, tucking you in with a quiet chuckle, and sits there for a minute, watching you sleep. Tomorrow, you’ll be mortified, and the crew will never let you live it down, but for now, he’s just glad you’re safe.

[brunettemarionette]

Hello 🤗

Can you do lagertha and ragnar with saxon reader who doesnt like them and their ways but they are so in love, could you do it in headcannon form? Thank you sm!

𝐋𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐚𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞…

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― gender neutral reader. no description of features. no mentions of size or race.

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​​🇻​​🇮​​🇰​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​​🇸​​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

SFW Headcanons:

・This relationship begins with disdain and distance—your Saxon values clash hard with their Viking chaos.

・You find their violence, customs, and polytheism deeply unsettling. You never asked for their attention, let alone their affections.

・And yet, they’re relentless. Ragnar with his clever grins and sharp eyes. Lagertha with her unshakable confidence and haunting beauty.

・They don’t ask for permission to love you—they just do. They challenge you, flirt with you, provoke you. At first, it’s unbearable.

・But it’s also fascinating. Their passion for life, for each other, and now for you... it creeps in slowly, like waves against rock.

・Ragnar brings the cunning. He’s unpredictable, laughing at your anger, kissing you mid-argument just to see your reaction.

・Lagertha is fire and frost—disciplined, fierce, and fiercely tender once you let her in.

・You try to keep your distance, but they chip away at your walls with small acts of protection and surprising vulnerability.

・They never try to convert you. Ragnar asks questions, curious about your beliefs. Lagertha listens, even if she doesn’t always agree.

・You realize, over time, they love with their whole beings—no half-measures.

・You become the third thread in their braided bond. The storm between them finds calm in you—your hesitation, your perspective, your strength.

・It’s still chaos—but now it’s your chaos. You’re not their conquest. You’re their equal. Their match.

・And gods, do they love that.

🔞 NSFW Headcanons –

・Ragnar is playful dominance. His touch is possessive, but his words? Laced with teasing. He wants to hear you moan and argue—preferably at the same time.

・Lagertha is slow-burning tension and searing release. She’s methodical, assertive, and obsessed with learning what makes your body tremble.

・Together? They're devastating. You’re never prepared for the way they pass control between them, or how they share you like a secret.

・They love to overwhelm you—Lagertha whispering filth in your ear while Ragnar keeps you spread open and breathless beneath him.

・Ragnar leaves bruises in the shape of his hands. Lagertha leaves scratches down your back.

・Sometimes they worship you. Take their time. Murmured devotion in the candlelight.

・Other times, it’s raw, primal—three bodies tangled in sweat and dominance and release.

・They mark you in every way they can. With mouths. With fingers. With devotion.

・You try to resist at first. But even your pride crumbles when Ragnar’s tongue traces the shell of your ear and Lagertha’s hand slides between your thighs.

・They love seeing you ruined—by both of them. And gods help anyone who catches sight of you after one of their nights. You glow. You ache. You belong.

・There’s no jealousy between them—only shared hunger. And you, lucky you, are the feast.

Relationship Tropes

Enemies to Lovers – You despised them, mocked their ways. Now you wake tangled in their furs.

The Two Who Fell First x The One Who Falls Hardest – They’ve loved you from the start. You took your time—and fell hard.

“I Hate You.” x “No You Don’t.” x “Let Her Say It Again—I Dare You.” – Banter, tension, and unspoken heat thick enough to choke on.

Plot Tropes

Found Family – You didn’t mean to find home in their arms. But here you are.

One Bed Trope – “It’s cold. You’ll freeze. Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re Ours Now” Confession – Said without words. Said with a look, a kiss, a battle fought together.

Theme Songs

Cherry – Lana Del Rey (Melancholy obsession—lust and pain braided into every word. Complexities of love and passion.)

[brunettemarionette]

Hello fabulous!!! I hope your day is going well! Might I request the soa boys with a s/o who gets so absorbed into tasks or projects they tend to forget to eat? Like ADHD hyperfixation

Love you, keep being amazing like you already are!!

Hi! Thank you for your kind words, hope you enjoy! 💜

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬/𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬/𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐭

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― gender neutral reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇸​​🇴​​🇦​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

𝗝𝗮𝘅 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Notices immediately when you're in one of your “zones.”

He thinks it’s kind of adorable how passionate you get over something, but he also knows how that turns into you neglecting your basic needs.

Comes into the room, sees you surrounded by notes, coffee cups, maybe paintbrushes or code or whatever your current hyperfixation is.

“Babe... when’s the last time you ate? And don’t say coffee counts.”

Will physically pick you up from your chair if you don’t answer or try to wave him off.

Drags you to the kitchen like, “You don’t have to stop what you’re doing, but you are eating something. Even if it’s just a sandwich while you work.”

He keeps snacks in your workspace now. Protein bars. Trail mix. Shit you can’t spill on a laptop.

If you resist, he’ll playfully guilt trip you: “I can’t have you passing out on me, babe. What kind of old man am I gonna be if you’re not around to remind me how hot I used to be?”

Later, he rubs your back while you keep working, like he's grounding you without interrupting.

𝗢𝗽𝗶𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Quietly observant and lowkey so worried.

He doesn’t scold. He just sits across from you and watches for a while until you look up.

When you finally do, he gives you a soft, disappointed head tilt. “You forgot to eat again, didn’t you?”

Will disappear and come back with a warm plate of food and a look that says “please don’t make me say it.”

He’s the type to literally feed you if your hands are too busy or covered in whatever your project is.

“Just open your mouth. You can keep working.”

He doesn’t interrupt your flow, just adapts around it—silent presence, comforting weight beside you, occasionally rubbing your knee to remind you he’s there.

Starts setting alarms on your phone. Not in an annoying way—just little subtle reminders like “Ope says eat something :)”

You can tell he’s proud of your passion. He just wants to make sure you’re alive to keep chasing it.

𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

First time you hyperfocus and skip meals around him, he’s a little thrown off. Like, what do you mean you forgot to eat?

Once he gets it, he gets serious about handling it.

Doesn’t say much. Just drops a plate of food in front of you, sometimes with a grunt. Sometimes with a firm: “Eat. Now.”

Will literally stand there and wait for you to take the first bite.

You try to argue? “Babe, I’m in the middle of—” He cuts you off: “Starving yourself ain’t part of that project.”

Starts packing you high-protein snacks like you’re going to war.

If you skip food for too long, expect a surprise break: he’ll scoop you up, toss you over his shoulder, and march you to the kitchen like you weigh nothing.

Deep down he’s just scared something might happen to you if he’s not paying attention.

Once you eat, he’ll kiss your forehead real quick and mumble, “Good job” and then let you get back to it.

Tries to sit near you after, sharpening his knives or cleaning a gun, just so he’s nearby in case you start spiralling again.

𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗯𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Amused and lightly exasperated. “Jesus ... yer stomach’s growlin’ louder than the bloody Harley.”

He’s patient about it but also doesn’t let it slide.

Very Scottish dad energy. Comes up behind you, wraps his arms around you, and rests his chin on your head. “C’mon, love. Let’s get somethin’ in ya before ya keel over.”

Makes you tea or coffee with protein cookies or toast to start—something simple to tide you over while you work.

Will take over whatever chore you were supposed to do that day. “You stay in your world, I’ll mind the real one.”

Lightly teases you while making you eat: “Yer brilliant, darlin’, but if ya forget yer meals one more time, I’m gluin’ a sandwich to yer hand.”

Jokes aside, he’s got this tender protectiveness. He makes a game of sneaking in kisses and snacks when you’re deep in the zone.

The kind of man who says “I love watchin’ you like this... just not when it starts hurtin’ you.”

𝗧𝗶𝗴 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Totally fascinated by the hyperfocus thing. Thinks it’s wild that you get that sucked in.

“Babe. BABE. Have you moved in, like, eight hours? Are you alive??”

Tries to distract you with something totally unhelpful: “You want me to bring you a steak? Ice cream? A raccoon?”

But once he realizes it’s serious, he gets uncharacteristically gentle.

Makes you a full plate of food but also climbs into your space like a cat, legs over yours, feeding you between kisses.

“I’m your chaos. I’m your food break chaos. Accept it.”

Will NOT let you live it down: “You’d die for this project. Die. Starving artist vibes. So hot, so deadly.”

He loves how driven you are, but the moment you start skipping sleep or meals, he becomes aggressively nurturing. Like, “you’re MY feral genius and I will keep you alive.”

Will physically drag you into bed to “force rest and calories” if necessary. And yeah... that probably turns into something else.

𝗝𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Gets it. Totally gets it. Has ADHD tendencies himself, especially when he’s coding or deep in intel.

Joins you in hyperfocus mode... which means sometimes both of you forget to eat and that becomes a problem.

Eventually, he sets up a joint timer system with fun alarms like “Time for noms, sweetface!” or “Re-fuel or perish!”

Makes food breaks into little “missions” for you both. “Operation Grilled Cheese” becomes a recurring event.

When he notices you slipping into hyperfixation too hard, he’ll bring you food but also gently stroke your back or play your favorite music to “pull you back into your body.”

“Hey babe... just one bite? For me?” Hits you with the puppy eyes and pout.

Prepares snack packs that are “easy on the brain” like cut fruit, finger food, protein shakes.

Hovers a bit, anxious but trying not to smother. Will randomly ask, “You still okay? Brain still working? Need a break?”

If you start getting overwhelmed, he’ll wrap a hoodie around your shoulders and sit with you, quietly reassuring you you’re doing great and he’s got you.

[brunettemarionette]

🎉 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓🎉

To celebrate all the ways characters show affection, I’ll be writing drabbles (short 300–800ish word stories) based on your requests.

📅 Event Dates: Start: 21/07 End: 27/07 — I'm going on an impromptu holiday to the beach for the week so I know a lot of people have already sent in requests but here's some more time incase anyone wants to join in!

You pick: ✨ A fandom 🧠 A character ❤️ A love language

and I will create a drabble for your request!

💘 The 5 Love Languages:

Physical Touch

Words of Affirmation

Quality Time

Acts of Service

Gift Giving

📚 Fandoms Accepted:

The Hunger Games

The Bear

Twilight

Wednesday

Vampire Diaries

Teen Wolf

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Sons of Anarchy

Supernatural

Skins

The Walking Dead

True Blood

Stranger Things

Peaky Blinders

Vikings

✏️ How to Join In:

Just send me an ask like the message below: [Character] from [Fandom] + [Love Language] Example: Jax Teller from SOA + Physical Touch

📝 Notes:

Feel free to request multiple combos! e.g quality time with a side of gift giving.

Romantic, platonic, or suggestive tone—let me know your preference.

As always unless stated otherwise my usual answers are fem or gn!reader.

Be polite, and patient. Also try not to spam with multiple requests.

Spread some love, if you can please reblog or use the tag ♥️ #NyxLoveLanguages

[brunettemarionette]

Clingy Carmen

He's in love. He's clingy. He's yours.

Part Two.

The annual staff party is in full swing, the cramped staff room of the restaurant buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint thump of a playlist Richie threw together at the last minute.

You’re leaning against a counter, nursing a soda water with lime, watching the chaos unfold.

The kitchen staff, usually a tightly wound crew, is letting loose tonight, and it’s a sight. Sydney’s debating pizza toppings with Marcus, Tina’s dancing with Ebra, and Richie’s trying to convince everyone he’s got the best karaoke voice in Chicago.

But your eyes keep drifting to Carmen—your Carmen—whose usual sharp focus has been replaced by a tipsy, lopsided grin.

He’s three whiskeys deep, maybe four, and it shows. Carmy’s not a big drinker, but tonight he’s leaning into it, his shoulders relaxed for once, his anxiety tucked away under the warm haze of alcohol. He’s standing by the drinks table, laughing too loud at something Fak said, but when he spots you across the room, his whole face lights up like you’re the only person here.

“Babe,” he calls, voice slurring just enough to make Sydney snicker. He weaves through the crowd, nearly tripping over a chair, and before you can say anything, he’s at your side, wrapping his arms around your waist like you’re his lifeline. “There you are,” he mumbles, burying his face in your neck. His breath is warm, smelling of whiskey and that faint, familiar scent of the kitchen—olive oil, smoke, and him.

“Carm, you good?” you ask, patting his back, trying not to laugh as he nuzzles closer. His curls tickle your cheek, and you can feel the heat of his skin through his thin T-shirt.

“M’great,” he slurs, pulling back just enough to look at you with heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re so pretty, y’know that? Like… stupid pretty.” His hands slide up your sides, lingering a little too long, and you catch Richie raising an eyebrow from across the room, smirking like he’s enjoying the show.

“Thanks, babe,” you say, gently steering his hands back to safer territory. “You’re having fun, huh?”

“Only ‘cause you’re here,” he says, earnest in that way only a drunk Carmy can be. He leans in, trying to kiss you, but it’s messy, his aim off, landing somewhere near your jaw. You laugh, guiding his face back, and he pouts, looking like a kicked puppy. “C’mon, kiss me,” he whines, tugging you closer.

“Carmy, you’re drunk,” you say, keeping your tone light but firm. The others are watching now, Tina stifling a giggle behind her hand, Marcus pretending to focus on his drink but clearly eavesdropping.

Carmy’s usually so tightly wound, all sharp edges and nervous energy, that seeing him like this, soft, clingy, practically draping himself over you—is comedy gold to them.

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, pressing himself against you, his hands wandering again. “You’re my girl, right? Lemme… lemme take you home.” His voice drops, low and suggestive, and you feel your cheeks heat up as Richie lets out a loud “Oh, shit!” and claps like he’s at a stand-up show.

“Carmen Anthony Berzatto,” you say, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes with an amused grin. “You are way too drunk for that.”

He blinks at you, slow and confused, then grins like he’s got a secret. “But I want you,” he says, loud enough that Sydney chokes on her drink and Fak lets out a “Yo, Carm, chill!”

You’re torn between embarrassment and amusement, because this is Carmy, the guy who can barely say “I love you” without blushing sober, trying to get frisky in front of his entire staff.

“Nope,” you say, shaking your head, but you can’t help smiling. “You’re going to bed, chef. Alone. With water and some aspirin.”

He groans, dramatically, and slumps against you, his head on your shoulder. “You’re no fun,” he mumbles, but he’s still clinging to you, arms tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You catch Tina’s eye, and she mouths “cute” with a grin, clearly loving this rare glimpse of Carmy’s softer side.

“Alright, party’s over for you,” you say, gently prying him off. “Say goodnight, Carm.”

“Goodnight, Carm,” he echoes, giggling to himself, then waves sloppily at the room. “Night, losers!”

The crew erupts in laughter, Richie yelling, “Get his ass home, Sweetheart!” as you steer Carmy toward the door.

The drive to his apartment is an adventure. Carmy’s in the passenger seat, still touchy, reaching for your hand at every red light, muttering about how you’re “the best thing that’s ever happened” to him. You keep one hand on the wheel, the other gently batting his away when he gets too bold, reminding him you’re not crossing that line while he’s hammered.

At his place, you manage to get him inside, the two of you pressed together, all sloppy kisses and whispered promises. You're giving him this much as you walk him to bed. “C’mon, babe, just stay,” he pleads, flopping onto the mattress, tugging at your wrist.

“Not tonight, Carm,” you say, firm but gentle, pulling the blanket over him. You set a glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

He’s already half-asleep, eyes fluttering shut, but he grabs your hand one last time, holding it against his chest.

“Love you,” he mumbles, barely coherent, and your heart does a little flip despite yourself.

“Love you too,” you whisper, kissing his forehead. He’s out cold before you even turn off the light.

As you lock up and head home, you can’t help but smile, thinking about the teasing you’ll both get from the crew tomorrow. Clingy, drunk Carmy might be a handful, but he’s your handful, and that’s more than enough.

[brunettemarionette]

Shut Up and Kiss Me

💜eddie munson x female!reader

🔮summary. What starts as a heated argument with your best friend Eddie Munson outside the Hideout spirals into a raw, explosive confession. One shove, one taunt, and suddenly you’re kissing him against his van—hard.

🌙t.w. explicit sexual content. graphic smut, unprotected sex and foreplay. rough physical interactions (shoving, biting) in a consensual context. mentions of weed and alcohol.

😈rating. 18+ | trope. friends to lovers

✨wc. 1.5k

The Indiana air is thick with late summer humidity, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes you restless. You’re leaning against Eddie Munson’s beat-up van, parked haphazardly in the gravel lot behind the Hideout.

The bar’s neon sign buzzes faintly in the distance, casting a red glow over the scene. You’ve been bickering with Eddie for the last ten minutes—same as always.

He’s your best friend, your chaos magnet, your problem, and right now, he’s driving you up the goddamn wall.

“You’re so fucking annoying, Munson,” you huff, shoving at his chest with both hands. Your palms meet the worn leather of his jacket, and he barely budges, just sways back a little like he’s enjoying it.

Eddie’s grin is all teeth, wild and unashamed. He steps closer, crowding you against the van’s side. The cool metal presses into your back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off him.

Before you can shove him again, his hand shoots out, rings glinting under the dim streetlight as he catches your wrists. His grip is firm but not painful, and the cold bite of his jewelry sends a shiver up your arm.

“Oh yeah?” he taunts, his voice low and rough like he’s daring you to escalate this. His dark eyes flicker, darting from your lips to the glare you’re leveling at him. “Then why are you still here, sweetheart?”

Your stomach twists hard, a knot of frustration and something hotter you refuse to name. He’s too close—way too close. The frayed edges of his jacket brush your bare arms, and his scent hits you full force: basic shampoo, cheap cologne, and that faint tang of weed that he can never quite shake.

It’s maddening. He’s maddening.

“Shut up,” you snap, but your voice wavers, betraying you.

Eddie leans in, his nose almost brushing yours. His grin softens into something dangerous, something that makes your pulse hammer. “Make me.”

And fuck it—you do.

Your hands fly to his face, fingers digging into his stubbled jaw as you yank him down and kiss him. It’s messy, furious, all teeth and heat. He stumbles back half a step, caught off guard, but then he’s on you, kissing you back like he’s starving for it.

His hands dive into your hair, tugging just enough to sting, and his lips move against yours with a desperation that knocks the air out of your lungs.

It’s hot, hungry, like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life—and maybe you have too.

You shove him again, this time to spin him around so his back slams against the van instead. He lets out a muffled grunt against your mouth, then laughs—a low, breathless sound that vibrates through you.

“Jesus, you’re feisty tonight,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stop kissing you, doesn’t let go. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard line of his body through his jeans.

“Shut up,” you huff again, nipping his bottom lip. He groans a sound that shoots straight to your core, and suddenly, the bickering, the tension, the years of dancing around this—it all snaps.

You’re clawing at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders, and he’s yanking at the hem of your shirt, fingers skimming your skin. “Inside,” he pants, jerking his head toward the van’s back doors. “Now.”

You don’t argue.

He fumbles with the handle, swearing under his breath, and you’re already climbing in before he’s got it fully open. The interior smells like him—smoke and leather and that faint hint of old beer spills.

There’s a tangle of blankets and his guitar case shoved to one side, but you don’t care about the mess. You grab his shirt, pulling him in after you, and he kicks the door shut with a clang.

He’s on you in an instant, knees hitting the floor of the van as he drags you down with him. Your back lands on the blankets, and his weight presses you into them, solid and warm.

His mouth finds yours again, kissing you like it’s a fight he intends to win. His hands are everywhere—under your shirt, tracing the curve of your waist, then higher, calloused fingertips brushing the edge of your bra.

“Fuck, you’re—how long have you been hiding this from me?” he rasps, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, curls falling into his face, and he’s got that feral edge you’ve only ever seen when he’s mid-solo on stage.

“Me?” you shoot back, voice jagged from kissing. “You’re the one who’s been eye-fucking me for months and doing nothing about it.”

He laughs again, but it’s strained, needy. “Guilty. Shit, I’m an idiot.” Then he’s kissing you again, harder, and his hands are tugging your shirt up and over your head.

You help him, tossing it somewhere into the dark, and he pauses, staring down at you like you’ve just knocked him stupid.

“Christ,” he mutters, reverent, and his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra.

You arch into him, impatient, and he takes the hint, fumbling with the clasp until it gives. The second it’s off, his mouth is on you, lips closing around a nipple, and you gasp, fingers twisting into his hair.

“Eddie—” It’s half a curse, half a plea. He responds with a hum that vibrates against your skin, tongue flicking over you until you’re squirming beneath him.

His other hand slips lower, popping the button on your jeans, and you lift your hips to help him peel them off. It’s a clumsy rush—boots kicked off, denim shoved down until you’re in nothing but your panties, and he’s kneeling between your thighs, staring like he’s about to lose it.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he says, voice raw. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, but you grab his wrist, stopping him.

“Your turn,” you demand, tugging at his shirt. He grins, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion, and you take a second to appreciate the sight—lean muscle, scattered tattoos, the faint sheen of sweat on his chest.

Then you’re undoing his belt, hands shaking with urgency, and he helps you, kicking his jeans off until he’s down to his boxers.

He’s back on you in a heartbeat, skin against skin, and his heat is overwhelming. His mouth trails down your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks you’ll have to deal with later. You don’t care. You tilt your head back, giving him more access, and his hand finally slides your panties down, tossing them aside.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his fingers trace between your thighs, finding you already wet. You bite your lip, stifling a whimper, but he’s not having it. “No, don’t hold back. I wanna hear you.”

His fingers slip inside you, slow at first, then curling just right, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes. He smirks, smug as hell, and picks up the pace, thumb circling your clit until your hips are bucking against his hand.

“Eddie, please—” You’re not even sure what you’re begging for, but he knows. He pulls his hand back, and you whine at the loss, but then he’s shoving his boxers down, freeing himself. He’s hard, flushed, and when he lines up with you, pausing just at your entrance, you can see the restraint in his eyes.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice tight like it’s taking everything in him to wait.

“Yes,” you breathe, grabbing his shoulders. “Now.”

He pushes in, slow at first, stretching you, and you both groan at the feeling. He’s big, but the burn is perfect, and when he’s fully inside, he stills, forehead resting against yours. “Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters, voice shaky.

He moves fast and desperately as his hips snap against yours. The van rocks with it, creaking on its suspension, and you’re clinging to him, nails digging into his back.

His hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer, deeper, and the sounds spilling from you both are filthy—moans, gasps, calling of names over and over.

“Been wanting this,” he pants against your ear, voice rough with need. “You have no idea.”

“Me too,” you manage, and that seems to snap something in him. He shifts, angling just right, and the pressure builds fast, too fast. You’re tightening around him, heat coiling low, and he feels it.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he growls, hand slipping between you to rub tight circles on your clit. “Let go for me.”

That’s it—you’re gone, crying out as it hits, waves of pleasure crashing over you. He’s right behind, thrusts stuttering as he buries himself deep, groaning your name like a prayer.

For a moment, it’s just heavy breathing, sweat-slick skin, and the faint hum of the Hideout sign outside. He collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest, and you lie there, tangled in the blankets, hearts still racing.

“Still think I’m annoying?” he murmurs, smirking into your hair.

[brunettemarionette]

Love your writing babe💕

I wanna ask how would the Sons react to you flinching during a heated argument?

Thank you!

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇸​​🇴​​🇦​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

𝗝𝗮𝘅 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

It starts with a rare argument. He's stressed—club business, Abel, pressure from every direction. You ask a simple question and it sets him off more than it should.

His voice rises. Not yelling, but sharp, tense, carrying that dangerous edge he rarely directs at you.

He throws his hands up in frustration, stepping toward you.

You flinch—just slightly—but enough.

Everything stops.

His whole body stiffens. Eyes wide. He looks like you punched him in the chest.

“Did I just… did you just flinch?” His voice cracks, soft now, and filled with disbelief.

You try to brush it off, but he’s already coming toward you slowly, hands held out like he’s approaching a scared animal.

“Babe, no. No, no, no… I would never hurt you.”

He pulls you into his arms and wraps you in the safest embrace. He smells like leather and smoke and warmth.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I never want to be someone you’re afraid of.”

After that, he won’t let go for a while. Kisses your forehead, your hands, your cheeks.

You spend the rest of the night on the couch tangled together, soft whispers, promises under breath.

He starts talking more after that, checking in emotionally, less bottling up, more letting you in.

𝗢𝗽𝗶𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Opie rarely gets loud with you. But this time? It’s about something serious. He’s overwhelmed, scared.

His voice is deeper than usual, and when he slams the table for emphasis, it startles you.

You flinch—instinctive and quick.

He sees it and instantly backs off, his expression breaking into raw regret.

“Shit. No, baby, no…” His voice drops to a whisper, pain etched in every syllable.

He steps back like he’s afraid he’s tainted the air around you. “Did I scare you?”

You try to say it’s okay, but he shakes his head, eyes glassy.

“I would rather cut off my own hands than lay one on you. You hear me?”

He crouches down to your eye level, gently taking your hands in his.

There’s a long silence where he just holds you, pressing soft kisses into your knuckles.

“You’re my safe place. I’m supposed to be yours.”

You spend the evening curled together, his large hands stroking your back, his voice low and comforting.

After that, Opie becomes fiercely protective—not just physically, but emotionally. You never have to doubt his heart again.

𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Happy’s not a yeller. But this time he’s pacing, growling under his breath, wound tight like a spring.

He slams his fist into the wall. Not at you, just frustration and you flinch hard.

He freezes mid-motion, eyes flicking to yours with razor-sharp awareness.

“No,” he breathes, voice low. “No, girl. Don’t do that.”

He immediately steps away, hands up. “I ain’t mad at you. Never at you.”

You’re silent, but he sees the way your shoulders tense.

Happy walks back slowly and kneels in front of you. “Look at me.”

His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen. “I’m sorry. I scared you. I hate that I scared you.”

He pulls you into his arms and holds you so tight you can barely breathe, but it’s comforting, grounding.

“You’re safe with me. Always. I swear to God.”

He doesn’t say a lot—but his actions afterward speak volumes.

He’s extra gentle for days. Forehead kisses. Rubbing your back while you sleep. Whispering “I got you” like a mantra.

You learn that even the roughest man has a heart made of gold—especially when it’s beating for you.

𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗯𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

The accent is thick when he’s emotional, and right now it’s flying.

He’s not yelling, but he’s stern—sharp, fast, tired, and overwhelmed.

When he suddenly turns to gesture at the wall, you flinch instinctively.

He sees it. Stops talking mid-sentence.

“Aw, lass…” His face collapses. “Did I just…? No. Christ, no.”

He walks over to you with tears already welling. “I’d never raise a hand to ya. Never.”

Gently cups your face, thumbs brushing away the fear. ���It’s me, love. It’s your Filip.”

He kisses your forehead and then your nose and then just holds you.

“I hate that I scared you. I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

He keeps whispering apologies in Gaelic, soft and soothing. “You’re safe, mo chridhe. Always safe with me.”

Later he makes you tea, wraps you in a blanket, and watches over you like a sentinel.

That night, you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and his whispered lullabies against your ear.

𝗧𝗶𝗴 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

The argument is chaos—Tig’s emotions are always volcanic, unpredictable.

He’s rambling, pacing, spiraling, and he kicks a chair out of frustration.

You flinch, a full-body jolt.

Everything about him stills. His eyes go wide. “No. No, no, no…”

“Did you just flinch, baby? Because of me?”

He drops to his knees in front of you, hands trembling.

“No no no no no. I talk big, baby, but I’d never touch you like that.”

He presses his forehead to your stomach, shaking slightly. “Please don’t be afraid of me. I’m just a mess who loves you too loud.”

You stroke his curls and he clings to you like a lifeline.

“I lose it sometimes. But not with you. You’re my light, doll.”

He pulls you into his lap on the floor and wraps his arms around you tightly.

Later, he won’t stop touching you—gentle caresses, forehead nuzzles, murmuring how much he loves you.

Tig becomes weirdly sweet afterward, even more protective and emotionally honest than before.

𝗝𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

He’s not angry at you. He’s angry at himself—paranoia, club pressure, tech issues—everything’s piling up.

You try to calm him, but when he knocks his laptop off the table in frustration, you flinch and back up.

His whole face crumbles.

“No. No. I didn’t mean to—did I scare you?”

He rushes to you, frantic and teary-eyed. “Please don’t be scared of me. I could never hurt you.”

He’s instantly all over you, cupping your face, brushing your hair back.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel okay. Please… please don’t pull away from me.”

You reassure him, and he just collapses into your arms, sobbing softly against your neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m such a screw-up. I just— I love you. So much.”

You hold him until the storm passes.

That night he makes it up to you a thousand ways—words, touch, cuddles, kisses, every bit of him desperate to show he’s safe.

Juice is gentler after that. More deliberate. Always watching your cues, asking if you’re okay.

It becomes a turning point—he lets you in more, lets you help with his internal storms.

[brunettemarionette]

@t0nks-f4n-gir1

𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐚!

You’d be the “dry humor, mysterious art kid” to her “ethereal, wide-eyed visionary.” The two of you would be found wandering through wizarding antique shops, sketching in the grass outside Hogwarts, and having hours-long conversations about symbolism in Muggle plays and the ethics of magical creatures. She’d buy you little trinkets from Diagon Alley “because it reminded me of you,” and you’d surprise her with painted bookmarks or annotated copies of your favorite books.

Ultimately, Luna would bring lightness to your intensity, while you’d ground her flights of fancy with thoughtful engagement. You’d be the perfect pair of unconventional intellectual soulmates.

𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀

Muse and Artist Energy - Luna becomes your biggest inspiration. She’ll randomly pose dramatically in moonlight or bring you bizarre objects “because it sparks creativity.” Your art is full of strange beauty when she’s around — and she keeps every single piece you give her.

Late-Night Philosophy Walks - You're both night owls. Long walks under the stars, arm in arm, discussing whether dreams mean anything or if ghosts ever get bored. Sometimes you don’t talk at all — just exist in quiet, comfortable wonder.

Gift-Giving as Love Language - You both show love through little, thoughtful gifts: you give her annotated books and painted keepsakes; she gives you enchanted trinkets, charms she made herself, and oddly specific but deeply meaningful items like “a quill I found that writes in silver ink because your words are like moonlight.”

Museum Adventures and Arcade Dates - The two of you would spend hours at wizarding art galleries and magical museums — both completely absorbed. Afterwards, you'd hit a magical arcade in Diagon Alley where she beats you at every strange game and then gives you the prize anyway.

Comfort over Chaos - Your relationship is cozy, not chaotic. Luna thrives in creating emotionally safe spaces, and you're the same way. Lots of soft cuddles, tea in mismatched mugs, quiet affection, and understanding when the other needs to be alone.

Secret Language - You eventually develop a secret code of looks, odd phrases, and symbolic gifts. Luna might just hand you a seashell and somehow, you’ll know she means, “I love you, don’t worry about anything today.”

𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗧𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀

Found Soulmate, Not Loud Love - It’s not fireworks and screaming declarations. It’s the quiet knowledge that you’re safe, seen, and completely understood.

Accidental Intimacy - Touching hands while reaching for something, quietly leaning on each other during a museum bench break — tiny moments that make your heart swell.

“You’re the First Person I Can Be My Whole Self With” - For both of you, really. Luna is used to being dismissed; you're used to being misunderstood. But together, it’s like you’ve come home.

𝗡𝗼𝗧𝗣

Lavender Brown - Too bubbly and emotionally intense, and maybe a bit surface-level for your deeper intellectual needs. She’s kind in her own way, but you’d feel mentally lonely in the relationship and unable to go beneath the surface.

𝗕𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗙𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱

Neville Longbottom - Quietly loyal, deeply kind, and someone who respects your intellectual depth without being intimidated by it. He’d support your relationship with Luna with all his heart, even if he finds the two of you "a bit odd together — in the best way." You’d bond over a shared dislike for bullies and a low-key approach to life.

𝗙𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗗𝗮𝘁𝗲

Luna invites you to a “surrealist scavenger hunt” she made up herself — a journey through Hogsmeade and the Forbidden Forest, searching for symbolic items that represent emotions. She gifts you a scarf she knit from yarn she dyed with enchanted herbs (“for clarity of thought”), and you gift her a sketch of the stars from Astronomy Tower with both your initials in the corner. You end up lying in the grass, staring at the sky and wondering aloud if clouds dream. She says yes. You believe her.

𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗦𝗼𝗻𝗴

"Cosmic Love" – Florence + the Machine (Realizing you love someone in the middle of chaos) Luna’s ethereal presence and your artistic mind would resonate with this magical, overwhelming sound.

[brunettemarionette]

hiya, my fav blog!! I was wondering if you could do SOA reaction to reader’s oral fixation? Thank you!

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.

tw/cw: suggestive tone, sexual insinuations.

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇸​​🇴​​🇦​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

𝗝𝗮𝘅 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Jax notices your oral fixation the first time you absentmindedly chew on the end of a pen while hanging out at the clubhouse. His smirk says he’s onto you before you even realize it.

He teases you lightly, calling you out with a playful, “Darlin’, you keep chewin’ on that like it’s gonna give you answers.” But his eyes darken with interest.

Jax starts slipping you things to play with—his lighter, a straw, or even his own fingers when you’re alone, just to see how you react. He’s fascinated by how your lips move.

In private, he’s all about testing your limits, murmuring low in your ear, “You keep that mouth busy, don’t you? Let’s see what else it can do.”

He’s not possessive about it, but he loves how your fixation gives him an excuse to keep you close, always sliding you something to toy with while he watches with that knowing grin.

𝗢𝗽𝗶𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Opie’s quieter about noticing your oral fixation, catching you chewing on your lip or a straw during a club party. He doesn’t say much at first, just watches with a soft, curious look.

He’s gentle about it, maybe offering you a piece of gum or a bottle cap to fiddle with, saying, “Don’t want you hurtin’ those lips, babe.”

When you’re alone, he’s more attentive, brushing his thumb over your lower lip if you’re nibbling it, his voice low: “You okay? Need somethin’ else to focus on?”

Opie finds it endearing, almost grounding. He’ll pull you into his lap during quieter moments, letting you toy with the edge of his beard or his fingers, content to let you work out your restlessness.

He’s not overly suggestive, but if you lean into it, he’ll match your energy with a slow, heated kiss, muttering, “Guess I gotta keep that mouth of yours occupied, huh?”

𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Happy clocks your oral fixation immediately, his sharp eyes catching you biting your nails or chewing on a pen. He doesn’t say anything right away, just stares until you feel his gaze.

He’s intense about it, handing you a toothpick or a piece of hard candy with a grunted, “Here. Use this.” It’s less about care and more about control—he likes being the one to redirect you.

In private, he gets a kick out of it, especially if you’re chewing on something of his. He’ll growl, “That’s mine, little girl,” but there’s a glint in his eye that says he’s into it.

Happy’s suggestive side comes out when he leans in close, voice rough: “You keep workin’ that mouth, I’m gonna give it somethin’ to do.” He’s all about pushing boundaries, testing how far your fixation goes.

He’s not sweet, but he’s protective. If anyone else comments on your habit, they get a death glare, because only he gets to mess with you about it.

𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗯𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Chibs catches on when you’re always fidgeting with something in your mouth—straws, pens, even the edge of your hoodie strings. His warm eyes crinkle with amusement, and he calls you “lass” with a teasing lilt.

He’s charmingly attentive, slipping you a piece of his own gum or a lollipop from his pocket, saying, “Can’t have ye chewin’ through yer lip, now, can we?”

In private, he’s more hands-on, gently grabbing your chin to inspect your lips if you’ve been biting them too much. “Yer gonna ruin this pretty mouth, love,” he murmurs, half-serious, half-flirting.

Chibs loves leaning into the suggestive side, offering you his fingers to toy with or whispering, “Need somethin’ better to keep those lips busy?” with a cheeky grin that promises trouble.

He’s the type to kiss you deeply to “help” with your fixation, pulling back to say, “There’s plenty more where that came from, darlin’,” leaving you flustered.

𝗧𝗶𝗴 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Tig notices your oral fixation the second you start chewing on a bottle cap at the bar. He laughs, loud and unfiltered, saying, “Babe, you’re gonna break a tooth or drive me crazy—pick one.”

He’s shamelessly suggestive right off the bat, tossing you a straw or a stir stick with a wink: “Here, play with this instead. Or, y’know, I got other ideas.”

Tig loves watching you, especially when you don’t realize he’s staring. The way your lips wrap around something mundane—like a spoon—makes him grin like he’s plotting something filthy.

In private, he’s all over it, tugging you close and saying, “You keep that mouth workin’, I’m gonna lose my damn mind.” He’s not subtle, and he loves pushing you to see how much you’ll tease him back.

He’s oddly sweet about it too, though—if you’re stressed and chewing on your lip, he’ll soften, kissing you gently and muttering, “Easy, doll. I got you.”

𝗝𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Juice is the last to notice, too caught up in his own head, but when he sees you chewing on the end of your headphones, he’s intrigued. “Yo, you good?” he asks, half-laughing, half-curious.

He’s thoughtful about it, always keeping gum or mints in his pocket for you after he figures it out. “Don’t wanna mess up that smile,” he says, handing you something with a shy grin.

In private, he’s flustered but sweet, blushing when you catch him watching you chew on a pen. “It’s just… you look cute doin’ that,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

He’s a sucker for your attention, so when you’re fiddling with something in your mouth during a quiet moment, he’ll pull you close, kissing you softly and whispering, “You’re gonna drive me crazy with that, you know.”

As he gets more comfortable, he starts leaning into it—offering candy, playing dumb: “You want something to chew on? I mean—I didn’t mean it like that. Unless… you did?”

[brunettemarionette]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐫 & 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞…

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size or race. My requests are open!

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​​​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

SFW Headcanons🌹

・This relationship is pure, unfiltered chaos. Dangerous? Absolutely. But also exhilarating in ways no one else could ever offer.

・Harley is the electric spark in your life—loud, affectionate, impulsive. She pulls you into dance parties at 3AM, paints your nails with glitter guns blazing, and makes everything feel like a circus.

・Joker, on the other hand, is calculated madness. He watches you with an eerie intensity, possessive and protective in his own deranged way. He’s obsessed with you—plain and simple.

・You’re the soft spot between their madness. Their baby girl. Their favorite toy. Their weakness. Their weapon.

・Harley teaches you how to handle weapons with pink grips and heart stickers. Joker sharpens your mind with twisted games and makes you laugh at things you know you shouldn’t.

・They spoil you absolutely rotten. Diamonds, leather, neon lights, and stolen luxury—you’re their shared obsession, and they love to show you off.

・Joker is very territorial. No one touches you. No one even looks at you too long unless they want a bullet between the eyes.

・Harley, meanwhile, clings to you like a koala. Constant cuddles, cheek kisses, and loud declarations of love that echo down hallways.

・You often find yourself squished between them on their velvet couch—Harley babbling about a new scheme, Joker twirling a knife in thought, and you? Just soaking it all in.

・Your dynamic isn’t conventional—it’s more like a cult of three. A “you against the world” kind of love. Twisted, sure, but real.

・You’ve learned how to read Joker’s moods and navigate Harley’s emotional rollercoasters. And in return, they both treat you like royalty.

・Your pet names range from “Dollface, Princess, Babygirl” (Joker) to “Cupcake, Honeybun, Little Love” (Harley). You don’t even hear your real name anymore.

・They trust you in their inner circle—Joker lets you sit on his lap during meetings, Harley insists on you helping her pick the colors for new heists.

・Somehow, amid all the blood and glitter, there’s a comfort to it. Their love is violent, consuming, and a little terrifying—but you’ve never felt safer.

🔞 NSFW Headcanons

・Harley’s all sugar and spice—until she gets in the bedroom. Then she’s a full-blown maniac with a whip and a sweet giggle as she ties you up.

・Joker is slow and theatrical. He wants to own you, mark you, ruin you. Every touch has purpose—every bruise is a signature.

・Sometimes they take turns. Sometimes they share. Sometimes, they fight over who gets you first—until you’re caught in the middle, breathless and wrecked.

・Harley’s all about praise and petting. “Look atcha, my pretty baby... so good for us.” Joker? Not so much. He degrades while he worships. “My filthy little masterpiece.”

・Joker enjoys control, but Harley likes the chaos of losing it. She’ll let you ride her while giggling like a maniac, hands gripping your hips like she might break them.

・They’re both incredibly possessive in bed. Joker leaves deep, dark bruises. Harley leaves scratch marks and lipstick stains. They want the world to know who you belong to.

・Expect toys. Lots of them. Harley picks them based on color. Joker picks them based on impact.

・They adore watching each other touch you. Joker leans back, hand on chin, completely entranced as Harley makes you scream.

・Harley’s surprisingly tender aftercare—she’s all cuddles and coos. Joker? He lights a cigarette and calls you “a good girl” in a raspy whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

・You’re their shared obsession. Their little plaything. Their sweet, corrupted angel. And they’ll never, ever get bored of you.

Relationship Tropes

Ride or Die (You) × Chaos Incarnate (Harley) × Mastermind of Mayhem (Joker)

“She’s Ours” x “I Know”

Makes It Worse (You) x Laughs About It (Harley) x Solves It with a Bullet (Joker)

Plot Tropes

“Let’s Ruin the World Together” - They'd teach you their ways, a subtle manipulation here and there but ultimately you'd join in their fun willingly.

Dangerous Love Triangle Turned Throuple - At first Harley assumed Mr J was leaving her for you, until she met and fell head over heels for you too.

The “We’d Burn Down the World for You” Arc - You were there's and they'd go to the ends of the earth for you. Good luck to anyone who tries to hurt you.

Theme Songs

You Make Me Wanna Die – The Pretty Reckless Dark, doomed romance. Obsession and destruction wrapped in one dangerous package—this song is Harley and Joker’s love, now with you tangled in it.

Control – Halsey Reflects the chaotic, uncontrollable power dynamic—how love becomes a weapon, and how being consumed by them becomes addictive.

[brunettemarionette]

𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐰𝐦𝐚𝐧 | ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ɪꜱ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ, ʟᴏʏᴀʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴇʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ.

❝ 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚎. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝.❞

[brunettemarionette]

Hello!!

I've recently circled back to my Teen Wolf obsession, and i was wondering if you could write something (whatever format you prefer!) about a Liam Dunbar x Stilinski!reader where she's Stiles' younger sister and best friend with Liam, and he doesn't know about the supernatural (she does ofc) and when he gets bitten she becomes his anchor right away? like maybe the two have been pining on eachother for years not realizing each others feelings and this whole new werewolf thing just brings them all up? thanks in advance!🤍

It's been a while since I've watched Teen Wolf so it was hard to remember parts, if any of this isn't actually correct to the storyline of how I'm remembering it then I'm sorry... I need to rewatch it haha.

Liam Dunbar x Stilinski!Reader Headcanons

You’ve always been close to Liam. As Stiles’ younger sister, you were used to chaos — but somehow, Liam felt like the eye of your storm. Even when he was spiraling, you always saw the good in him.

He was your best friend. Constant sleepovers (innocent, though you both definitely blushed when your hands brushed), late-night texts about random thoughts, and the way he always made sure you got home safe from school — it was obvious to everyone but you two that the feelings ran deeper.

You knew about the supernatural long before Liam did. Being a Stilinski, there was no avoiding it — especially when your brother is Stiles. He tried to keep you out of it, but eventually you became part of the inner circle.

When Liam transferred to Beacon Hills High, you could already feel things changing. He was keeping his anger more in check, trying hard to stay out of trouble. You were proud of him — though he didn’t realize how often you went to bat for him behind the scenes (and maybe threatened a lacrosse player or two on his behalf).

The Bite — Everything Changes

When you saw Liam dangling from the hospital roof, your heart stopped. The scream that left your throat made Scott freeze before jumping in — and biting him — to save his life. You saw it happen. You knew what it meant.

He didn’t understand what was happening to him — the strength, the rage, the anger but you didn’t let him face any of it alone. “Liam, I know you’re scared. But you’re not crazy. You’re not a monster. And you’re not alone.”

Scott and Stiles weren’t sure if it was too soon to tell him everything, but Liam gazed at you wide-eyed, vulnerable and you just nodded. “I’ll explain it all. But you have to trust me.”

The Aftermath

The first full moon came fast. Liam’s panic rose like a wave every time he felt the shift start. He snapped at everyone — except you.

You became his anchor before he even knew what the term meant. “Think of something that makes you feel human,” Scott said. Without hesitation, Liam looked at you.

He told you later that it wasn’t even a choice. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” And you blinked, shocked, because you had spent years loving him in silence.

You touched his cheek, gently. “Then hold onto me, Liam. I’m not going anywhere.”

When he finally shifted fully for the first time, he was shaking and feral — but your voice cut through the haze. You whispered memories back to him: the time you stayed up all night watching cheesy horror movies, the way he always waited for you after practice, the way he once called you the only person who made him feel normal.

And when he finally collapsed exhausted, back to normal again he wrapped his arms around you like a lifeline.

In the aftermath, the two of you sat together on the floor of Scott’s house. His breathing was still ragged, and yours wasn’t much better.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered. “You didn’t,” he said, voice low. “You never will.” There was a pause. A long one. And then, finally: “I love you,” he admitted. “I think I’ve loved you since the day I moved here.” You smiled, eyes brimming. “You’re lucky. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

The kiss was soft, shaky, and everything both of you had been holding back for way too long.

[brunettemarionette]

Hello, my fav person on this site!! SOA reacts to their partner who enjoys/ loves cooking and will not take a no for an answer (might even shove food down their pipes if they don’t eat lol)

Aw you're too kind, thank you! Requests are still open, check my requests page for more details!

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age.

tw/cw: not sure if food is a trigger but I guess to some people it might so just know this contains talks of eating and food in general.

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇸​​🇴​​🇦​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

𝗝𝗮𝘅 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Smirks every time you try to boss him around with a plate in hand.

“Babe, you know I can’t say no to you—especially when there’s food involved.”

Tries to play cool and “not hungry,” but folds as soon as he smells it.

Teases you about being forceful, but secretly loves it.

Always thanks you with a kiss—on the cheek, lips, or neck, depending on the mood.

Brings your food to the club and brags about it like it’s a trophy.

𝗢𝗽𝗶𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Quietly amused when you get pushy about meals.

Doesn’t argue—just eats and says, “It’s good,” which is high praise from him.

Might pretend he’s full just to see you get riled up, but only once.

You shoving food toward him gets the smallest smile and a muttered, “Alright, alright.”

Genuinely appreciates being taken care of, especially after everything he’s been through.

Starts bringing you ingredients “just in case you’re in the mood to cook again.”

𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

At first? Confused. Doesn’t know what to do with someone fussing over him.

You shoving a fork at his mouth? He just raises an eyebrow but lets it happen.

Doesn’t talk much, but you catch him finishing everything—clean plate every time.

“Didn’t ask you to cook. But I didn’t say stop either.”

Slowly starts hovering near the kitchen when you cook, like a guard dog.

May try to sneak in intimidating faces to avoid eating veggies. It doesn’t work.

𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗯𝘀 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Laughs openly and heartily every time you threaten him with a spoon.

“Aye, alright, love, you don’t have to feed me like a bairn.”

He’s flattered—finds your fiery insistence endearing.

Will wine and dine you in return when he gets the chance.

Makes a habit of complimenting your cooking in dramatic Scottish fashion.

Secretly tells the prospects not to bother him while he’s eating “his woman’s food.”

𝗧𝗶𝗴 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Thinks your aggression with food is the sexiest thing ever.

“God, you feeding me is doing things to me, baby.”

Will purposely pretend he’s not hungry just so you get worked up.

Overacts choking if you do shove food in his mouth, then laughs like a maniac.

Calls you “his spicy little chef” (and worse).

Tries to lick your fingers after eating, regardless of the setting.

𝗝𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗲 ☾‧₊˚ ⋅

Gets nervous when you’re too aggressive about food at first.

“Wait, you’re serious? I have to eat this now?”

Ends up loving it—starts texting you pictures of empty plates as proof.

Is genuinely moved you care so much, will gush about you to anyone who’ll listen.

Tries to help cook once and messes it up badly—you ban him from the kitchen.

Starts bringing snacks just in case you get “stabby” about hunger again.

[brunettemarionette]

𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐚, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― pregnant female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size or race. My requests are open!

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​​🇻​​🇮​​🇰​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​​🇸​​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | ​🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

SFW Headcanons: – Life as a Throuple + Expecting Parents

Life in a throuple with Ragnar and Lagertha is unexpectedly domestic, even if chaotic at times. Their love is intense, but now it's grounded in something even more sacred—family.

Ragnar is softer now, gentler with his touches and more open with his emotions. He sings to your belly every night, resting his cheek against it like he's already bonding with his child.

Lagertha's love has only deepened. She now calls you her woman without hesitation, and refers to the child as ours, regardless of blood.

The village is buzzing with gossip, but no one dares speak out loud. You walk through Kattegat with your head high, flanked by two legends who treat you like the treasure you are.

Lagertha becomes your fiercest protector. She prepares special teas, helps you bathe, and holds you close on restless nights. She massages your aching limbs and whispers Norse lullabies to calm you when the weight of it all feels like too much.

Ragnar’s hands always find your belly. He loves feeling the baby kick and swears each one is the child showing how strong they'll be.

Mealtimes become sacred: Lagertha insists you eat enough for two, while Ragnar sneaks you sweets when she’s not looking.

You three start sleeping in a big shared bed of furs, bodies intertwined. Lagertha rests her hand on your belly. Ragnar wraps around you protectively. You’ve never slept more peacefully.

You’re never alone—not even for a moment. One of them is always close. You’re safe, adored, and fully claimed.

🔞 NSFW Headcanons –

Sex doesn’t stop. It just changes—and becomes more emotionally intense. They treat you like something divine.

Ragnar is obsessed with the way your body is changing. He worships you with his hands and mouth, murmuring that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Lagertha, deeply reverent, takes her time with you. She touches you slowly, lovingly, making you feel sensual and powerful all at once.

Your arousal becomes intoxicating to them both. They love how your body is more sensitive, more responsive.

They are so gentle at first—but they learn what you need. Some days it's soft, slow lovemaking. Other nights, Ragnar's possessiveness awakens, and Lagertha encourages him while she holds your hands above your head.

They make sure you never feel unwanted. Lagertha especially takes pride in showing you that motherhood doesn’t make you less desirable—it makes you divine.

They talk to the baby while making love, promising the child they’ll love you forever. Ragnar calls it “worshiping the goddess carrying my blood.”

When you're too tired, they still kiss you reverently, curl around you, and whisper filthy things they’ll do once your strength returns.

Both you and Lagertha start sleeping naked more often—not out of seduction, but closeness. But it still drives Ragnar mad.

Relationship Tropes

Found Family, Built With Fire – You didn’t just join their love—you helped it grow into something sacred.

Domestic Royalty – The chaos of ruling, the serenity of home. You, Ragnar, and Lagertha, ruling hearts and hearth.

Sacred Triad – Love, loyalty, and life. You each bring something the others never knew they needed.

Plot Tropes

Unexpected Parenthood – A surprise pregnancy that becomes a foundation of shared love.

Love as Protection – They become your shield and sword, their love a fortress around you.

Chosen Over and Over Again – Even with change, even with time, they choose you, every day.

Theme Songs

"Love Like Ghosts" – Lord Huron – The haunting, beautiful bond that ties the three of you, in this life and the next.