#but poison is SUCH a cold and calculating weapon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leviathanleva · 7 months ago

Text

Cujo

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Supersoldier!FemReader

Description: A monster in human skin, a weapon disguised as a person, no thoughts, no emotion, as per design. He despises you and everything you stand for. He’s tried to kick you out of his squad and failed, he’s made it his mission to break you no matter the cost.

It comes as a surprise when he asks you to lie and say you love him.

[5.5k words]

[Angst, Power Play, Light Degradation, 18+]

Chapter 1 "Raspberry Tart"

Hound.

A fitting callsign for a dog that only knew how to follow orders. A mindless beast whose chain had been thrust into his hands forcibly and now he was to be your navigator, your Northern star in a sea of black. He’d have had no problem taking you under his wing, but you weren’t just some rookie in need of training. He couldn’t crack a cheesy joke and make you snicker, couldn’t relate to you in any way, couldn’t find common ground to start a conversation.

He’d tried to break you, poking at the squishy unknown beyond the stone exterior in the hopes that there was something still there. It was incomprehensible, you were a living contradiction to the natural order, an anomaly made reality by nameless, faceless, suited figures scrambling for power and drowning with money. He was a stoic man, cold-blooded, ignorant of his trauma, and suppressive of any flicker of tenderness that tried to wiggle out. He was trained in the heat of battle, under the rain of bullets and among the hills of corpses. He taught himself to withstand anything thrown his way. You, on the other hand, had nothing to withstand. You weren’t stoic or calculative or cold.

You were indifferent.

It irked him.

Late at night, when he was left to his thoughts, he wondered what they had done to you.

What chemical turned a human’s sclera black and devoid the iris of color? What concoction was fused into your blood to make your muscles grow so dense you could punch through walls, at will? How could you pick up the heartbeats of enemy forces without even entering their headquarters? How did you see in the dark without any gear save for a peculiar oxygen mask?

What sort of poison had been pumped into you? Had it hurt? Does it hurt now?

You were a macabre sigh.

You don’t look healthy; gaunt features sharp enough to cut glass and dead eyes that burrowed into his soul. There were no bags under your eyes, you slept well at least, perfect for someone whose hands reeked of blood. The fat was barely any, it was impossible to retain the supple softness of femininity with your condition, and if it wasn’t for the perky tits showing beneath your loose tee he could have easily mistaken you for a scrawny man. A paradox; porcelain skin devoid of scars blanketing over a heap of muscle that could tear limbs like they were loose threads.

You’d been a pretty thing once, before the augmentations. He could tell.

You barely reached his collarbone and yet you could take a grenade head-on and live unlike him. And you had, for him. He’d nearly lost his mind when you had, tucked you into his chest because he’d lost too many good men already and you were fresh in his squad and dying under his care. A bleak moment of weakness on his end that he’d believed you’d have no recollection of because half your fucking face was missing. But then the flesh had crept back onto your exposed cheekbone and he’d pushed you away as quickly as he’d hugged you. His mask did well to hide both horror and bewilderment. It had taken you under two minutes and you were ready to go again.

He’d thought your files were a joke, had read them absentmindedly over a glass of bourbon then tossed them aside and waited for the actual reports. They weren’t a joke at all.

You were his shield. It’s been a year since you joined Task Force 141 and you had taken so much damage in his stead it was mindboggling still. There was no fear, no hesitation, no doubt, or rebellion; you simply sprawled yourself over him like a ballistic shield, soaking in anything lethal coming his way. It was a heartwrenching scene, but how could he feel empathy when he’d seen you rip people apart.

You were his weapon, a leal monster, ready to pounce at the flick of his wrist. But your loyalties to him were temporary, shallow compared to the ones you held for your torturers, your makers. He hadn’t expected you to abandon Gaz to fend off the enemy alone when you’d heard a vocalization of the target’s whereabouts over the coms. On that deployment, Ghost had learned that you held no value for human life, you cared not for the well-being of your teammates. Mission first, success at any cost.

After that display, he’d spend hours arguing with Price while trying to find a loophole that would let him kick you out of the squad. A seemingly endless exchange of words led to nothing, the Captain had taken a few long phone calls, all fruitless aside from some measly promises to instruct you better. You’d been summoned shortly after and the phone had been passed onto you because the bastards couldn’t even be bothered to correct your ways face to face.

“Protect all your teammates at all costs, not just the Lieutenant.”

“Do not abandon a comrade.”

“Your squad comes before your target.”

Simon had nearly missed the last sentence; it had been whispered so lowly over the line.

“Unless the target is within direct line of sight.”

He was left seething. He didn’t want you here. He’d tried again, stating more facts, adding more blood and bone-chilling scenarios to the list of reasons why you needed to be transferred, to no avail. He’d been hit with a stygian truth after. Either Task Force 141 or some blokes from KorTac, there were no other organizations that would take you in without downright exploiting your capabilities.

Judging by what little he knew about you, you wouldn’t care, but he would. He’d be caught dead before letting you walk into those war criminals’ grimy paws and have them lock your attention on him as your next target. No. You were his weapon, his shield, his hound; if anyone was going to lead you into a massacre, it would be him.

His charge, his responsibility.

His pet.

He’d settled after that, begrudgingly letting you stay.

And it wasn’t all bad. Over time he grew accustomed to your presence, you’d eat together, train together, sit together in some forgotten corner of the base and enjoy a moment of silence. Ghost was an intimidating man, both rank and appearance kept most people out of his way, but with you constantly on his heel and your docile nature out of combat, he grew fond of your companionship. Some days he forgot you were even there, skulking in his shadow.

Rarely did you speak without being spoken to, never whined or complained. It was as refreshing as it was disturbing. He dealt with it for the most part, but sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes he wanted to see you shatter, find a crack in the masquerade for the sake of his own sanity. He needed you to crumble, to find a way to break you because then he would have some sort of reason to cling to. Some vague explanation for the turmoil you caused inside him without even meaning to.

He was torn between hating you with everything he had, leaving you be and retaining the fickle peace between the two of you, and obsessively delving into your being in search of some long-forgotten spec of humanity that yet lived.

It was becoming a problem.

Finally, he snaps out of his morning sulking and remembers he has a cup of black tea secured in his hand. He bunches up the skull mask on his nose and takes a candid sip, then grimaces.

“It’s cold.”

A soft remark muffled behind a mouthful of buttered toast. His eyes trail up, tired and distant, to find yours studying him like he was an intel chart.

You spare his drink a glimpse, offering wordlessly, then lick the grease off your thumb and let your fork rest against the leftover scrambled eggs on your plate.

“Want me to reheat it, Lieutenant?”

He hadn’t even noticed when you’d gotten up for a second serving, the only indicator being the stained empty tray lying next to your current one. You ate a lot, had to in order to regain the energy you exerted during missions, at least that’s how he understood it. A part of him hoped it would stick, add some more curvature to your form, show him there was still an ounce of normalcy in your existence, at least physically, but it never did.

“You can heat shit too now?” the rasp in his voice is still heavy with sleep. He’s drained and bitter after another night of nothing but restless tossing and he’s poking fun at you as strain relief.

And as usual, it flies right over your head.

“No. I meant in the microwave.” you motion past your shoulder, pointing at the cutlery set up in the back of the mess hall. When he remains silent you extend an arm towards the mug, palm spread out and waiting. “I don’t mind.”

Of course you don’t, you’re a good mutt. The demeaning slew nearly succeeds in slipping past his lips, he snuffs it out with more stale tea.

“Nah.” he turns down your offer and tucks the mug closer to his body. “ ‘S fine.”

“Pyrokinesis is preposterous.” you say, cooly, addressing his previous snark after a beat or two.

It pinches a nerve.

It’s not meant as a jab at his intelligence, just a fact based on your experiences with human experimentation. It’s never a joke or a cocky scoff or anything that would allude to a personality.

“You’re bloody preposterous.” he barks back and his eyes crease in distaste.

The wannabe super soldier telling him what was and wasn’t possible was not on his tolerance list for the day.

There’s a pause, one which he doesn’t appreciate as you’re stripping him bare without consent or clemency. Your stare is degrading, has been since day one, and you’ve no interest in privacy or personal space. The only reason you keep everyone at arm’s length is to minimize any possibility of injuring your subordinates, as instructed by your shadowy puppeteers. Each action, word, and thought from you seems normal at surface level, human, until one understands the reasoning behind it. Everything about you is twisted, it’s creeping up on him, warping his reality.

You’re prying through a blank visage, no remorse, chipping away at his persona and feigning concern.

It’s sickening, it feels so real.

“You’re snippy again.” you note, mow down the rest of your breakfast, and push away the food tray. “You’ve not slept. Again.” it was a statement rather than a question. Your hands clasp together, fingers intertwining as you abandon your hunched-over pose and adjust to a professional stance. “Have you considered – ”

Your maternal tattle is cut short when a phone is thrust into your face. You blink a few times as the image registers:

A puppy. A Labrador puppy all fluffy and adorable stares back at you from the screen.

You look up unamused, letting Soap’s smug grin beam down on you, a ray of sunshine on such a rainy morning. He’s a chipper one, carries both your apathy and Ghost’s grimness on his shoulders like it’s nothing.

“No?” the smile dies on his face and his subtle crow’s feet disappear.

“No.” you answer with a small shake to your head and earn a scoff. “It’s just a dog.”

“Fucking hell, Hound.” he slumps on the uncomfortable metal bench next to Ghost, swiping at his phone before tucking it in his pocket. The pout lasts a few seconds as he rubs a hand over his stubble. “I’ll find yer weak spot one day. Mark my words.” then he turns to the hulking mountain of a man beside him. “Mornin’, Lt.”

John MacTavish had taken a liking to you early on, shining antipodal to the rest of Task Force 141. He’d made it his goal to work a smile out of you and it had begun with dad jokes, then evolved to funny videos, now it was cute animals.

It was a doomed cause, but also none of your business. How he spent his free time was not your concern so you went along with it as long as it didn’t involve you actively participating.

“Mornin’, Johnny.”

“You’re a dedicated man, Sergeant.” you offer simple words and snap your mouth shut before they degenerate into anything derogatory.

“Unlike yourself.”

The cafeteria was lively with soldiers seeking a strong coffee and a hearty breakfast. The cacophony of chatter kept your hearing busy, your senses were dulled, you were relaxed, but you weren’t deaf. You didn’t miss the Lieutenant’s cynical nip.

The ambiance has slowly turned hostile, he’s extra cranky. You pinpoint it to his silent dwelling earlier and leave it t your tongue to resolve the matter before it escalates.

“You’re displeased with me today.” you lean back and let your hands glide off the table, resting them in your lap and appearing smaller. A subtle change, but one you’d learned he fancied; being smaller than him gave him more authority room and indulged his masculine pride. “Have I done something wrong, Lieutenant?”

He likes to stay high on a power trip and humiliate you, keeps your leash secure and short as if governing over you is a boast.

“Don’t like you in general.” casual, passive; he’s peeking at you from beneath light brown lashes. “Think we already established that.”

It’s always a step forward and a thousand back. He’ll be approachable one day, open to discussions on many topics, which are more monologues than dialogues. Then the frail serenity will snap and he’ll want to crawl out of his skin by simply being in your presence. You knew little of his internal wars, knew better than to carve a seat to a psychological bloodbath with no predetermined outcome. But it was confusing, he bore too many burdens and he was making it your problem.

You took bullets for him, would endure anything for him, you’d walk into a minefield if he so wished. You obeyed without question, proven your loyalty yet he refused to change his outlook and continued to treat you with as little fairness as possible.

He was a reject yet he judged you for your difference to the rest of his men. A hypocrite. How unnecessarily…bothersome.

He speaks with subtle malice, yet his body plays a different tune and you run your mouth before thinking. There is no backbone to his passive aggression.

“You lie.”

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to humble your higher-up in a public setting, especially in front of his most trusted subordinate. However, you cared little for social norms and interaction standards.

He’s mustering a counterattack, as cold and as fowl as his tea, but it never leaves the confines of his skull mask because you continue to yap.

“A truthful man does not sweat. His pupils don’t shrink.”

The stab is made worse by the lack of satisfaction in your voice. You’re indifferent that you’ve caught him in his untruthfulness and it serves to twist the knife deeper.

The least you could do is show him grace by reciprocating his hatred with your own, but you don’t.

You don’t care.

Fuck you.

Ghost rises with the intent to leave, doesn’t spare you another glance, only stares straight ahead, past the crown of your head, and towards the exit.

A year, a whole year since you were assigned to him and still you were a dense twat with not a drop of regard for anyone, not even yourself. It was infuriating how stuck in your ways you were, he’d tried to rupture a change and the results were null. He’s fed up.

You’re a lost cause and his nerves are stretched thin, he’s inclined to simply avoid you today.

“Lt, wait.”

Soap, always the buffer to your scuffle, the voice of reason, but there’s nothing to cushion this time. The cord’s been cut, Simon’s let go of you for the moment and he’s in need of some good alone time to properly simmer down.

He’s stuffed his hands in his jeans, thumbs sticking out and glossing over the stitching. He doesn’t turn back when he offers a response.

“Appetite’s gone.”

If he was any shorter, he would have disappeared in the sea of soldiers, but he’s too easily distinguishable for such mercies. His steps are thunderous, you’ve committed the beat of his stride to memory. He was your highest priority on the battlefield, everything about him has been burned into your mind and it’s left a mark in your day-to-day. He could be on the other side of the base and you’d find him with a blindfold on.

A good soldier, the best. Why couldn’t he appreciate that?

You watch him unblinking as he rounds the corner and disappears out of sight.

An exasperated grunt makes your head reel back.

“Life of the party as always, Hound.” Soap snips, disappointment dripping past his teeth. It’s a gentle scold, as a big brother would his younger sibling after they’ve misbehaved.

“He lied.” you retort and your expression hardens in self-defense. “He wouldn’t be upset if he hadn’t lied. Why did he lie?”

“Ask em yourself, you blind eejit.”

The gravity of his words doesn’t register until they slip out.

There’s no stopping you now, there’s a goal set in front of you. He’s almost stirred enough to stop you, but a meek nag in the back of his head prevents him. Maybe it’s for the best that you talk it out and snuff out the fire before it has a chance to grow. He pities Ghost in a way. Of all the people he could have…

You secure the abandoned mug of tea and are already trailing after the Lieutenant.

“Oh, here we fucking go…” John is left with his cheek resting in his hand and scouring the mess hall for a livelier company to lighten his morning break.

You follow him by scent alone – a pleasing musk that characterized him well aside from the cologne. You maneuver around the horde of military personnel, washed out in a cluster of camo and rugged limbs. The rain has only worsened, battering against the row of windows gracing the corridor, you can almost smell it through the glass. It’s a lovely aroma, but Ghost’s is favored and it guides you through the limbo of concrete, up a few flights of stairs until you understand you’re heading towards his office.

He’s a good man, the Lieutenant, a wonderful man – stern and fair, caring in his unique decrepit way. So why does he insist on treating you like a disgruntled mentor?

If he’s feeling generous, you’ll find out soon enough.

You let yourself in absentmindedly, barge in like the inelegant brute you are and if there had been a conversation bubbling beyond the door it would have rattled you back to cognitive thinking. But the silence had only welcomed you.

He’s sat behind his desk, looming over sparse documents that are of no interest to you, a cigarette languidly burning in the ashtray next to his elbow, smoke sucked out by the ajar window.

His eyes lift at your intrusion.

The fucking audac –

“Why did you lie?”

Straight to the point as usual. No wordplay, no gentle gestures to picture a power imbalance and ease him into it. He’s your superior and you’re supposed to show respect. Tough luck when you forget that little detail.

“Didn’t give you permission to enter.” he watches the sentence seep in as you set his tea at the edge of his desk, mulling.

Without a word, you walk out as whimsically as you’d entered, tiny body made gangly by the white lights illuminating the hallway. The door closes with a creamy click and despite his irritation, he snorts.

A beat of nothingness before three curt knocks sound, it’s comical. You’re a God damn clown.

“Enter.”

You walk in and clear your throat and that blank expression never falters. With legs spread wide and steady, you clasp your wrist behind your back, nose brought high to expose your neck, spine straight and stretched like a violin string.

“Permission to speak, Lieutenant.”

He has the spite to deny your request, cut your escapade short and shoo you away.

“Granted.” he says instead.

The clock above your head ticks and soothes the stale silence, that and the storm outside. The lights are off, the blinds hold back the scant sunlight overshadowed by an ocean of clouds. The only lamp alive is the one on his desk, deep yellow and warm, casting grim shadows over the skin-tight skull mask. The pen hoisted between thick, battle-worn fingers is still.

He’s waiting, watching you like a prowling predator, chin dipped low and eyes half-hidden behind the ridges of his eyebrows.

“Why did you lie?” you repeat with less zest and your shoulders slack a tad.

You’re the best person to share with openly, would take his confessions to the grave, and have no reason nor will for judgment. All he needed to do was ask for you to never mention this to anyone and you could be tortured to death and not budge. It was so simple, you were simple, ranks be damned, you were here for him.

Though Ghost was anything but one-dimensional. He was a complicated individual with a rich past, he was comfortable trusting you with his life, not his secrets.

He steers away from your question and offers a crappy tease instead.

“Fishing for a Psychology degree, Cadet?”

“That’s not a proper answer.” you’re bullet fast to voice your displeasure with his evasiveness. Your paper-white gaze holds his honeydew brown one, displaying openness and hoping for reciprocation.

“And I’ve taught you proper interrogation.” he spits back with growing mock, taut in his chair, muscles solid and ready.

He fights a war not of the physical world, a solitary brawl, in which you refuse to participate. There is no point in such self-induced struggles; the debate of the heart and mind is a phenomenon known to all and it can be a slippery slope. Hence it had been chemically removed from your system.

At least you can see it bothers him, whatever it is he’s musing over. You’d offer advice, you’d help if he let you dip your toes in the problem, but he was too stubborn.

You fail to understand that you’re the problem.

“You’re avoiding the question.” dry and bland, a boring fact both of you have come to acknowledge.

“I don’t need to answer your fucking question.” the pen and papers are pushed to the side as his attention is fully directed towards you. He readjusts and even while sitting down he seems larger than you. “Mind your bloody tone with me, Dog.”

You startle at that, tighten like a board and your expression falters for a second. It’s not his sharpness that shakes your awareness awake, it’s your behavior – obtrusive and insolent, insulting him with nonchalance unacceptable for a soldier of your rank when conversing with a superior. Your nails dig into the fluff of your palm to ground you, and your knee trembles with the barely repressed need to bend and dig into the floor.

It’s a fleeting sight, but he sees you stagger. An alien sensation coils in his stomach.

Finally.

Finally…

A glint of normalcy is peeking beneath the crooked façade. You’re brooding, maybe even experiencing something, branching out from the year-long unbreakable apathy.

“I apologize, Lieutenant.” you yield, backtracking until you settle into a less casual mindset. “I’ve no right requesting any information of you.”

“Damn straight you don’t.” he sinks his teeth in the opportunity, strangely eager to coax a more prominent reaction out of you, obsessive even. Speaks to you with a demeaning twinge, egged on by the split second in which your brows dip. “Forgot your place.”

His tone is biting, but his movements are fluent as he stands and rounds his desk to approach you. He towers over you unapologetically and you’re left staring at the center of his collarbones, avoiding his eyes as a sliver of respect.

He clips your chin between two calloused fingers, burdens you with a look of contemplation as he debates an idea.

“Open.” he commands and you oblige.

Your jaw lowers as your lips part without an ounce of hesitation. The hairs on his arms rise in anticipation, concealed beneath the course military blouse.

His thumb travels up, past the dimple of your chin, and over your plush bottom lip. His skin grazes your bottom teeth before he presses down on your tongue.

“Suck.”

Your lips curl around his salty digit, tasting the smoky cigarette he’d mouthed a few minutes prior. His concentration wanes, his pupils expand briskly before he catches himself softening. He pushes on the roof of your mouth to guide your vision to lock onto him.

Your rhythmic suckling sparks a warmth low in his abdomen. A dull aching pulse licks deliciously at his loins and he sinks his canines into the side of his cheek to snap out of it. He can’t afford this, not with you, you don’t deserve to witness tenderness when you have none to offer in return. So he remains an explorer and keeps pushing boundaries if not to see you uncomfortable, then for his own curiosity.

“You do as I say, when I say.” he rumbles a guttural reminder of your place, then slips his thumb out of your slithery hold and takes a step back. “On your knees.”

Your legs fold in an instant, knees digging into the tiled floor with a deaf thump. You’re face to face with his crotch and a sickening thought passes by him that makes his thighs clench.

Pushing boundaries, that’s all this was. Nothing more.

He rests a hand on the hem of his jeans and fiddles his zipper, alluding to actions he didn’t intend to follow through with. A somber attempt at making you react, but you don’t. There’s not even an involuntary twitch of a muscle – you’re still as a statue and just as emotionless.

He’s stuck between pondering if you’ve called his bluff or you’re simply passive to the idea. Either way, what he’s hinting at is vile and you being this pliant is unnerving.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re just gonna let me…” he trails off and swallows the bile rising in his throat.

What if you were left in the hands of a less gracious leader? What if some fucked up bastard had gotten a hold of you before him? What if he’d succeeded in kicking you out and you ended up in KorTac…?

What would they have done to you?

What if –

“ – I do as you say, when you say, Lieutenant.”

He snarls at that. Grabs a fistful of your top and boosts you to your feet. The tips of your boots are barely touching the ground and he’s lurched over you, so close that you’re overwhelmed by his breath.

Toothpaste, cigarettes, a feint hint of bourbon from the night before.

You inhale slowly, too comfortable in his grip and it makes no sense to him considering his treatment, then exhale audibly and speak again.

“Why does it bother you so much? My condition.”

“It’s not normal.” he gives you a solid jerk, emphasizing his words, spewing poison. “It’s shit. How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t give a flying fuck about me…or the team?”

“I would never let – ”

“ – Don’t gimme that crap.”

You’re an adaptive creature. You remember the intricacies of man despite no longer seeing any value in them. His frustration is evident, a spout of bio-chemicals thickens around him, from which adrenaline and oxytocin are the most prominent. He’s torn between protecting himself from you and protecting you from the rest of the world. And at the end of the day, he’s only human and has spent too much time with you, a member of the opposite sex, to be unaffected by your presence.

You do the first thing that comes to mind. A short-circuited move in the name of self-preservation while also not causing him any harm as per your orders.

You kiss him. Inch close while he’s in a haze of despicable turmoil and press your lips where his would be hidden behind the mask.

His lethal tantrum ceases.

He’s stunted, shaken to the bone as he stares right through you. His eyes are bulging, accentuated by the charcoal face paint. His whole body is pulsing, you hear his heartbeat, steady but clamorously loud in your ear, then he cocks his head to the side and you begin to question if your choice of action had only worsened his state.

“I’m sorry.” you blurt. “I misread you, I didn’t – ”

He’s clawing at his mask until it catches on his nose and graces you with a strong jaw littered with nearly blond stubble. You bite your tongue before more words spill and risk shattering the desperate trance he’s succumbed to.

He devours your mouth with a hoarse grunt, the force causing your neck to crane back. The large hand holding you in place vanishes shortly before he starts pawing at your hips, clutching at the firm flesh and then seeking refuge in the dip of your ass.

“Lieut – ” you suck in a breath when he hoists you up like you’re nothing and nudges your legs until they’re wrapped around his thick waist. Your ankles lock over the small of his back and you hold a steady grip on his collar as he shushes you with a husky “shut up”.

His stubble grazes and prickles as he reclaims your wet lips with bruising vigor.

The chain lies broken, his resolve has been torn to shreds after months of no reciprocation. He’s a starved man, too battered and scarred to seek his fix from a stranger. So he’s looked to you, an amalgamation of senseless strength and a hollow heart, an abyss devoid of feeling or emotion, the worst possible option, but in his mind – the only option.

Desperation blinds even the strongest of warriors.

With wobbly steps, he squishes you between the wall and himself, lets words flow without a single sound, and twirls his tongue around yours as you perfectly follow his shaky guidance. He sucks at whatever he can find, made mad with a craving for your essence despite never having tasted you before, slobbers you like a touch-starved dog.

Crushed into the warm safety of his body, in the darkness of his quarters, you're hidden from the world as he gingerly indulges his wants. Senses peaking from overdrive, you only hear, smell and feel him, a fleshy mountain carrying the scent of what you learn is home. What little exposed skin you find is scalding, he shudders while you unintentionally map out his shoulders in search of purchase.

He peppers heated pecks down your jaw with a resounding groan and finds the even pulse in your neck.

You jolt as his teeth encase the spot and he freezes.

“Want me to stop?”

His head is nestled in the crook of your neck, away from the possible judgment of your sight. His voice is low, a scratchy reverberation, strained with a need too great to be put out by his self-restraint alone. He’s a mess, oozing hormones, jittery and uncertain but too lost in his delight to retreat.

He’s slipped inadvertently and wound up vulnerable.

“No.”

He’s satisfied with your answer only for a moment before the nagging reality starts chewing at his gut. You aren’t normal. You’re not the typical bird he’d pick out in a bar after a particularly heavy mission and one too many glasses of scotch. You’re fucked up.

He doesn’t want to keep asking, wishes so direly to stay blind and dumb to the facts spitting acid in his face. But he’s too grounded for such fantastical blessings.

“Want me to keep going?” he looks up with a clenched jaw.

His breathing slows, preparing for a hit similar to a bullet to the chest, but there is no Kevlar to shield him from the devastation. He’s bare before you, at your mercy despite his stoic composure keeping him visibly untouchable. You should pity him, feel something because your situation hints at him being more than an ally or friend. You should muddle the truth or let him down delicately, he deserves as much.

He wanted you to want him. He didn’t want to be alone in his desires.

But you’re no liar, you’re not a gentle soul. You offer him a curt, tasteless answer.

You stare him straight in the eyes and shoot.

“No.”

It stings more than it should.

“I want for nothing.”

The fire in his belly is extinguished, it feels as if the blood is sucked out of his body. The stab leaves his pulsing cock flaccid with only a stain of precum smeared against his boxers as a reminder of the blossoming need you’d snuffed out mercilessly.

He holds your gaze as the spark in his shrunken orbs vanishes, then slowly sets you down and tears himself away with disgust; regretful and insulted.

“Get out…”

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[I'm a bit uncertain about this one. It's a niche idea, but it's been swimming in my head for some time now. Someday I'll be satisfied with my writing, but for now I'll settle for this. I'm not great at COD characters so if anyone seems OOC forgive me. I try my best, but I'm a rookie.]

#ghost fanfiction #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #mw2 fanfic #x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you

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theetherealbloom · 2 months ago

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AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 6 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Six: There's Blood On The Side Of The Mountain

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Attempted Su!c!de, Idealization of Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge, Panic Attacks, Anxiety Attack,

Word Count: 9.2k (I’m sorry this is so long wtf)

A/N: Istg. Make sure you read ALL the warnings! This chapter is going to be sad by the way. It’s extra sad. Keep your chin up, girl. You got this. Also, yes, ofc the song I chose would be Can’t Catch Me Now by Olivia Rodrigo, it makes sense tehe.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Can’t Catch Me Now by Olivia Rodrigo

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KING’S LANDING, THE BATTLE PIT — DAY

From where you stand, the pit feels like a hollow reflection of King’s Landing itself—a stage for brutality, where bloodshed is applauded and violence wears the crown. Your sneer twists in disdain as you watch Ser Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane slice through a prisoner with disturbing ease, lifting the poor soul high on his greatsword. Blood streams from the prisoner’s mouth, his eyes wide in terror before The Mountain tosses him to the sand like discarded meat. The sound of his body hitting the ground is drowned out by the murmurs of the onlookers, but it echoes in your ears nonetheless.

Cersei watches, her eyes cold and calculating, as a line of prisoners stand chained, awaiting their fate. Each filthy, ragged figure, a nameless body lined up for slaughter. You feel a bitter twist in your gut—this spectacle, this violence—meant to terrify more than entertain.

One of the guards barks orders, shoving the next prisoner forward like livestock.

“Go on, move it,” the guard snaps, his tone indifferent to the man’s terror.

The prisoner stumbles forward, his trembling hands reaching for a meager weapon at his feet. You catch a glimpse of his wide, panicked eyes—he knows his fate. Still, he holds the weapon like it might mean his survival, like it might hold off the inevitable for even a few heartbeats longer. But the outcome is written in the blood that already stains the sand beneath him.

The first prisoner attacks The Mountain with desperation. He lunges, wild and reckless, but The Mountain is faster, his sword cleaving through flesh with a sickening ease. The prisoner’s body folds as he’s disemboweled in one stroke, his life ending in a gruesome heap at the giant’s feet.

The next prisoner, shaking, drops his weapon entirely, sinking to his knees. Tears mix with the dirt on his face as he pleads for mercy.

“Mercy, please. Please, mercy,” the man cries, his voice breaking, filled with the kind of hopelessness that makes your chest tighten.

Cersei watches with an air of indifference, her lips curling ever so slightly as The Mountain delivers a series of savage overhead blows, reducing the prisoner to nothing more than a broken corpse. The sand beneath him darkens with blood, and you force yourself to keep watching, not out of morbid curiosity, but as a reminder. This is the city you’re in. These are the people who rule it.

Cersei steps forward, her gaze fixed on The Mountain. “Ser Gregor,” she says smoothly, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. “Welcome to the capital. Thank you for riding here so quickly.”

You note the lack of warmth in her tone, the way she speaks to him as though she were addressing a weapon, not a man. In truth, that’s exactly what The Mountain is to her—just another tool.

Cersei’s gaze flickers down to the bodies strewn about the pit. “You seem to be in good form.”

The Mountain’s reply is as cold as it is simple. “Who am I fighting?”

Cersei raises a brow, her expression as detached as ever. “Does it matter?”

The Mountain shakes his head. To him, it truly doesn’t. Flesh is flesh, no matter whose body it belongs to.

But you think otherwise.

As you stand there, your eyes narrowing at the towering figure of The Mountain, you wonder how many lives he has ruined, how many people have died in his shadow. A thought sharpens within you—among the things victims have lost, how many things can they ever truly reclaim? You can’t help but wonder if any of these prisoners were thinking the same, if their last thoughts were of the homes they’ll never return to, the families they’ve left behind.

It’s not justice they seek in these final moments. There’s no glory here. The only thing left to reclaim is their honor—what little remains of it. Some might hope for forgiveness, for mercy. But you know better. In King’s Landing, where the powerful feast on the misery of others, revenge is often the only way to regain even a fraction of that lost honor. Only then, in the pursuit of vengeance, can one truly begin again.

You look at Cersei, at The Mountain, and think to yourself, Forgiveness has no place here. Not in this city. Not when men like The Mountain are allowed to walk free, spilling blood for sport, for the amusement of those in power. No, here, revenge is the only way to claim victory, to bring balance to the scales. You keep your thoughts to yourself, but deep down, you know—glory through revenge may be the only true path to the starting point.

There are no second chances.

KING'S LANDING, TYRION'S CELL — EVENING

You knew Bronn was smart enough to fear the Mountain. One misstep, and anyone facing that monstrous man would be dead in an instant. Yet, as you moved quietly through the shadowed halls, following Oberyn down to Tyrion’s cell, an unsettling dread filled you. Oberyn had already made up his mind. His determination was palpable, and it terrified you.

You’d trained yourself to move unseen, your footsteps silent on the cold stone floors of King’s Landing. Perhaps Oberyn knew you were trailing him, but he didn’t seem to care. His confidence radiated from him like the warmth of the torch he carried, unwavering, even as you concealed yourself in the shadows.

Inside the cell, Tyrion sat in the dark, his posture heavy with defeat. The door creaked open, and you pressed yourself against the wall, listening intently.

Oberyn stepped inside, his torch casting flickering light across the damp, narrow space.

"I imagined you'd be back at the brothel at this hour," Tyrion remarked, his voice filled with a bitter, tired amusement.

Oberyn’s tone was smooth, as it always was, with a hint of mischief. "I did spend some time with an absolutely stunning blonde the other day."

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly at the mention, a sharp twinge twisting in your chest. But you kept your eyes on the scene before you, your heart quickening as their exchange continued.

"Do tell," Tyrion replied, managing a slight smirk. "I've got every kind of filth down here except the kind I like."

Oberyn placed his torch down, the flame casting shadows that flickered along the walls as he took a seat beside Tyrion. The light softened his features but couldn’t chase away the gravity in his words.

"Your sister," Oberyn said.

"Oh," Tyrion replied, his expression falling.

You relaxed slightly as the realization settled within you. Oberyn had meant Cersei. The tension in your chest eased, but the conversation soon shifted, becoming darker.

"Cersei approached me. We spoke a great deal about her daughter," Oberyn explained, his voice lowering. "How worried your sister is about her. She was trying very hard to pretend she had not come to sway me against you. I think she may have even believed it herself."

A small smile tugged at your lips. Oberyn was always clever, always able to see through the intricate webs of deception spun by those in King’s Landing. It was a quality you both admired and envied.

"Making honest feelings do dishonest work is one of her many gifts," Tyrion said with a grim chuckle, leaning against the wall.

"It was difficult for her to hide her true intentions," Oberyn continued, his voice calm but full of insight. "It is rare to meet a Lannister who shares my enthusiasm for dead Lannisters. She desperately wants to see you killed."

"She didn't need to bother you," Tyrion responded with a bitter laugh. "It looks as though I've taken care of that myself. The joy she will feel when my head leaves my neck... She’s wanted this for a long time."

Oberyn’s gaze darkened slightly, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. "Yes, I know. We met, you and I, many years ago."

Tyrion blinked, looking puzzled. "I think I would have remembered that."

"Unlikely," Oberyn replied, his tone shifting as he recalled the memory. "You had just been born. Our father brought me and my sister Elia with him on a visit to Casterly Rock. My first time away from Dorne. I didn’t like anything about the Rock. Not the food, not the weather, your accents. Nothing." His voice hardened as he continued. "But the biggest disappointment... was you."

Tyrion’s face fell, his usual armor of sarcasm failing him. "You and my family have more in common than you might admit," he muttered.

You watched closely, frowning as Oberyn recounted his tale. You understood disappointment more than anyone. After all, your own mother had cast you away the moment you were born, sending you to a life of servitude.

Oberyn continued, "The whole way from Dorne, all anyone talked about was the monster that had been born to Tywin Lannister. A head twice the size of his body, a tail between his legs, claws, one red eye, the privates of both a girl and a boy."

Tyrion forced a smile, though it was joyless. "That would have made things so much easier."

"When we met your sister," Oberyn said, leaning forward, "she promised she would show you to us. Every day we would ask. Every day she would say, ‘Soon.’ Then, finally, she and your brother took us to your nursery, and..." He paused, his gaze intense as he spoke the next words. "She unveiled the freak."

Tyrion’s expression remained stoic, though you could see the faint hurt in his eyes. Oberyn continued, his voice cold but full of truth. "Your head was a bit large. Your arms and legs were a bit small. But no claw, no red eye, no tail between your legs. Just a tiny pink cock. We didn’t try to hide our disappointment."

Oberyn’s face hardened as he remembered the moment. "That’s not a monster," I told Cersei. "That’s just a baby."

You swallowed hard, fighting the wave of emotion as you listened. You knew cruelty well—perhaps better than anyone in that room.

"And she said," Oberyn continued, his voice heavy with disgust, "‘He killed my mother.’ Then she pinched your little cock so hard, I thought she might pull it off. Until your brother made her stop. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told us. ‘Everyone says he will die soon. I hope they are right. He should not have lived this long.’"

You felt a lump in your throat as tears threatened to well up in your eyes. How cruel could Cersei truly be?

Tyrion’s voice cracked slightly, though he tried to keep his tone casual. "Well... sooner or later, Cersei always gets what she wants."

"And what about what I want?" Oberyn’s voice was sharp now, full of purpose. "Justice. For my sister and her children."

Tyrion’s gaze darkened, his voice low. "If you want justice, you’ve come to the wrong place."

"I disagree," Oberyn said, rising to his feet. The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows on his face, highlighting the fierce determination in his eyes. "I’ve come to the perfect place."

You watched him closely, your heart racing. You knew what was coming, but you were powerless to stop it.

"I want to bring those who have wronged me to justice," Oberyn continued, his voice steady, each word a promise. "And all those who have wronged me are right here. I will begin with Ser Gregor Clegane, who killed my sister’s children and then raped her with their blood still on his hands before killing her too."

Oberyn turned to Tyrion, his voice echoing in the dim cell. "I will be your champion."

Your heart plummeted, the weight of his words crushing you. No. You’d seen it—the vision that haunted your every step. Oberyn’s demise. His fate, as cruel and certain as the tides.

As the heavy door creaked open, the flickering torchlight danced across the stone walls, casting deep shadows in Tyrion’s cell. You watched from the darkened corridor, your breath shallow as Oberyn stepped out, the light fading with him as the door slowly shut behind. Darkness swallowed the room once more, the soft click of the latch sealing the quiet tension that hung in the air.

For a few heartbeats, you stood there, your hand pressed against the cool stone wall, the lingering warmth of Oberyn’s presence still felt in the space he had just left. Then, with silent determination, you slipped into the cell.

Tyrion, huddled in the shadows, looked up at the sound of your approach, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The small torch outside barely cast enough light to illuminate your figure as you slowly pulled back your hood. His tense expression softened with relief.

“I thought you were an assassin sent by Cersei to kill me,” Tyrion murmured, his voice a mix of dry humor and genuine fear.

You tilted your head slightly, a faint, cold smile playing on your lips. “You’re wrong on one of those things.”

Tyrion’s face tensed, the weight of your words unsettling him for a moment. His sharp mind was already working through possibilities, but before panic could fully settle in, you took a step closer.

“I’m not here to kill you,” you said softly, your voice calm but with an edge of bitterness.

Tyrion let out a shaky breath, his shoulders easing slightly as he watched you carefully. You walked across the small cell, the sound of your steps soft on the cold stone. Taking a seat near one of the wooden poles, you leaned back against it, the silence between you both thick with unspoken truths.

“Do you recognize me?” you asked, your voice low, a challenge hidden in the question.

Tyrion furrowed his brow, studying your face. “You’re one of Sansa’s maids,” he finally said, his tone uncertain.

You nodded slowly. “Just a servant, if anything. But yes.” Leaning forward, you began rolling up your sleeves, exposing your arms in the pale sliver of moonlight that crept through the small barred window. The scars, the burns, every mark of torment etched into your skin told a story of survival.

“Do you know the rumors?” you asked, your voice harder now.

Tyrion’s face shifted, a shadow of horror crossing his features as realization dawned on him. “You… you survived…”

Your eyes, cold and lifeless, met his. A small, bitter smile flickered on your lips as your jaw clenched. “Yes,” you said, leaning back against the wall, your arms folding across your chest. “Your reputation becomes rumors, and rumors become your reputation. That’s how it works, doesn’t it?”

Tyrion swallowed, clearly unsettled by the weight of your words. "Did you… did you poison Joffrey?" His voice was quiet, but the question held a note of accusation.

You shook your head, your expression flat. “No. I may have set the plan in motion, but they caused their own ruin.”

Tyrion’s eyes searched yours for deception, but when he found none, he nodded, accepting your words as truth.

“No one recognized me, not for the longest time,” you continued, your voice quiet, introspective. “Until… Prince Oberyn. Of course, he would. Every bit of information about his sister’s death... he sought it all. His own kind of hell.”

Tyrion remained silent, watching you closely as you spoke.

“I sometimes wonder,” you mused, your eyes distant as you stared at the stone floor. “The solidarity between victims, and the solidarity between perpetrators. Which of them is stronger?”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, the sound hollow. “I’ve spent years in this place. Pouring wine, slicing pies, fetching, folding. Day after day, step by step. Every moment leading to this point.” You scoffed softly, your frustration evident. “Keeping myself going… it’s exhausting. I’m so tired of it.”

Tyrion exhaled shakily, his eyes filled with a deep understanding of that particular weariness.

“Oberyn… he has been kind to me. He is the only joy in my unfortunate life,” you said, your voice softening at the mention of him. “He has eight daughters waiting for him. Depending on him. I can’t let him throw his life away. Not for this.”

Tyrion’s brow furrowed, confusion and disbelief crossing his features. “So… you plan to kill me yourself, then?” His voice held a strange mix of resignation and curiosity.

You shook your head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “No.”

Tyrion’s confusion deepened as you met his gaze, your voice steady as you spoke the next words. “I will be your champion instead of Oberyn.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Tyrion stared at you, incredulous. “Forgive me for saying this, but… Oberyn would never allow a lady such as yourself to fight a beast like the Mountain.”

Your eyes darkened slightly, a flicker of something dangerous flashing across your face. “You of all people should know what it means to be underestimated, Lord Tyrion.” Your voice was cold but not unkind. “It just means I have nothing left to lose.”

Tyrion’s gaze softened as he understood the gravity of your words. This was no grand act of heroism. No selfless gesture. “I’m not fighting for you,” you admitted, your voice low. “This is purely selfish. Oberyn deserves justice, as much as I do, but I can’t let him die. Not when I’ve come this far. I will die on my own terms.”

“He has a chance. How are you so sure that he will—”

“I’m sure. I’ve seen it. Gods, I’ve seen it.”

Tyrion studied you for a moment longer, his face unreadable. “And how, exactly, do you plan to convince Oberyn to take your place?”

You smiled then, a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Leave that to me.”

The door to your quarters closed behind you with a soft thud. You leaned against it, letting out a long sigh. Tomorrow would be the day—victory or defeat, life or death. The weight of it pressed down on your chest, heavy as armor.

You took a step forward, lost in thought, when a figure in the shadows caught your eye. Heart racing, your hand instinctively reached for the dagger hidden beneath your cloak.

“Oberyn?” you breathed, startled.

He emerged from the darkness, leaning casually against the wall with that familiar, mischievous grin. “Relax, little dove. If I wanted to surprise you, I’d have done a better job,” he teased, his voice smooth and playful.

Your breath caught in your throat. The sight of him here, in your private space, unnerved you—but not in the way you expected. “What are you doing in my quarters?” you asked, trying to steady yourself, your pulse still racing.

Oberyn’s smile widened as he pushed away from the wall and stepped closer. “I came to see you. Is that not allowed?”

“I—” you stammered, the shock of his sudden appearance blending with the rising tension in the room. “You scared me.”

He chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours. “Good. You’re far too comfortable sneaking around King’s Landing. It’s time someone made you nervous.” His tone was light, but there was a warmth in his gaze that made your heart ache.

Your momentary fear melted away under his charm, but then your mind shifted, weighed down by the question that had been gnawing at you. You couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“Oberyn,” you began, your voice growing serious, “have you known all along that I… approached you on purpose?”

His teasing expression faded, replaced by something softer, more knowing. “Yes,” he said quietly.

You blinked, thrown by his straightforward answer. “Since when?” you asked, stepping closer, your voice lowering. “How did you find out about the connection between me and your sister?”

Oberyn watched you for a moment, as though weighing how much to reveal. “I knew every detail of when and how she died along with every single rumor,” he said, his voice soft yet deliberate. “And you—” he gave you a small, almost fond smile—“you seem to be around the age that the child who served her would be now. I figured it out the moment I heard your accent.”

His words hit you like a sudden gust of wind. You had been careful, so careful, but of course Oberyn had seen through you.

“I knew from the start you would want to use me,” he continued, his voice like silk, though there was no accusation in it. “The brother of Elia. It made sense. When I put all the pieces together, I realized I was the man you needed. The one who would do your bidding without question.”

You swallowed, his words twisting something deep inside you. “And you were fine with that? Knowing I was using you for my revenge?”

He smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “I told myself I’d be of use to you. That I’d come running whenever you wanted to use me. Wherever it was, whatever it cost.” His dark eyes held yours, no longer teasing. “But I wanted to be there before your guilt caught up with you.”

Your breath hitched, the honesty in his voice cutting through your defenses. You tried to speak, but the words tangled in your throat. Oberyn’s hand brushed lightly against your arm, the touch grounding you.

“When your sister died,” you finally whispered, “I thought I’d find someone to latch on to. So I approached you. Then I realized something—how could I even think of doing such a thing, just because I’m a victim? You’re a victim too.”

Oberyn’s gaze softened, and he let out a slow breath. “For a moment I thought I wasn’t your type,” he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “But now… you have no reason to use me anymore. If you refuse me, it’ll be for love. Not for revenge.”

Your chest tightened as his words washed over you. Tears welled in your eyes, the weight of tomorrow’s trial pressing down like an iron hand around your throat. You knew what you had to do, the price you’d pay to save him.

Your voice trembled as the tears slipped down your cheeks. “Then… help me. Until the end.”

Oberyn stepped closer, cupping your face with one hand, his thumb brushing away a tear. His dark eyes held yours, filled with a tenderness you hadn’t allowed yourself to see before. “I will serve you,” he said, his voice a quiet promise, “until the end.”

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP – EARLY MORNING

The first light of dawn filtered through the narrow window, casting a soft glow over the room. You had half-expected Oberyn to have slipped away in the night, seeking the comfort of Ellaria or losing himself in his vices. But when you woke, he was still there, lying beside you in the small, cramped bed that barely fit you both. His arm draped around your waist, holding you close as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The night before had been unexpected—no grand seduction, no teasing beyond his usual wit. Instead, you’d stayed up talking, sharing dreams and desires you thought long buried beneath the weight of revenge. It had been… peaceful, in a way you hadn’t known in years. For once, sleep had come easily, a deep and untroubled rest. But now, the morning was here, and with it came the knowledge of what you had to do.

You shifted carefully, trying to untangle yourself from his embrace without waking him. Oberyn mumbled something in his sleep, his grip tightening briefly before loosening as you gently pulled away. Slipping from the bed, you began dressing quietly, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had learned long ago how to move in the shadows.

As you buckled your tunic, you felt his eyes on you. Turning, you found Oberyn watching you from the bed, his dark eyes half-lidded and full of sleepy mischief. “Leaving me already?” he teased, his voice a husky murmur. “I was just getting comfortable.”

You couldn’t help but smile, though your heart ached with the weight of what you were about to do. “Someone has to get ready for the day,” you replied, forcing a lightness into your tone that you didn’t feel.

He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest as he stretched lazily. “You know, you could stay a little longer… I wouldn’t mind.”

Your throat tightened, but you masked it with a chuckle. “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” you said softly as you crossed the room. The closer you got to him, the harder it became to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

Oberyn reached for you as you approached the bed, his fingers brushing your wrist before you leaned down, capturing his lips in a kiss. It was passionate, raw, as though it carried every unsaid word between you—every regret, every longing. For a moment, you allowed yourself to drown in it, to feel the warmth of his skin, the press of his lips. But you knew you couldn’t stay there.

With a soft gasp, you pulled away, your heart hammering in your chest. His eyes were still clouded with desire, his breath uneven, when you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Before he could react, you pressed your fingers to a pressure point at the base of his neck. His body stiffened for a heartbeat before his eyes rolled back, and he slumped into unconsciousness. Your hand trembled as you laid him gently on the bed, your chest tight with the enormity of what you’d just done.

Tying him up was harder than you expected. The sheets you wrapped around his wrists felt like chains around your heart, binding you to this moment of betrayal. But it was necessary. He couldn’t stop you, and you couldn’t let him die for you. Not today. Not when he had so much left to live for.

You left a note by his side, your hand shaking as you scrawled the words. You told him the truth—Dorne needed him, his daughters needed him. He had a future. But you… you were already ruined, with no family, no purpose left beyond vengeance. If things had been different, perhaps you would have let yourself love him fully. Perhaps you could have been more than the ghosts of your pasts. But now… now you had to see this through, and he couldn’t follow you into the fire.

When you met Serena in the hall, she was waiting with a worried expression. You pressed a pouch of coins into her hand, whispering instructions she already knew. “Untie him when the trial ends,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "He must live."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she gripped your hands tightly, her voice breaking. “Please… don’t die. Come back.”

The words struck you harder than you expected. For a moment, you stood frozen, unsure of how to respond. She pulled you into a hug, clinging to you as though she could stop you from leaving, from walking into the jaws of death. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you wrapped an arm around her, patting her back awkwardly. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words heavy with finality.

KING’S LANDING, FIGHTING PIT – DAY

The bells tolled in the distance, a grim reminder that the day had arrived. Tyrion shuffled out toward the arena, his chains clinking with every step. The Lannisters watched from their seats, and Ellaria stood nearby, her eyes scanning the crowd for Oberyn.

You stepped into view, the sunlight glinting off your armor. It was simple but well-made—light enough for movement, but sturdy where it mattered. No helmet yet, your hair loose as the breeze tugged at it. A dagger was strapped to your thigh, hidden from view, while your hand rested on the hilt of a long, slender sword—a weapon you had saved for, piece by piece, over the years.

Tyrion’s gaze flicked to you, his brow furrowed with worry. “Look like very light armor,” he commented dryly.

You shrugged. “Not really.”

The Mountain loomed on the other side of the pit, fully armored and wielding a massive sword that seemed to cleave the air as he moved. Ellaria’s eyes widened as she looked between you and the towering figure before her. “You’re going to fight that?” she asked, alarmed.

You let out a sigh, your grip tightening on your sword. “Hopefully, I’m going to kill that.”

Ellaria’s hand shot out, gripping your arm. “Where is Oberyn?”

You met her gaze, your eyes steady. “He’s safe. I swear it.” You paused, glancing at the Mountain and then back at her. “Take care of him.”

Pycelle’s voice rang out across the arena, ancient and raspy. "In the sight of gods and men, we gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of this… man, Tyrion Lannister. May the Mother grant them mercy. May the Father give them such justice as they deserve. And may the Warrior guide the hand of our champion..."

Tywin, bored and impatient, gestured for the fight to begin. The horns sounded, echoing through the arena.

You met Tyrion’s gaze one last time. He nodded to you, his voice barely audible as he whispered, “Good luck.”

You gave a small nod in return, your hand tightening on your sword hilt as you stepped into the pit. The Mountain loomed ahead, but this wasn’t about fear anymore. This was about survival, vengeance, and the weight of every choice you had ever made.

Today, you would fight. And one way or another, everything would change.

MAIDENVAULT, GUEST CHAMBERS

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — DAY

Oberyn awoke slowly, blinking against the morning light that filtered through the window. A dull ache settled in his neck, and when he tried to move, he found his arms pinned, bound to the bed with sheets tightly knotted around his wrists. His mind raced for answers, and then it hit him—you. He had kissed you, and then… darkness.

The sound of soft footsteps drew his attention. A young woman stood by the door, wringing her hands nervously. She was small, her eyes wide with a mix of guilt and fear. Oberyn narrowed his gaze, his voice hoarse. "Who are you?"

"I—I'm Serena," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m… a maid. She—she told me to wait until after the battle. I promised."

Oberyn’s heart pounded, realization dawning on him. “Untie me,” he demanded, his voice steady but urgent. “Now.”

Serena shook her head, biting her lip, tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t. I swore I wouldn’t, not until it was over. She made me promise. I—I’m sorry.”

Oberyn tugged against the bindings, frustration growing with each passing moment. His eyes scanned the bedside table, where a crumpled piece of parchment lay. His heart clenched. “What is that?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.

Serena hesitated, then stepped forward, placing the note in his hand.

Oberyn quickly unfolded the paper, recognizing your hurried scrawl. His eyes moved over the words, and with each line, the pit in his stomach deepened.

Oberyn,

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I couldn’t let you fight, not when so much depends on you. Dorne needs you, your daughters need you. You have a future, Oberyn. I can’t let you throw it all away for my revenge.

This is my fight, not yours. I’ve been ruined long before we met, and there’s nothing left for me but this. No family, no husband, no purpose beyond this one thing.

If things had been different, maybe we could have found a better life together. But now, all I can do is ask for your forgiveness. You were the one good thing that happened to me, and for that, I thank you.

Serena will untie you when the trial ends. Don’t come after me. Please. Live, for Dorne, for your daughters. For the future you still have.

Goodbye, Oberyn.

The note trembled in his hands as Oberyn read it, his heart shattering with every word. His chest tightened, breath coming short as if the air had been stolen from him. "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "No, no, no!"

He turned to Serena, his voice breaking. “Untie me. I beg you. I have to stop her.”

Serena’s eyes filled with tears, her lip trembling as she clutched the hem of her dress. “She—she made me promise. I’m supposed to wait until—”

“Damn the promise!” Oberyn roared, his desperation clawing at the edges of his voice. “She’s going to die, Serena! Do you understand that? She’s going to die, and I can’t let that happen. Please. Please, untie me. I can save her.”

Serena’s hands shook violently, her resolve crumbling. She looked at him, at the raw pain in his eyes, the pleading in his voice. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she struggled with the weight of your last request. “She said Dorne needs you,” Serena whispered. “She said you have so much to lose. I—I can’t...”

Oberyn’s voice cracked, softer now, filled with a grief that was almost unbearable. “I’ll lose her. Don’t you see? If you wait… it’ll be too late. I’ll lose her forever. She’s… everything. Please… untie me.”

Serena’s hands moved to the bindings, her fingers trembling as she hesitated one last time. “Promise me… promise me you’ll save her,” she whispered, choking on her sobs.

“I swear it,” Oberyn said, his voice raw with emotion. “I swear on my life. I will save her.”

With a deep breath, Serena finally gave in, loosening the knots and setting him free. As the sheets fell away, Oberyn leapt from the bed, his heart racing as he grabbed his cloak, his mind already on the trial and the bloodshed to come.

Serena watched him go, her hands trembling, knowing that she might have just sent him to his death.

KING’S LANDING, FIGHTING PIT — DAY

The sun beat down on the fighting pit, the crowd's chatter falling into murmurs as you stepped into the arena. Eyes followed you, curious, some confused. You were no one to them, just another faceless fighter stepping up to die. But you felt the weight of their stares, especially the piercing gaze of the Lannisters, high above on their platform, surveying the pit like vultures. They didn’t know who you were, not yet.

Your eyes found the Mountain, hulking and monstrous, towering over you with cold indifference. You raised your voice, cutting through the air, “Do you know who I am?”

Gregor Clegane’s laugh was deep and cruel. “Pity,” he spat, his voice loud enough to carry across the pit. “Some dead whore.”

He lunged. His sheer size made the earth quake beneath your feet, but you were ready. You dodged, his sword cleaving through the space you had been a heartbeat before. He was fast, impossibly fast for someone of his size, but you had spent years preparing for this moment. All those nights spent training, fighting men four times your size, all of it led to this.

As you spun out of his reach, you screamed out to the crowd, “I was the maid of Princess Elia Martell!”

A ripple of whispers spread through the spectators. The name Elia Martell always had that effect, even here in King’s Landing. The Mountain charged again, his blade whistling through the air. You blocked his strike, feeling the force of it reverberate through your arms, but you pushed back, slashing at the vulnerable joints in his armor. The soft spots.

Gregor stumbled but recovered quickly. He came at you again, enraged. “I'm going to hear you confess to all these people before you die,” you spat, circling him. “Tell them how you raped her. How you murdered her. How you killed her children.”

His next attack was brutal, a wild swing that glanced off your arm, leaving a burning line of pain. You gritted your teeth, ignoring the blood soaking into your sleeve. You were faster, smaller. You had to be smarter. And so, you fought, with the fury of someone who had waited their entire life for this moment.

“You raped her!” you screamed again, your voice ragged with rage and pain. “You murdered her! You killed her children!”

You moved in, quick as a viper, stabbing him deep in the gut. He faltered, his massive body reeling from the blow. But you knew better than to get close to a wounded beast. He caught you off guard, his enormous hand closing around your throat. You gasped, your sword clattering to the ground as you struggled in his grip. The world narrowed, the crowd’s roar fading into a dull hum as your vision blurred.

But then, with a final burst of strength, you reached for the daggers hidden at your thigh. In one swift movement, you sliced through the ligaments in his knees, then his ankles, his elbows, his shoulders—every joint you could reach. The Mountain dropped to his knees, immobilized, his weapon far from his reach.

The crowd gasped. You kicked his sword aside, watching as he floundered, his monstrous frame now reduced to helplessness. You sliced off his right hand, the brutal act met with stunned silence from the spectators.

Your boot pressed down hard against his throat, your voice raw with fury. “Confess!” you shouted, eyes blazing as the crowd murmured in shock. Leaning in closer, your voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “You may have forgotten but these people haven’t.”

The Mountain coughed, blood splattering from his lips, but still, he refused. So you pressed harder, forcing the confession from his broken body. “Confess!” you screamed, your voice cutting through the stillness.

“Elia Martell,” he rasped, his voice thick with blood. “I killed her children. Then I raped her.”

Your chest heaved, your body shaking as you stood over him, your heart pounding in your ears. “Do you remember me now?” you asked, seething, your voice a low, dangerous whisper.

Gregor’s eyes flickered with the faintest recognition, and then he growled, his voice thick with venom. “You’re the bitch I burned. I burned you, and I enjoyed every moment of it.”

The words hit you like a slap, a fresh wave of rage rolling over you. But this time, it wasn’t uncontrollable. It was cold, calculating. “That’s right,” you muttered, your eyes narrowing as you stared down at the man who had haunted your nightmares for so long.

Gregor Clegane, the monster you had spent your life waiting to kill, was bleeding out before you. The crowd was silent, frozen in shock, their disbelief palpable. You could feel their eyes on you, but you didn’t care. This wasn’t for them.

“Ser Gregor,” you sneered, “death is too kind of a punishment for an animal like you. I’m not a good person—I plan on becoming worse every day. But today, I will be kind.”

With that, you raised your longsword high and brought it down, severing his head with a clean, decisive stroke. Blood splattered across your face and armor, but you didn’t flinch. You stood there, breathing heavily, caked in dirt and blood, staring down at the lifeless body of the Mountain.

The crowd erupted into chaos, screams and cheers echoing around the pit. But you barely heard them. You turned slowly, your gaze drifting to the platform where Lord Tywin and Cersei stood, their faces pale with shock. They hadn’t expected this. No one had.

As you began to strip off your armor, the crowd’s cheers faded into a stunned hush. Piece by piece, you removed the heavy metal, letting it fall to the ground until you stood in the pit, exposed. Your skin, marred and scarred, told the story of your past, of the torment you had endured. The crowd gasped, some weeping at the sight of you. But your eyes—your eyes were empty, a void where once there had been pain. Now, there was nothing but calm.

Oberyn pushed through the throngs of people, heart pounding, eyes wild with panic as he scanned the crowd. The moment he stepped into the pit’s edge, his breath caught in his throat. His world stopped. You were there, in the middle of it all, a figure painted in blood and dust, screaming out for justice with a voice that could tear the heavens apart.

His heart clenched painfully at the sight of you, fury blazing in your eyes as you danced around the Mountain’s monstrous frame, every strike of your sword precise, every movement a testament to the fire that burned within you. You had trained for this. You were prepared. But watching you battle the creature who had haunted his nightmares, who had torn apart his sister and everything Oberyn held dear—it was more than he could bear.

His body surged forward on instinct, but Ellaria’s grip tightened around his arm, her fingers digging into his skin. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and anguish. “She’s chosen this.”

Oberyn’s breath hitched, his mind warring with itself. How could he stand here, watching the woman he cared for, the one person who seemed to understand his pain, fight alone? His every instinct screamed at him to run to you, to stop this madness, to be the one to end it for you. But Ellaria was right—this was your choice. You were fighting not just for Elia, but for yourself.

His prayers, silent and desperate, echoed in his mind. Keep her safe. Please, gods, let her live.

And then, just as the Mountain loomed over you one last time, bloodied but still alive, you moved like lightning. One moment, you were in his grip, your life hanging by a thread, and the next, you were free, your daggers flashing like vengeful stars as you cut him down, piece by piece, until the Mountain—the monster who had destroyed so many lives—fell to his knees, defeated.

Oberyn blinked, his heart in his throat, as the Mountain’s confession rang out across the arena. “Elia Martell. I killed her children. Then I raped her.”

A sickening wave of relief and horror washed over him. It was done. The Mountain had confessed. But you—gods, you were still standing, barely. Covered in blood and dirt, your scarred arms laid bare for the world to see, the evidence of the hell you had endured etched into your skin.

Tyrion, still chained but now free of the weight of death, was weeping with joy, unable to believe the miracle before him. You had won. The gods had chosen justice—your justice.

But Oberyn’s eyes flickered to the Lannisters. Lord Tywin, sitting stone-faced on his perch, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrest of his chair. Cersei, beside him, her face a twisted mask of rage and disbelief. Their plans had crumbled before their eyes, and there was nothing they could do.

“The gods have made their will known,” Tywin said at last, his voice cold and measured. “Tyrion Lannister, in the name of King Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, you are hereby granted mercy.”

The words dripped with bitterness, but Tywin could do nothing to change the outcome. His gaze shifted to you, and the venom in his eyes was palpable. He stared at you as if he could will you dead on the spot, but you, bloodied and exhausted, raised your chin defiantly. Your shoulders straightened, and despite the pain, you walked with purpose, never looking back at the crowd.

Oberyn could see the weight of the battle on you, the way your steps faltered slightly as you moved toward the edge of the arena. But before you could collapse, before your body gave in, you found him.

“Oberyn,” you breathed out, a ghost of a smile on your lips, just as your vision blurred, the world spinning out of focus. You reached for him, and he ran toward you, catching you before you fell.

“My beloved,” he whispered, cradling your head in his arms, panic flooding his veins. He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice thick with emotion. “Stay with me. You’ve won. You’ve won.”

But your vision darkened, his face fading into shadows as you whispered, barely audible, “I’m sorry. For all of it. I’m sorry.”

Then everything went black.

Oberyn held you tighter, his heart racing as he carried you away from the pit, the cheers of the crowd fading into a distant roar. Ellaria trailed behind him, her face streaked with silent tears. And as the sun began to set over King’s Landing, Oberyn prayed once more, but this time, it was not for vengeance.

It was for you.

A FEW DAYS LATER...

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — DAY

You inhale slowly, your eyelids fluttering open as a heavy fog of disorientation lingers. The cushion beneath you feels impossibly soft, too luxurious to be real, and the silk sheets that drape over your body are unfamiliar against your skin. For a moment, you wonder if you're still dreaming. Blinking against the blurriness, you take in the room—this isn't your quarters. It’s far too grand, too opulent. The deep burgundy tapestries hang from the walls, trimmed with gold, casting the space in a warm, regal glow.

Your confusion deepens as your gaze drifts around the room, eventually landing on the man seated beside you, his presence both grounding and comforting. Oberyn. His dark eyes are focused entirely on you, a mixture of concern and anger etched into the lines of his face. He’s holding your hand tightly, as if letting go might mean losing you.

When he notices your eyes fluttering open, his grip tightens, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with a kind of desperation that makes your heart clench.

“You scared me,” he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse, strained by emotions he usually keeps in check. The frustration bleeds into his words, but there’s an overwhelming sense of relief as well. His brow is furrowed, and for a second, it seems like he doesn’t know whether to scold you or hold you closer.

He leans in without hesitation, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss that is both gentle and fierce. His hand cups your cheek as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn't hold on. There’s a warmth in the kiss, but you can feel the anger there, too—the worry that he almost lost you, the unspoken terror that gripped him during your absence.

As you pull back from the kiss, your head still spinning, you can’t help but think of Ellaria. The question tumbles from your lips before you can stop it. “Wait… Ellaria…”

Oberyn sighs, his thumb still grazing the back of your hand as if to soothe away your concerns. “No…” he begins softly, his voice gentler now, though the tension in his posture remains. “We—both of us—have things to discuss.”

You shift beneath the covers, the comfort of the sheets doing little to ease the guilt that's settled in your chest. "I didn’t mean to cause problems,” you whisper, your voice small, barely above a murmur.

His eyes soften as he watches you, his grip tightening for a moment before loosening again. “It wasn’t you,” he reassures you, his tone filled with a sincerity that makes your heart ache. “None of this was your fault.”

But still, the weight of it all lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that you've upset the delicate balance between them, between you, and the heavy silence presses down on you. "It kind of feels like it," you admit, your gaze dropping to the silk sheets beneath your fingers as if avoiding his eyes will make it easier.

Oberyn studies you for a moment, his intense gaze never wavering. When he speaks, his voice is soft, coaxing, but there’s a thread of steel underneath, as though he won’t let you hide from this. “What is it? Tell me.”

You hesitate, the words thick and difficult to force out. It feels vulnerable, admitting this to him. But you’ve never been one to shy away from the truth, and Oberyn deserves that, at least. You take a shaky breath. “I don’t like to share,” you confess, your voice barely a whisper as you look up at him, afraid of what you might see in his eyes.

For a moment, there's silence. Then, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but understanding. “Ah,” he says softly, a faint chuckle escaping him, though it holds no malice. His fingers lace through yours more tightly, and he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You don't need to worry about that right now.”

His tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s something deeper in the way he looks at you. Something reassuring. “We’ll figure it out,” he adds, his voice calm, steady, as if this problem is not insurmountable, as if you and he could face anything together.

You can’t help the way your heart warms at his words, at the way he so effortlessly defuses your fears with that simple, quiet confidence of his. You offer him a tentative smile, still feeling a little raw, a little unsure, but his presence, as always, is enough to make the world seem just a little bit easier to face.

For now, in this moment, the tension fades. It’s just the two of you, hands intertwined, the weight of your worries shared between you. And somehow, that’s enough.

Everything seemed to be falling back into place, except for one thing—you couldn’t stay. You had already resigned from your position as a servant to the Lannisters, knowing it was only a matter of time before they dismissed you.

That morning, after bidding farewell to your duties, you left a good sum of gold for Serena, thanking her for all she had done. It wasn’t nearly enough to repay her, but it was all you had. She had been your silent ally, and you owed her your life.

You had recovered well enough, and when the time came, you scribbled a note and left it on Oberyn’s desk. Just a few words, playful but loaded with meaning:

“Do you want to come see the ocean with me?”

The sun was sinking into the horizon, casting the sky in soft shades of gold and lavender as you and Oberyn strolled along the coast. The sea breeze brushed against your skin, cool and salty, but comforting. It tousled your hair, lifting the loose strands in gentle waves. Beside you, Oberyn’s hand was warm, his fingers entwined with yours as he led you along the shore. His voice, rich and smooth like velvet, floated through the air, serenading you with a Dornish love song. His words, though foreign, melted into the air, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace.

You looked up at him, his face glowing in the fading light, his eyes reflecting the endless ocean beside you. In his presence, the world seemed smaller, quieter. The chaotic din of King's Landing, the bloodshed, and the weight of everything that had come before—it all faded into the background. Here, it was just the two of you, walking along the edge of the world.

Oberyn’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer as he leaned down to kiss your temple. “You look peaceful,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin.

You smiled, feeling the warmth of his affection settle deep in your chest. "I feel peaceful. For once," you whispered, your eyes meeting his, drinking in the tenderness you saw there.

As the two of you made your way to a small dock, you found an old crate to sit on, the wood weathered and worn by years of salt and sea. You sat side by side, legs dangling off the edge, sharing a bottle of Dornish red wine. The world around you felt infinite—expansive ocean stretching out before you, stars beginning to shimmer in the twilight sky, the rhythmic lull of the waves breaking against the shore.

The wine was sweet, its taste lingering on your lips as you passed the bottle between you, laughing between sips, sharing stolen kisses in between stories. Oberyn’s hand slid along your back, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. He was so close, and yet, for the first time, you felt the distance growing.

There was a part of you that ached, knowing how this perfect moment would end.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “Oberyn,” you murmured, your voice quiet, barely louder than the waves.

“Hmm?” He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair.

You closed your eyes, inhaling his scent—the mix of sun and leather, and something uniquely him. For a moment, you just listened to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and sure. You wanted to bottle this moment, to keep it forever, but you knew that was impossible.

“I love this,” you whispered. “I love… you.”

Oberyn smiled against your hair, his lips brushing your skin. “And I you.”

You stayed like that for a long time, the two of you wrapped in the silence, the kind that didn’t need words. The sky above grew darker, stars spilling across the night like scattered diamonds. Everything felt right in that instant, perfect even. But you knew better than to believe in perfect endings.

When Oberyn stood to fetch more wine, you watched him walk away, your heart already breaking with every step he took. He looked back, flashing you a teasing grin, unaware of the storm brewing inside you. You held on to that image of him—happy, carefree, the man who had brought light into your world.

You waited until he disappeared into the distance before you moved. You pulled the small seashell from your pocket, the one you'd found on the shore earlier. You placed it carefully beside the note you had written earlier, your hand trembling as you set it on the crate where you had shared so many stolen moments with Oberyn.

Your breath caught in your throat as you re-read the words you had scrawled:

“We’re at the final destination. This is the end. Goodbye.”

The weight of it all settled over you as you stood there for a moment, staring out at the endless sea. Your heart ached in a way you couldn’t describe, torn between love and the inevitability of your decision. You closed your eyes, letting the wind caress your face one last time before you turned and walked away, leaving only the note and seashell behind.

By the time Oberyn returned, laughing with another bottle of wine in hand, you were already gone.

He looked around, the smile slipping from his face as he called your name. Panic crept into his voice as he scanned the dock, eyes landing on the seashell and the note. His hand trembled as he picked it up, his heart hammering in his chest as he read the words.

The bottle of wine slipped from his grasp, shattering on the ground, just like his heart.

ATOP THE CLIFFS — EVENING

The wind howled as you stood at the edge of the cliffs, looking down at the jagged rocks and the sea below. You had built a small fire, watching as the flames consumed the journal you had written in for years—pages full of unsent letters, regrets, and broken dreams. The smoke curled into the twilight sky, taking with it the pieces of you no one had ever seen.

Tears streamed down your face as you whispered into the wind, "I hope that in the end, whether I’m in the world or not, your world will be full of me. I want you to resent every moment of your life so much that you feel it deep in your bones. Let me do that. I’ll be the one who kills me."

The ocean roared beneath you, the cliffs standing as silent witnesses to your final moment. You stepped closer to the edge, the weight of the world lifting as you prepared to let go.

But then—

“Help! Please help! Save him!”

You turned slowly, tears still blurring your vision. Standing at a distance was Ellaria Sand, her face stricken with panic. Her voice trembled as she called out, “If this is the end you were preparing for, then you should already know. What if… Oberyn chooses this end too?”

You stood frozen, silent, tears streaming down your face as Ellaria took a cautious step toward you. Her voice was thick with emotion as she continued, “I met with Serena. She told me about you. She told me everything—about where you came from, how you ended up here.”

Ellaria’s voice cracked as she pleaded with you. “This isn’t the way things should end. When Oberyn told me he wanted to help you get revenge, I gave him my permission. So please… give me your permission to save your life today.”

You could barely breathe, your chest tight with grief and confusion.

Ellaria’s eyes were wet with tears as she took another step forward. “Whether I have to hang on to you or jump with you, I will save you. I need you to help him—help Oberyn escape his hell so that he can choose to live.”

You stared at her, your tears flowing freely now, and your gaze drifted back to the ocean, where the sun had almost dipped below the horizon. Stars began to streak across the sky, as if the gods themselves were watching, waiting for your decision.

End Notes:

Okay OKAY LISTEN LISTEN, I know it doesn’t make sense that Ellaria shows up there. It’s all fantasy. But if we assume that there were tiny bits of divine intervention here and there, she could appear on those cliffs because she wanted to save you.

TAGLIST:

@greenwitchfromthewoods @shessweetsour @christinamadsen

#oberyn martel x reader #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell fanfiction #prince oberyn #oberyn nymeros martell #oberyn martell x you #oberyn martell fic #oberyn martell smut #oberyn martell #oberyn x reader #oberyn x you #got #got rewrite #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic

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givemewallywestorgivemedeath · 2 years ago

Note

Logically I always feel like we're supposed to hate Rudy more but goddamn, Mary has always made my skin crawl. I mean there were a LOT of reasons why I could never get into the YJ cartoon but I specifically remember seeing the way it portrays Wally's parents and something about it just felt icky and wrong

Rudy on some level is just so cartoony of a villain.

Like, the fanon version of Rudy is this bumbling angry alcoholic who hits his son because he needs someone smaller than him to take out his aggression on and that version of Rudy is very real. I think that's why fanon tends to view him that way. Because it's a more realistic characterization and it's easier for them to understand and portray.

But the truth of the matter is that Rudy is cold, calm and calculating. He's smart. And he doesn't care. Not about Wally and definitely not about Mary. Rudy doesn't see them as a family, he sees them as a long con. A get rich scheme in the making. Wally is supposed to be powerful so Rudy tries to 'shape' him. The abuse isn't out of anger, it's Rudy's misguided attempts to make him stronger.

Rudy also tries to bond with Wally. He knows he needs a good relationship with Wally to keep Wally in line when he gets older. That's why you see things like Rudy poisoning the little league coach to let Wally play and letting the air out of the other team's tires so Wally's team wins.

He was really fucking bad at it but he was attempting to make Wally an ultimate weapon that only listened to him. What he did instead was push his son away and teach him what not to do.

But that kind of calculated, off-the-wall mentality is so foreign. It's bad and we can recognize it but it's like something out of Criminal Minds. It's hard to see any part of that in our daily lives.

But Mary? Mary is something else. Mary is little comments about Wally's outfits. Mary is guilt tripping her son into spending time with her. Mary is being confidently incorrect about her son's wants and needs. Mary is discouraging comments when you just need a hug. Mary is so real it hurts.

So yeah, I can absolutely agree with you. Rudy is on another fucking level and he objectively does worse things (like murder and child labor camps and cult stuff). But Mary is so real in her abuse. She genuinely horrifies me.

Also, yeah I can agree about the YJ thing. Rudy and Mary being terrible has been a central part of Wally's story since the beginning. (and before people say "but Walls, the Wests were so kind in their first appearance!" they were literally only in a few panels and Rudy didn't even have a name yet. Also it was a Titans comic and not the Flash comic, ofc the characterization would be off) It's definitely a disservice to the character to write the West's as good/normal parents in any capacity. Especially because the excuse was that all the other members of the team had bad home lives/childhoods so they wanted Wally to be 'normal'. Bruh. Hate to break it to you but the kids in suburbia with the white picket fences can also suffer abuse behind closed doors. It's unfortunately a very common and 'normal' thing.

#yeah im not a fan of how YJ handled that at all #especially given how fucking insane Rudy is in the comics #thats like writing Lex Luthor as just an average business guy who has normal emotions about Superman #its like ??? what???#dc #dc comics #the flash #kid flash #wally west #rudy west #mary west

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shadeysprings · 2 years ago

Text

Wilting Blossom

—Jorah Mormont x F!Reader

Summary: Trapped in the dungeons, the Lord Commander comes to make a bargain.

Warnings: noncon/dubcon, age gap, size kink, vaginal fingering, coercion & entrapment. There may be more but thread carefully as this is a dark fic.

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty's Week Four Challenge: Across the Universe. I started this event with Jorah and I feel it was only right to end it with him. GOT is one of the universes I love to dabble in and Jorah, if you know me, is the one that holds my heart.

Your feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated. Support content creators! And of course, I hope you guys enjoy! ❤️

With your hand outstretched, you try to catch the rays of the sun as it trickles through the small window of your cell. You bask in what little warmth it offers, the heat kissing your skin and slowly staving off the cold emitted by the stone walls that surround you.

But just as quickly, you pull your hand back and push yourself against the wall, hugging your knees to your chest and shrouding yourself once more in the darkness when you hear the dungeon doors open. Heavy footsteps echo through the narrow hall, guards shouting and banging against the bars that confine you and your fellow prisoners, who in turn, retaliate by shouting curses in their wake.

The tension in the air then thickens when you sense the band stop by your cell, their presence imposing and looming.

“Unlock it.”

You stiffen and huddle closer to the wall when you catch the familiar timbre of Lord Commander Mormont amidst the low rabble of the dungeon. The sound of keys jingling and the lock going undone, your chest constricting in fear as the hinges of what keeps you separated from them creak as it swings open.

He’s the reason you were thrown into this purgatory. His profession of mercy when he stands beside the Targaryen Queen proves false when he gave no chance to hear your apologies. Though, deep down, you know you’re just as much to blame as he is.

“Wait outside.” He instructs one of his men. “We are not to be disturbed. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Lord Commander.” Another familiar voice responds, Ser Jaime Lannister’s, but you hear nothing more than retreating steps and the pounding of your heart as you’re left alone with the leader of the queensguard.

His footfalls are slow and measured, akin to a predator circling its prey. You hide your face from him, not wanting to see the demon clothed in fine gold.

“Don’t hide from me.” A command and you contemplate doing as you’re bid but he makes his impatience known when he nudges you with his boot. You swallow thickly as you tilt your chin up, taking in his tall stature as he towers over you, his golden armor glinting against the light of the sun and his sapphire eyes burning with devious desire as he stares down at you.

A silent gasp then leaves your lips when he crouches at your level, “How was your stay here, thief?” He asks, a smirk forming on his lips and you divert your eyes away. “Cold isn’t it? You’d rather be out in the sun?” His tone makes your blood start boiling, anger burning in your chest as he taunts you with freedom.

But your chest quickens when he reaches behind him, your arms instinctively shielding yourself as you expect him to pull out a dagger and give you your sentence right there on the muddy floors of the cell. Yet, the blow doesn’t come, instead, you hear him chuckling, mirth present in his voice and you peek through your arms to see him holding out a loaf than a weapon.

“Take it,” he urges. “I know you’re hungry.” You stare at the offered food, stomach growling at the sight. “This will taste better than the slop they feed you lot down here.” His voice is calm yet calculating all the same, but all at once soothing, if you’re to be honest with yourself.

Hesitation fills you, eyes shifting from the loaf and then at him. For you know there are more creative ways to kill a peasant than to throw them under the blade.

“It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re thinking.” The Lord Commander chuckles and rips a piece of the bread before tossing it in his mouth.

As soon as he finishes, parting his lips to expose the empty cavern, you snatch the fare from his grasp and bite into it with greed, the spongy texture tickling your mouth and settling your hunger, humming a moan at the taste.

Ser Jorah laughs once more, his eyes light with amusement as he watches you feast. “There’s more where that came from,” He coos, and you watch him closely when he shifts to near you, keeping the bread to your lips in fear of him taking it away. “Maybe some meat and cheese, lemon cakes too, if you wish. Wouldn’t you want that?” You feel your mouth water as he lists down the items, your stomach rumbling once more.

“I can give you so much more, petal,” He continues, your body going rigid as dread crawls up your spine when his gloved hand reaches over to caress your arm, the blue pools in his turning darker and you hear his breathing grow heavier. “A warm bed, a full belly, a better life.” The knight breathes, “And you need only give me what I want in return.”

“And what is that?” Your voice comes out in an instant, startling both of you, the Lord Commander’s grin widening at your question.

“You.”

Your brow furrows and the anger from before returns in a burst of flames, throwing the half-eaten loaf at his face and quickly pushing yourself from the ground and making your way out of your cell.

But such an attempt of escape is fruitless; Ser Jorah easily recovers from your pitiful attack and grabs you by the ankle, making you fall to the ground and cry in pain and soon in fear when he crawls over you, gasping when the length of his arm pins your shoulders to the muddy ground.

“Ah, ah,” He tuts and laughs as you struggle against his hold, nails scraping on the cobblestone floor as you try to get away from him, but you choke when his arm slips to the back of your neck, weeping uncontrollably and begging for his mercy upon feeling his other hand slip underneath your skirt. “Disobedient girls don’t get that privilege,” Hot breath fans over your cheek when he leans closer, crushing you with the weight of his armor. “They are left to rot in cells while men come and go as they please, to rape them, torture them even.”

“Ser—” You cry, “Please—”

“And I would hate to see a pretty flower like you be ruined, watching your petals wilt away.” Your lips tremble when he presses his nose against your hair, disgust blooming at the pit of your stomach when he rolls his hips, feeling the erection in his breeches press against your ass. “But I am a forgiving and generous man, and I can save you from such fate.” He slowly eases off of you and you groan when he flips you to your back, only to pin you down once more with his arm over your chest.

You lock eyes with him, your mind swimming in the words of the Lord Commander, drowning in them for you know them to be true. How whispers fly across the city of women taken into captivity, treated like whores, and leaving with either a babe in their belly or hanging at the center of King’s Landing.

But should that alone be the drive for you to take his offer? A life of servitude to the knight? A bed warmer? You regale in the thought and realize it makes no difference if one man or several take you against your will because all the same, you’re nothing but a thing to be used, an object to the eyes of the nobles and ones of power, keeping you bound to whichever hell they see fit.

You’ve heard stories of the Lord Commander, the once Lord of the northernmost island, knighted by King Robert himself at the Siege of Pyke. How he was exiled to the neighboring country for his misdeeds yet found back his honor at the side of the Dragon Queen.

They said he was a just, merciful, and honorable man, but what you see before you are anything but, for there is no mercy dripping from his tongue nor honor looming in his eyes, only hunger for the flesh—your flesh—and greed for control over the ones who have none.

Still, you are nothing compared to him; a peasant of the city—no power or riches to bargain for your freedom.

“So, what will it be, thief?” He asks, looking up into his sapphires with fear as you decide and give your answer.

That was but a year ago, the dregs of the dungeon are now washed away by the cool waters you’re allowed to indulge in the vast chamber. Your rags, replaced with sheer silk dresses—luxurious as they seem, they give you no sense of decency as they expose everything underneath. But food is no longer scarce, one you treat as a blessing yet such gifts are nothing but a tether to your new prison.

You sit by the plush chaise, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks that hold the fortress of the Red Keep filling your ears while you watch the strong winds blow against the sails of the ships that come in and out of the capitol. You can’t help but long to set foot on the sandy beaches once more, to bask in the freedom you once knew before being found by the Lord Commander himself stalking in the royal kitchen.

You may have simply been surviving in the past—fleeting through the narrow walk of Flea Bottom and rummaging through the wastes of the highborn for something to eat—but, at the least, you were free.

The door of the chamber swings open and you immediately stand from your perch, folding your hands at your front as you watch Ser Jorah walk in, his golden armor glowing in the afternoon light and you swallow thickly when he flicks the lock within.

His eyes meet yours and your spine tingles in fear when you see the hunger within them. He unties the belt holding his sword from his waist and hangs it by the hook at the side of the door before slowly walking over to the chaise, measured hand pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the plush surface.

“Wine.” He says after dropping himself on the settee and you quickly reach for the jug on the table in front, kneeling as you pour a generous amount into the goblet.

With careful hands you hold it out to him, giving you a smile before taking the cup from your grasp and holding out his hand to you in return. You take it and follow his lead, standing between his parted legs before settling yourself on his thick thigh when he nudges you to sit.

He then lifts the cup to his lips, taking long and heavy gulps with some of the red liquid spilling from the sides and clinging to his golden beard. As soon as he finishes, he leans forward to set the goblet on the low table before focusing his attention on you, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist while his other hand rests on your knee, kneading it before caressing the expanse of your thigh.

“How are you while I was away, little flower?” He asks, “I hope you weren’t too lonely.”

“The view of the sea kept me entertained, Ser.” You murmur, squeaking in surprise when he pulls you flush against him.

“I bring you good news then.” He drones, shifting you on his lap and you grab his arm when he presses your back against his plated chest, hooking your knees over his and spreading your legs wide when he parts his. “I sail for Dorne in a fortnight and I’m taking you with me.” His voice is low, whispering against your ear and your chest tightens when he bunches the skirt of your dress over your waist, shivering, skin tingling when his hand skims over your inner thigh.

“A m-most generous o-offer, Ser—” You mumble, your other hand gripping his wrist as you try to push him away, gasping as an aching need bloom at the pit of your abdomen when he finds purchase of your cunt and rolls a finger against your sacred bud. “But p-people will s-see—the queen—” The words die on your lips when he quickens the movement of his hand, your lips parting, mouth hanging open as you try to catch your breath.

“I care not of whispers,” He growls against the crown of your head, and you gasp sharply when he slips two fingers past the folds of your weeping blossom. “Everyone should know who it is you belong to.”

He clutches your waist tight, keeping you pressed to him as he fucks you desperately with his hand, the walls of your cunt stretching wide at the thickness of his fingers and the soreness from the night before burning within once more along with the fire of your unwanted desire.

Words of pleas for him to stop linger at your lips but never leave, your legs shaking as your arousal spikes, your cunt slickening further, allowing him to thrust deeper to his knuckles. His arm on your waist moves, but only to frame his fingers around your neck, turning your head for you to face him and capture your lips to pull you into a heated kiss.

He swallows your moans, devouring every sound you make and your stomach quakes, making you pull away from his lips when you let out a silent scream as pleasure crashes over you, your eyes blowing wide and gasping heavily when you shudder at your release, coating his fingers with your essence.

Deep chuckles emit from him and you tremble when he slips his digits from your cunt, your walls clenching on nothing and your mind protesting against the longing of your body. You pant heavily against his chest, daring to peek up at him when you hear him produce such lewd sounds and watch him slip his fingers into his lips, licking them clean.

“Such a sweet nectar from the sweetest flower.” He drones and you whimper when he gives your lips one last kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue before staggering forward when he pushes you off of him, holding onto the small table to keep yourself from falling to the ground

You hear him shuffle behind you, sounds of clasps being undone, and you startle when he grabs your arm, pulling you to stand before nudging you towards the bedchamber.

“On the bed, petal.” He instructs, “I’ve given you pleasure, and it’s your turn to return the favor.”

I no longer keep a tag list but if you want to be kept updated on my fics, follow my side blog @springdandelixn-archives and turn on notifications.

Also, I just want to thank @darkficsyouneveraskedfor and @navybrat817 for hosting this event. It was truly such a joy to write with the themes you've set and I've met such amazing and talented people along the way.

#jorah mormont #ser jorah mormont #jorah mormont x reader #navy and roo's sleepover #dark jorah mormont #dark!jorah mormont #dark fic #wilting blossom #iain glen characters #iain glen imagine #jorah mormont au #game of thrones au #shadeysprings fics

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beuhakkaka · 1 year ago

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🌊A Sirens Song 🌊(Pt 9]

( Minor blood TW!)

"H-how-?!" Annora yelled thoughtlessly, her words tumbling from her mouth like her tight breathes.

The siren hummed playfully, eyeing the ground as be traced his clawed fingertip through the dirt, cutting into earth like it was water.

"Well, I swam here from where I normally sleep...does that awnser your question?" He looked up at her, smirking with a look of mischief in his eyes.

Annora pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, a bead of sweat trickling down her skin.

She had calculated the poison to his body exactly. Where had her caulcations gone wrong? She ran over the math in her mind as she slipped farther back into the forest, slowly pushing herself behind the shrubbery of nature. She needed to get out of there quick, before he figured out she wasnt wearing ear plugs.

"Hey! Now where do you think you're going-? I'm hungry!" He called out to her, whining much like a child would.

"That stupid map of yours is at fault you know, so now you're the one that has to deal with it." The siren bare his teeth as he spat out his last words, a rare moment of emotion beyond his constant mockery.

Annoras eyes snapped back to his, shrinking further at the intense glare she was met with.

"I-"

Wait.

Wouldnt this work too?

Annoras eyes widened.

The death wouldnt be as short and painless as she would have preferred, but what did it matter?

Starving a monster wasnt nearly as deplorable as wrecking countless boats and stealing numerous lives.

"....no, I don't think I will."

Annora responded quietly, standing shakily from the ground.

"What?" The siren hissed, something deadly flickering in his eyes.

Annora met his gaze with steel, nerves frayed, but determination keeping them together.

"You tried to kill me again. Why would anyone in their right mind help keep a monster like you alive-?!" She shouted more aggressively than she had intended, however she didnt back down even then, her own lips pulled into an angry snarl.

She wiped at her bloody nose with her hand, flicking her wrist to shake the blood droplets away.

"I think starving would be an apt end. As your hunger is what got you in this predicament." She stated with finality, her emerald eyes glowering in the moonlight.

The sirens eyes widened, a moment of shock passing over his features. But slowly, that suprise melted into something dark, and cold.

Was it rage?

No.

Annora shivered.

It was something far more dangerous.

"I shouldn't be suprised...you humans...all the same..." he hissed, his turquoise pupils boring into her very soul. He looked down, hand turning into a fist.

"...oh well. I guess I'll have to start hunting on shore then."

He remarked with a smile and half hearted laugh, the danger in his eyes increasing in magnitude.

"What?" Annora breathed, confusion blooming over her own features.

"Oh, what is it? Haven't you figured it out yet, that I've been holding back?" He spoke with faux innocence, his smile growing.

"Why do you think children are never kidnapped off the beachside? Or homes aren't ripped away from their placement on the ground?"

He laughed louder, a cruel, twisted laughter that made Annora squirm. "You thought you were so smart...but all you've done is managed to push me to the brink...now all your human company is going to pay."

Annora breathes hastened.

"No...no-! No you cant do that-!" Panic replaced any bravery she had before, horror filling her heart.

"Oh yes I can, and no puny human weapon...or girl, can stop me." He drawled with a snicker, pulling back.

His nails pulled through the dirt as he shifted backwards, readying himself to dive into the blues depths.

"I'm looking forward to it...a true buffet of human. I hope you dont all smell as bad as pirates~" he laughed playfully, the innocent amusement ill fitting with his words.

"Wait-!" Annora screamed, stepping forward.

"Oh? What is it? Are you going to offer yourself to me as some sacrifice? The deed has already been done little human, not even your tasty blood can fix that."

"I- I know but-" she stammered, heart pounding like a drum within her ribcage.

"You- you can't live sustainably that way either-" Annora grasped desperately at her thoughts, praying she could find something to convince him.

"Oh? I would beg to differ. I've seen how many people live in Mondstat, by the time I've fed on this town, I'll already be fat and happy...than all the others alongside the coast.." he licked his lips, as though imagining what the variety of human would taste like.

"B-but the humans won't just take it."

Annora retorted, her eyebrows furrowed.

He looked up at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Hm?" He hummed in curiosity.

"I'm sure you already knew that though- that's why you havent attacked the main land right?"

Annora grasped her dress nervously, speaking as evenly as possible.

"When word spreads, as it always does, everyone will move in land, avoiding the problem all together- humans can live without the ocean."

Annora breathed.

"Youll have the fish of the sea of course but, is that...really what you want?"

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Venti could give her one thing.

She was tenacious.

However all that tenacity was wasted on someone as idotic and short sighted as her.

Humans would always venture on the seas again. As stupid as they were, he had no doubts in that.

No matter how many perils lurked within her depths, adventurers would always seek to conquer the waters.

However...he didnt care much for adventurers.

The blood of sailor was what he sought, and he wasnt one to change his diet on a whim.

Of course, when an utterly scrumptious meal like this tiny human presented themselves, he couldnt help but want a bite...

But shopping on the shores? He would prefer not to. Too much of a hassle.

She didn't know that though. That was obvious enough by the way she trembled.

She really thought she may have just devastated all of humanity, how laughable.

Like anyone as inconsequential as her could do something grand like that.

"Hm...I guess you're correct~" Venti drawled his words with a hum, tilting his head to the side in mock curiosity.

"Then, what are you proposing as a solution, little human?"

He questioned with a smile, tapping his fingers along the dirt.

Venti watched with apt glee as those tiny, terrifed little eyes darted two and fro, begging her mind to come up with an awnser.

Watching his prey squirm was almost as exhilarating as tasting it...

On that note, the scent of her blood was driving him mad. Had she intentionally smacked her nose to the ground, just so he would stay near?

"I-I'll bring you food. Just as we agreed to before...and you...well, you know your part of the deal." The human responded weakly, her head lowering.

Ventis smirk broadened.

There, that was what he liked to see, utter and complete submission, no hint of that pesky attitude she carried with her.

He had her now. He doubted she would even try to poison his food again, not after it had failed so dramatically last time...

Though, to ensure he wouldn't get a tummy ache, he decided he should just rip off the bandaid.

"Fine...I'll agree once again...oh, that is if you dont poison my food again. It made me quite drowsy last time~" he giggled, enjoying every second as that horror dawned upon her features again.

Venti didnt give her the chance to ask him how, steam rolling right past her questions.

"How? You should know by now how fantastic my sense of smell is~ nothing gets past this," he tapped his nose, grinning.

The human gulped, grasping weakly at her little dress.

"I-I see..."

Venti let out a happy sigh, visibly satisfied as he spoke.

"Now, run along, I'm utterly famished." He waved his hand, gesturing for her to leave.

The human didnt repsond, only nodding half heartedly before dashing away; leaving Venti to stare at her absence.

He sighed dramatically, leaning his cheek against the cliffside with a pout.

"...A shame she wears those ear plugs...it could be so much easier..."

A soft giggle slipped his lips, eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Ah, well, this is quite fun though~"

-------------------------------------------------------

HELLO BABES GUESS WHATS BACK??? I've finally gotten the creative juices going again lol, hopefully more siren au stuff will be coming out soon! 💕

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tinkerbelldetective · 10 months ago

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It is not their first words, or the place you meet, or the first place you touch. It is the first time you argue. There is no feeling like seeing the words on your wrist slowly turn from being a touch darker than your skin to a brilliant gold, but as an attorney, it certainly is awkward to watch it happen in the middle of a suppression hearing, or immediately afterwards.

Michael Cutter is startlingly dismissive of the detectives who searched your client's house without a warrant, of the beat cops who stopped her without reason. The evidence Michael Cutter is so vehemently supporting is nothing less than the fruit of the poisonous tree. He has nothing without it, and he knows it.

"Mr. Cutter, we both know the evidence is inadmissible. You're an intelligent man. Turn your energy to reminding the officers who bring you evidence that they are bound by law just as we are."

His blue eyes-cold, calculating, intelligent - flash over to you. It occurs to you he probably has, but was determined to fight for what they acquired, as it is his job.

"The NYPD not only serves me, but you as well, counselor. We would not be here if Elisabeth Williams had not harbored evidence from the police."

Your client was a victim of domestic abuse. A survivor who was finally trying to get out. A woman who had been intimidated into hiding a weapon and photographs.

"My client is just another victim, your honor. Her rights have been violated enough. The knife was only found because Officer Braco stopped her for loitering 3 feet away from her own property and found out that the person who was recently taken off the lease had an active warrant on file."

"Mr. Cutter, the knife is out."

"The photographs?"

"Also out, pending further investigation, any charges regarding Ms. Williams and the objects found in her home are hereby dismissed."

"Thank you, your honor," you nodded, slipping the case files back into your brief case.

"We'll call her as a witness," he asserts, following you into the elevator.

You scoff, "Haven't you considered that putting your suspect's former partner on the stand may hurt your case? Or, hurt her?" A sigh leaves your lips as you switch your bag over to your other hand. "Ben Stone made cases without murder weapons. Surely, you can manage."

Cutter tensed, hand tightening around his own briefcase. A glance at his wrist revealed "Surely you can manage." turning to a faint rose gold script.

Of course. Of course, it would happen here.

His eyes flick over to you once more, noticing the way you tug at your lip with your teeth as you think.

Did his words already rescript in gold over your skin?

Your wrist feels cooler than it had 20 minutes ago, when Cutter had turned to you and wondered why you finally answered the call from Legal Aid.

"Charity wins out in the end, I suppose."

You had wished those words were said near the end of the argument, a laying down of arms, with fond teasing and acceptance. Yet, Cutter's words had burned in more ways than just the changing color of the sentence on your wrist.

Now, in the elevator, you finally catch the smallest glimpse of gold peaking out under the gray of his suit jacket.

Your words tumble out before you can stop them, "Photographs still need film to be developed."

And you both know. There's no way he doesn't feel the pull, the snapping of the thread of hostility, like breathing in new air.

His smirk is disorienting, somewhat unsettling, and it beckons you to match.

#michael cutter x reader #law and order #michael cutter #td michael cutter #my law and order imagines

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drowning-in-cacophony · 2 months ago

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turn

written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 272: change in tone

[Summary: a picnic drastically changes tone]

The flapping of the picnic blanket in the corner of her eye reminds her of the starkness. Minutes ago, her lips had been coated with the sweet syrup of ripened strawberries, ears ringing with delighted laughter. Now her ears are still ringing, but her mouth just tastes like metal.

The cups had been plastic-made, but the way his façade had shattered had been all glass. As his shadow spills over the now battered grass, boastful green blades now churned to stained soil, she can’t help but think about the glints in his eye as he’d leant over to snag a cucumber sandwich, the joke to make the kids laugh. Pleasant, affable: a joy to be seated near. She’d watched him with a smile on her skin, and now she’s only got shivers.

He surveys his ruin, a calculating look that pauses when it finds her, breathing too fast. Knees pressed into the ground, what’s left of the grass pressing a lattice to her flesh. It stings, but not so much as her side, throbbing with the poison of his turn. His eyes regard her for a second, letting her catch her breath. It’s worse that way: he’d looked at her like that before, warmth flickering embers in his eyes, an interest she’d considered over a taste of the berries. His fingertips burn red, not with juice.

She waits for him to make his move. Maybe she should try staggering to her feet, take another shot at him: it hadn’t worked before though, when the peaceful afternoon had disintegrated into ashes. Around her, a few pitiful groans punctuate the air. She’s not the only one still awake, and no one else is trying for a shot either.

They all seem to think what she’s wondering, that it’s pointless.

“I thought,” he says, words so mild she’d almost doubt they come from his lips if she wasn’t watching them move, “that I would find more competition here. Aren’t you all meant to be the best and brightest?”

Groans stifle. She sucks in a deep breath, her heart jackhammering. Concrete broken to chunks, like the bones in one person’s arm when he’d grabbed it and twisted. Her muscles twitch, shake. She’s the only one looking, she thinks, though she can’t seem to bring herself to look away from him.

His face, obviously, looks the exact same. She feels like that should be impossible. Shouldn’t there be a crack in him, to represent the way his mask had just broken in a snap? Shouldn’t there be a mar, a flaw, a warning?

“What a disappointment.” He doesn’t say it like he feels it true. Just an observation, the same tone he’d used to remark upon the few scrappy white clouds that’d gathered on the horizon while the drinks had been pulled from the chiller. Dew drops cold under palms, cracking lids a foreshadowing for the spine that’ll never be the same again. Somehow, it angers her worse than if he’d mocked them with imperious tones. The same genial breeze off his tongue; shouldn’t that be forbidden from him?

“Last chance for anyone to impress me?” He gazes around. Despite his challenge, he looks like he’s got his mind made up already. All of them, their scattered frames, their fractured forms. Destroyed in a handful of minutes, an hours-long built sandcastle swept to a singular tide. His foot shifts, crunches an abandoned plastic fork underneath his sole. Her fingers curl about the matching shatter of a knife, a poor imitation of a weapon. Tossed shrapnel among beaten up ground, a mirror’s fragment.

The pounding vessel in her chest shakes with fear.

His eyes flick towards the other side of their picnic area, and she makes her move.

Pointless or not: she can’t stop herself. She's never been able to resist a challenge.

#flash fiction friday #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #anna's writing #word count: 637

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ofethos · 4 months ago

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‘ florence pugh, cisfemale, she/her, 27 / 270 , high fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems caelia caadlawon has finally made it to the capital, the lady from dawn court is said to be genuine and is said to describe themselves with disarming smiles with wholehearted laughter, muddied breaches wet from the first light’s dew, the piercing call of a white bellbird, observant green eyes that slowly rove a room, sea breeze trapped within a morning mist and with all of this in mind their impetuous nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time. ; written by taylor

[ about ] ☓ [ ofcourtfables ] ☓ [ interactions ]

&. BASICS

full name: caelia reve caadlawon

nickname (s): lia, celie

name meaning: caelia - heavenly, blind; reve - dream

age / D.O.B.: 270 / december 3

gender, pronouns, sexuality: cisfemale, she/her, pansexual

species: high fae

allegiance: the dawn court

theme song: siren 042 by lala lala & why

current location: the dusk court, prythian

&. MORE BASIC INFO

occupation: lady of the dawn court, youngest sibling to the high lord

abilities: dream manipulation (primary), healing (minor)

relationship status: betrothed

children: n/a

speaking voice: low and raspy with a melodic lilt

spoken languages: common tongue, holy tongue

&. PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

hair color and style: brownish-auburn, often worn loose with a smattering of braids throughout

eye color: green

height: 5’4”

distinguishing characteristics: a small scar below her jaw from a mishap with a fallen tree and a rock

signature scent: lavender, citron, smokey birch, and vanilla

&. HEALTH

physical disorder(s): she was sickly as a child with breathing issues caused by an inappropriately developed, "floppy" trachea (tracheomalacia). this manifests in her day-to-day life as asthma

sleeping habits: insomniac, although it's predominantly self-inflicted after years of dream exploration

&. PERSONALITY

label(s): hidden depths

four + traits: genuine, humorous, creative, loyal, competitive

four - traits: impetuous, sarcastic, pragmatic, morbid, elusive

astrology: sagittarius

moral alignment: chaotic neutral

goals and ambitions: to travel and see as much as she can, to perfect her ability of dream manipulation — to experience life

likes: exploring on horseback, reading histories, painting

fears: becoming like her father, cold and overly pragmatic

secret talent: a childhood spent with copious stretches of time alone and an incessant urge to remain in control mean that caelia has had the time to hone her skill with a weapon. she no longer fears the dark and the shadows that may lurk within, for she is lethal in and of herself

&. FAMILY

parents: high lord and lady of dawn

significant other: betrothed to vatavios

sibling(s): high lord julian, second eldest sibling, lady seraphina

children: none

extended family: lord rhys elarie, elara luthian

pet(s): an enchanted friesian mare named freja

&. BACKGROUND

she’s small, too small by the midwife's determinations, and breathing proves difficult for the young fae. she doesn’t speak for several turns about the sun, though as the youngest of four, who looks to her for wisdom? instead, she lives in their minds, nestles about the abstract coils of the images that occupy their minds as they rest. when she awakes day after day, exhausted without any signs of distress overnight, no one gives it a second thought. she's gifted a stunning ebony filly on her fourth nameday, its name a menagerie of letters she scrawls lazily across a piece of parchment — fyoni. and, when she does speak, well, her handmaids would argue that she was better off silent. how cunning a child, so calculated for one that hasn't yet reached their fifth summer. the archival tomes her father recited each night as if they were fairytales must have tainted her, poisoning her mind with cynicism, and sarcasm oozes from her tongue as if it were honey. fyoni becomes freja, and the two are inseparable. her tutors fawn about her, she understands the histories and asks questions that would impress the best of historians except… when her eyes glaze over there’s something there… a spark. unlike her sister, she’s sharper, harsher. healing is a pastime for her true interests. the mind is a vast canvas, alive with a dreamscape unique to its beholder. nothing is beyond the reach of the creative mind, uninhibited in sleep so that any reality is possible.

the further she presses, wandering the minds of the small folk whose homes she passes on her early morning rides, the more blurred the lines between waking and sleeping become. they doubt her, as if consciousness is too lofty a concept for the girl whose ancestors could spurn death. her “dizzy spells”, they call them, are dangerous. how can she be expected to continue riding the glorious friesian mare when her attention is so deeply enraptured by fables of the unconscious mind? the dissent is led by one of the higher tutors, their gaze wary of the youngest caadlawon ever since she was a babe. that evening they dream of a lava flow and awake screaming. a step too close to the edge, a curious mind wandered too far, and cries for the maestro. there are no marks to prove it, and the batting of thick lashes is all it takes for the high lord to wave the incident off as ill humors, the suspicious mind a curious bedfellow and she's once again left to her dalliances albeit perhaps from a wider berth.

she’s not malevolent, not intentionally, she simply doesn’t appreciate being undermined. the greatest spurn of all comes in the form of a betrothal, a promise to one day send her away in exchange for a tenuous alliance or an advantage in the capital, at best. some whisper that the high lord should avoid slumber, anticipating an outburst from his tempest of a daughter, but it never comes. in truth, the prospect excites her. let him use her face and abilities as a weapon, a tool for his own rise, and she will do the same. her late mother's whispers echo in her ear, my dreaming girl, the holy tongue as familiar to her as the common, and it is without hesitation that she heeds the call. she dreams of more.

her court, for all its beauty, is only a small corner of the world. there’s so much more to see, to feel, if the dreams of the small folk can be trusted — a sky that gleams with warm oranges rather than rose-tinted blue. inexplicable to those who don’t truly understand her, she leans into her father’s wishes and agrees to go without complaint when the time comes. her worth isn’t in a marriage, after all, but rather in what she can bring to it. a ferocity that channels the sun’s violent ascent through the darkness, sending its rays across the horizons and conquering all it touches. the dawn is as still as it is kinetic, resolute as it is limitless. and, when her brother finally finds a suitable match, she keeps her promise to the late high lord and proceeds without hesitation. history will never paint her as a grand ruler like her brother, who hasn’t known the injustice of being shuttled off like chattel, or her sister who embraces the night as if it were her own. she will be the dreamer, the sea snake that glistens from a distance yet strikes those who draw too close. gods save the one who seeks to tame her.

&. HEAD CANONS

caelia experiences dreams as another might experience emotions. they are outpourings of the heart's greatest desires, the vulnerable corners of a person's psyche. as such, she is selective with how far she strays. the dreams of those closest to her remain safe, as she makes a conscious effort to block them out of respect

she’s honest, at times painfully so, and quick to unleash her tongue – expect nicknames and genuine advice

as restless as her feet may be, she's fiercely loyal to her family and the dawn court; she looks fondly on her time spent at home and often longs for mornings by the riverside

a lady should always be prepared, and thus, caelia keeps a blade concealed within her boot

the dreams of ship captains are her favorite, the vast seas and distant destinations satisfy her urge to explore the uncharted

&. BOLD WHICH HABITS YOUR MUSE HAS

#ofcourtfables:intro #iii. * 𝐲𝐨𝐮 told me i was like the 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓭 sea; – musings

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alwayswasagoodthief · 1 year ago

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Abigail Marston - Getting down to the RP basics!

The Basics:

Main Blog: Bio:

General Information:

Name: Abigail Roberts Marston

Gender/Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

Age: 22

Date of Birth: (this rp takes place in 1899) May 11,1877 Zodiac: Taurus MBTI: ISFJ Enneagram: 6w1

Language: English, French

Alignment: Neutral Good

Occupation: Former sex worker, outlaw, later rancher

Religion: lightly protestant

Affiliations: Van der Linde Gang

Physical Appearance

General Appearance: Raven hair often worn up, about mid back length, blue eyes, fair skinned with hints of pink. Face Claim :Lauren Cohan despite her hair color.

Distinguishing features: Freckles and a few sunspots

Height: 5’7 / 1.7 Body Type: Average, on the thin side

Personality

Personality: At her core, Abigail is a compassionate, steadfast woman who is willing to do absolutely anything and everything to protect those she loves. She does not have a formal education, but she is intelligent, cunning, insightful, and a diligent worker. She used to be something of a romantic and a dreamer. Part of this aspect is still present, but her pessimism and exhaustion have taken precedence. She is very motherly overall. She doesn’t plan on mothering people, but she finds that the people she meets need that sort of nurturing. However, she is frustrated with her lot in life. She wants nothing more but to settle down, be properly married, work a ranch, and enjoy her family. Abigail can be cold and calculating and ruthless, even to those she loves. She is also very assertive, stubborn, and emotional at times.

Likes: Chili, warm blankets, mystery novels read to her, good wine, playing the piano, chocolate, the color blue, a cozy fire, deer

Dislikes: Snakes, liars, opossums, filth, unabashed cruelty, etc.

Habits: Bad posture such as leaning over too far, crossing her legs, scrunching her nose, humming, putting her hands on her hips, singing, tends to go into quiet coughing fits, especially in RDR 1.

Family: Mother- Adelle deceased. Father - Henry - Deceased

Sexuality: Bisexual (Not counting past clients)

Relationship Status: Estranged

Romanceable?: Tentatively, yes.

Miscellaneous Information

Skills: Lying, manipulation, stealing, seducing, killing, gambling, foraging, light tracking, sewing, some hunting skills, infiltration, explosives, acting, decent at reading people

Living situation: Transitory (later Strawberry and Blackwater)

Special belongings: Most of her and Jack’s belongings were left behind in Blackwater. Photographs, baby clothes, Jack’s books and toys, nearly everything. She has a few clothes, but not much else

Level of education: No formal education, but has street smarts and a sense for business due to her days as a working girl.

Weapons: Knives, poison, gun proficiency - has a Schofield revolver gifted to her by Uncle, a knife John made for her as a gift, a carbine repeater - used to borrow John’s - he bought her one so she’d quit taking his, cunning

Horse

Breed: Tennessee Walker

Coat: Dark Bay, nearly Black.

Name: Arabica

#rdr 2 #abigail roberts #rdr 1 #abigail marston #red dead redemption 2 #van der linde gang #red dead redemption 1 #john marston #jack marston #arthur morgan #hosea matthews

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theetherealbloom · 3 months ago

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AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 2 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Two: Let The Dance With The Devil Begin

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Omfg. I took so long to write this I know T^T Thank you for being patient with me! I just decided to have a mini break bcs I was jet lagged from travelling and had to focus on my health for a little bit.

Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

RED KEEP, WESTEROS - 300 AC

You spent two decades carefully avoiding forming deep bonds, all the while meticulously plotting your revenge. You studied their weaknesses, habits, and relationships, patiently biding your time until you could strike from close range.

You had noticed the lingering glances between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, their whispered conversations turning into passionate encounters. So when Cersei bore a child, rumored to be the result of her incestuous relationship, and as you witnessed Joffrey Baratheon growing into a likeness of his parents, you recorded every detail in your leather-bound notebook. It contained all the information about those responsible for the death of Elia Martell, ensuring no detail escaped your scrutiny.

Serena, a girl you befriended in the bustling stables, is a steadfast ally in your quest for vengeance. Together, you both meticulously gather intelligence, weaving through the whispers of the kitchen staff and the secrets shared in the shadowy corners of brothels. With her keen eyes and your shared determination, you stalk those who have wronged you, laying the groundwork for your calculated retribution.

In the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, the struggle for power rages on. Joffrey Baratheon, seated upon the Iron Throne, wields authority backed by the formidable House Lannister. However, his claim faces challenge from his uncle Renly, who, bolstered by the might of House Tyrell, presses his own bid for kingship. In this turmoil, Tyrion Lannister arrives in King's Landing, aiming to assert control, only to find himself at odds with his conniving sister, Cersei, now entrenched as Queen Regent.

As autumn blankets the realm and whispers of an impending winter linger, Westeros braces for the bitter cold ahead. Yet, instead of preparing for the harsh season, the land remains conflicted. Renly Baratheon's sudden demise alters the tides of allegiance, leaving the political landscape in flux. Meanwhile, Joffrey, with the backing of House Tyrell, emerges victorious in a decisive clash against his uncle Stannis, solidifying his hold on power.

The fates of many hang precariously in the balance. In the labyrinthine corridors of King's Landing, both Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark navigate treacherous waters, their survival dependent on their ability to navigate the perilous currents of court intrigue.

You had served Sansa since the day she was first betrothed to King Joffrey. Back then, she had been full of dreams—visions of knighthood, love, and a golden crown. But those dreams quickly soured, turning into nightmares as the Lannisters’ hold over her tightened. What was once a promising union became a gilded cage. They kept her in the Red Keep, a prisoner beneath layers of silk and politeness.

Sansa clung to her “lady-like” pursuits to distract from the harshness of her reality—sewing, embroidery, poetry, and music. Her stitches were always delicate, her voice soft, yet behind her graceful demeanor, you saw the cracks. You were there when Septa Mordane led her through the Red Keep’s throne room for a lesson in history. It was meant to be a glimpse into the glory of the Targaryens and the rulers of old, but instead, Sansa’s gaze lingered on the dark stain where her grandfather and uncle had been butchered by the Mad King. Her face paled, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, haunted by the ghosts of her own blood.

One evening, as she sat embroidering by the window, she confided in you. “Do you think I’ll be able to give Joffrey sons?” Her voice wavered. “What if… What if I’m only able to give him daughters, like Jeyne Poole’s mother?”

You tried to find reassuring words, though even Septa Mordane's attempts had done little to ease her fears. “You’re young, my lady. You will bear many children in time.”

Her blue eyes, wide with fear, met yours, but she said nothing more.

The Hand’s tournament arrived, and Sansa, despite everything, seemed to sparkle for a brief moment amidst the finery of the lords and knights. You stood in the shadows, watching her as she watched them. Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, was a towering presence, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he unseated Ser Hugh of the Vale, killing him in the dust of the joust. Littlefinger whispered dark stories to Sansa of the Hound’s past, tales of burned flesh and brutal lessons. You saw the way Sansa’s hands trembled as she absorbed the horrors hidden beneath the chivalry.

Yet, there were moments of fleeting happiness. Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of the Flowers, gave her a single rose before his tilt with Ser Gregor. She blushed under his attention, but you noticed how Loras’s gaze lingered not on her, but on Renly Baratheon, who stood just behind. That small act of kindness, hollow as it was, brought a rare smile to Sansa’s lips, even as the court applauded Sandor Clegane’s intervention to stop his brother’s rampage.

But that brief joy was drowned by the darkness that soon followed. When King Robert Baratheon died after a hunting “accident,” everything unraveled. Eddard Stark, honorable as always, tried to reveal the truth about Joffrey’s parentage, but it was too late. You weren’t surprised when Littlefinger betrayed him. You had seen the cunning in his eyes long before, the way he played everyone like pieces on a cyvasse board.

Chaos erupted. Eddard’s men, loyal to the last, were slaughtered by Lannister guardsmen led by Sandor Clegane. You remembered Mordane’s voice trembling as she urged Sansa to lock herself in their chambers. But there was no hiding from the Lannisters. They took her.

You watched from a distance as Sansa was humiliated before the court, her innocence crushed beneath the weight of Cersei’s cold cruelty. She stood there, trembling, and you saw the beginning of a transformation. The girl who once dreamed of knights and love was slowly breaking, her innocence being stripped away by every sneer, every command, every cold laugh in the throne room.

You wished you could offer her comfort, but in King’s Landing, comfort was as fleeting as mercy.

The great Sept was filled with the hum of whispers, the heavy weight of tension hanging in the air as Eddard Stark stood before the court. His face, weathered by years of honor and battle, now looked hollow, beaten by betrayal. You stood in the shadows, where servants always stood, your eyes flicking between the high lords and the northern Warden. As the silence fell, Eddard knelt, acknowledging his so-called “crimes” and pledging loyalty to King Joffrey.

For a moment, it seemed the court might breathe again. Sansa stood nearby, her hands trembling. Hope flickered in her eyes—briefly. But Joffrey, perched on the Iron Throne like some twisted boy-king out of a nightmare, leaned forward with a smile sharp as a blade. His words fell like a thunderclap. “Bring me his head.”

Sansa's scream cut through the hall, raw and broken. She lunged forward, hysterical, her voice lost in a storm of pleading, but the gold cloaks restrained her, forcing her back. Her cries—“Please, mercy, mercy!”—rang in your ears, making your stomach turn.

Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, cold and unfeeling as he drew Ice, the greatsword of House Stark. You could see the light catch the edge of the steel, and the last thing Sansa saw before she fainted was her father’s final, resigned glance.

You moved through the chaos as a shadow. Your duty to Sansa came first, so as the blood pooled on the Sept’s floor, you carried her from the carnage, her limp body heavy with grief. The days that followed were hollow. She barely spoke, her eyes vacant as you tended to her, making sure she ate, dressing her in the Lannisters' silks even as her soul remained buried in sorrow.

It was one of those somber evenings when she finally spoke, her voice so faint you almost missed it. “Do you… serve the Lannisters?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You paused, setting down the tray of untouched food, meeting her tired gaze. “Yes, my lady,” you answered softly.

Sansa’s eyes flickered with something—confusion, maybe anger. “Have they always been this cruel?” she asked, her words trembling with an innocent horror.

You weighed your response carefully, then nodded. “From what I’ve heard, unfortunately, yes.”

Her lips parted as she considered your answer, but it was her next question that cut deeper. “Then why do you serve them?”

You lowered your eyes, your hands folding over the fabric of her gown, the lie of your position hanging heavy on your shoulders. “It’s something I wager on,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the unease in your chest.

Sansa, always perceptive, frowned. “Is that the only kind of wager you make?”

For a moment, you froze. Then you let a faint smile tug at the corner of your lips, the words “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken” echoing in your heart, though unspoken. “There was one time I bet my entire life on something,” you confessed quietly.

She looked at you then, truly looked, her tear-streaked face searching yours. “Did you win?”

Your smile faltered, but you met her gaze with a spark of determination. “I’m planning to,” you said, with a quiet promise hanging between the two of you.

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — 300 AC

The stone walls of the Red Keep felt colder that night, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the ancient stones. In a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the grand halls, you worked in silence, the weight of your plan pressing down like the calm before a storm. Every movement was deliberate, each thought sharper than the edge of a Valyrian blade. The game was already in motion, and you were setting the pieces in place.

You had long been underestimated—a mere servant, a shadow in the background of the powerful Lannisters, Tyrells, and Martells. Yet, you had seen the truth: the most dangerous players were often those who remained unseen. You were one of them, a silent force, blending into the background while carefully planting the seeds of destruction. The poison, subtle and undetectable, was your weapon.

A soft knock interrupted your focus. The door creaked open, and there stood Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger himself. His thin lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only calculation.

“Ah, a quiet place for quiet minds,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, eyes darting around the chamber before settling on you.

You raised your head slowly, meeting his gaze with a calm that belied the storm brewing inside you. Littlefinger wasn’t a man easily intimidated, but neither were you. Two wolves circling, each looking for the other’s weakness.

“You seem to find yourself in many quiet places, Lord Baelish,” you replied, voice soft but pointed. “What brings you here?”

He moved closer, his steps light, like a predator stalking prey. “Just ensuring the right wheels keep turning, ensuring the chaos that follows serves the right cause.” His gaze lingered on your hands, noting the fine movements as you handled a small vial, the liquid within almost imperceptibly shifting.

You allowed a small, knowing smile. “Chaos... Chaos can be useful. But only if it’s controlled.”

His eyebrow raised, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Controlled chaos? Now, that’s an art.”

You carefully set the vial down, your voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “What if the chaos that’s already simmering were to boil over? What if, after Joffrey’s wedding, his reign came to an... unexpected end?”

Baelish didn’t blink, though you could see the subtle change in his posture, the slight narrowing of his eyes. You hadn��t suggested anything outright—it was the art of planting the idea, the delicate balance of nudging him without him realizing he’d been led.

He took a slow breath, his mind already racing. “And who, I wonder, would have the audacity to arrange such an unexpected end?”

You smiled, but didn’t answer directly, your silence speaking volumes. Instead, you moved the conversation forward, allowing the implication to sink in.

“The realm is already full of hungry wolves, my lord,” you said, your voice steady, your hands working deftly as you began to clear away your tools. “All it takes is a nudge in the right direction, and they’ll tear each other apart. No one will stop to notice who did the nudging.”

Littlefinger tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone as noncommittal as ever, “but wolves are tricky. You can never be sure which way they’ll turn.”

“That’s true,” you conceded, meeting his eyes directly. “But I’ve always been good at reading the pack.”

The silence that followed was heavy, each of you measuring the other, testing the boundaries. He wouldn’t act on your words immediately. Littlefinger was too careful, too meticulous for that. But you could see the spark in his eyes—the idea was there, planted, waiting to take root.

With a nod, he turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “You have a dangerous mind,” he remarked, half admiration, half warning. “Be careful. The pack bites back.”

You gave him a knowing look. “Only if they see the one holding the leash.”

Days passed, and as you moved through the grand halls of the Red Keep, you watched everything begin to fall into place. Like a silent puppeteer, you pulled the strings without ever needing to step into the light.

Varys had been busy, moving pieces on the board that even you hadn’t expected. Ros had whispered in his ear, and soon after, Lady Olenna Tyrell had been brought into the fold. The whispers of a marriage between Sansa Stark and Loras Tyrell spread through the castle like wildfire. You had always known Varys to be a man of schemes, but even you marveled at how quickly he moved.

In the gardens, you overheard the conversations as they unfolded—subtle, quiet, but filled with power. Lady Olenna, with her sharp wit and keen mind, was already orchestrating her plans, likely envisioning a future without Joffrey’s cruel reign.

You stood in the shadows as Littlefinger passed by, his expression unreadable. He had heard your suggestion, and though you were not directly involved, you knew the idea had taken root. He would set things in motion, ensuring the chaos that followed would serve him—and you would remain unseen, untouched by the blood that would soon spill.

RED KEEP, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The War of the Five Kings dragged on, but within the Red Keep, the battles were far subtler, fought with whispers and veiled threats. Your life as a servant under King Joffrey's reign had grown increasingly unbearable. Between the relentless demands of court life and the constant fear of his cruelty, you found little time to care for yourself.

Your headache throbbed—a reminder that you hadn’t eaten since dawn, and the long days had begun to blur into endless nights. It wasn’t uncommon for you to push through these spells, but this time felt different. The world around you grew heavier, your limbs sluggish, and the gardens seemed far away.

Basket in hand, filled with fruit from the kitchens, you trudged through the Red Keep's gardens. The bright afternoon light stabbed at your eyes, worsening the pounding in your head. You tried to focus on your task, but each step felt more labored, and a cold sweat broke out on your skin.

As you rounded a corner near the overgrown hedges, your vision blurred. The world tilted. The cobbled path beneath your feet shifted into an unforgiving blur of stone and soil, and with a muffled thud, everything went black.

In that hazy in-between of consciousness, a voice pulls you back—familiar, though distant. “He would have liked you,” Princess Elia’s voice echoes in your mind.

“Whom do you speak of, my lady?” you had once asked her, back when the Red Keep still buzzed with life and not dread.

“My brother. Oberyn. He’s trouble, but even so, I love him dearly.”

For a brief moment, you can almost feel her presence, and the weight of the past rushes over you like a cold wave. You blink, pulling yourself out of the memory just as a different voice fills your ears. A deeper one, full of curiosity and something unreadable.

You woke slowly, your senses coming back in fragments: the scent of crushed grass, the cool air against your skin, and the distant murmur of voices. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the filtered sunlight through the leaves overhead.

"Careful. Don’t rush."

The voice was deep, tinged with amusement. A hand—warm and strong—rested on your shoulder, gently holding you down. You blinked, focusing on the face above you, unfamiliar yet striking. Dark, sharp eyes, framed by lustrous and black with only a few silver streaks recede from his brow into a widow's peak. The emblem of a red sun pierced by a golden spear embroidered on his tunic caught your eye.

Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne.

“Are you injured?” His voice held a soft curiosity as if you were some puzzle he intended to unravel.

You shook your head, still disoriented. "No, I... I must have fainted."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the basket of spilled fruit beside you. “It seems you’ve been overworking yourself. King Joffrey’s court, I assume? They’re not known for their kindness.”

A rush of embarrassment warmed your cheeks. You scrambled to sit up, but Oberyn’s hand remained firm.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone softening. “Even a servant deserves a moment to breathe.”

You weren’t used to kindness, especially not from someone of his stature. His reputation as a fierce and dangerous man preceded him, yet there was something else—an air of compassion, albeit hidden beneath his sharp edges.

“I’m... grateful,” you murmured, unsure of how to respond. “But I should get back to my duties. They won’t—”

Oberyn interrupted with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let them wait. The Lannisters have their claws in many, but even a viper can strike when the time is right.”

There was a pause, a subtle shift in the air between you and Oberyn Martell. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, and though his words were casual, they held an undercurrent you couldn’t quite place. It was as though he saw something deeper in you, something more than just a servant tending to her duties. Fate, or perhaps something far more dangerous, had drawn his attention to you.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stood upright, his dark eyes gleaming with a playful intensity. "You Dornish are known for our... passions," he said, his voice a low, deliberate purr. "But it seems fate has a way of placing beauty in my path, whether I ask for it or not."

You blink, unsure of how to respond, heat rising uncomfortably to your face. He stepped closer, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, lingering there a moment longer than propriety would allow. "Tell me," Oberyn continued, his tone playful yet edged with something deeper, "does a woman like you often find herself fainting at the feet of princes? Or is this a rare occasion?"

Your breath hitched, panic flaring inside you, though you did your best to suppress it. Affection—let alone attention—was something you were unaccustomed to. His flirtation was like a wildfire, threatening to burn through the careful walls you'd built around yourself.

"I... I don’t..." you stammered, trying to pull your thoughts together, your mind racing. You weren’t used to being noticed, not like this, not by someone like him.

Oberyn tilted his head, his smirk widening as if he could sense the flurry of emotions raging within you. "Don't be shy," he murmured, voice lowering as his eyes roamed over you with quiet curiosity. "I can see there's much more to you than meets the eye."

The words felt like a tease, a challenge wrapped in silk, and your heart pounded in your chest, caught between the instinct to flee or stand frozen in place. Oberyn Martell's gaze seemed to strip away every defense you had carefully built over the years, as though he could see straight through the mask of servitude you wore.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, steadying your trembling nerves. This was not the time to panic, not in front of the Red Viper of Dorne. He was too sharp, too dangerous, and your heart fluttered at the way his presence seemed to unsettle the very air around you.

Without answering the prince’s flirtatious remark, you bent down to hurriedly gather the fallen fruit, your fingers clumsy as you fumbled with the basket. But even as you moved, you felt his eyes on you, watching every motion with an almost predatory amusement.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours as he handed you one of the scattered apples. "You're in quite the hurry," he murmured, the smirk never leaving his face. His touch lingered, deliberately slow as he placed the fruit in your basket.

You rose quickly, trying to distance yourself, but Oberyn stood just as swiftly. Before you could retreat, he grasped your wrist, pulling it gently toward him. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if this were a dance he had long perfected. He raised your hand to his lips, his dark eyes locked on yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—his lips soft, warm against your skin.

Your breath caught, panic fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird. Heat crept up your neck, your heart racing as you tried to pull yourself together, but his touch seemed to set your mind spinning.

Just then, Oberyn’s eyes shifted, narrowing as he caught sight of something—your scars, peeking out from beneath your long sleeves. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, curiosity flashing across his features. He tilted his head, about to speak.

But you jerked your hand away, the sudden movement sharp, almost frantic. "I should go," you blurted, the words tumbling out hastily. You gathered your things, your pulse still thrumming wildly as you turned on your heel, desperate to escape his piercing gaze.

As you hurried away, you could feel Oberyn's eyes lingering on your retreating form, his expression unreadable. Even in your rush, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the prince wasn’t done with you yet.

KING'S LANDING, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The sun hung high over King’s Landing, its golden light casting a deceptive warmth over the cool sea breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. You stood with Marei at the edge of the courtyard, the bustle of the palace below and the hum of the city distant beneath the tranquil air. The garden was alive with color, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that clung to those gathered at the banquet table.

Shae moved with a quiet urgency, filling a plate with food from the banquet spread. She placed it in front of Sansa, who sat still, pale and lifeless, her face void of any spark. Her slender hands rested on her lap, unmoving. It was as if she had already become a shadow, despite still breathing.

“You need to eat something,” Shae urged softly, her voice carrying both concern and exasperation.

Sansa did not stir.

“Pigeon pie,” Shae offered, her tone gentler now, but Sansa’s pale lips barely moved as she whispered, “No, thank you.”

A sigh escaped Shae, but she quickly turned back to the table, scanning for something else. With a quick motion, she removed Sansa's untouched plate and placed a new offering in front of her. “Lemon cakes?” Shae asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice. Everyone knew Sansa's love for lemon cakes.

Sansa’s voice, barely a whisper, responded again. “No, thank you.”

Shae’s expression faltered. “You love lemon cakes.”

But Sansa remained unmoved, as if the world around her had lost all meaning. Shae’s shoulders slumped in frustration, her eyes flicking toward you and Marei before glancing at the entrance of the courtyard.

Tyrion Lannister entered the garden with deliberate steps, his short legs struggling to match the long strides of the men he was often compared to. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the scene with quick efficiency. Despite his stature, you had learned well enough that Lord Tyrion Lannister was not a man to be underestimated. His mind was his sharpest weapon.

“Tyrion,” Shae called out to him with a sigh of relief. “Tell her she needs to eat.”

Tyrion approached the table, offering a small, polite smile. “My lady, you do need to eat.”

Sansa’s gaze remained fixed somewhere in the distance, her hands limp in her lap. “I don’t need to eat,” she said softly, without even looking at him.

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, glancing between Shae, you, and Marei. His expression was measured, patient. “Could I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked gently, though his tone held the firmness of a command.

You exchanged a quick look with Marei before bowing your head and stepping away. Shae, however, lingered, her eyes flashing with concern and defiance. She crossed her arms, unwilling to yield.

“She needs to eat,” Shae said stubbornly, her eyes narrowing as she looked between Tyrion and Sansa.

Tyrion met her gaze, his expression imploring, but Shae’s frustration was palpable. With one last glance at Sansa, Shae reluctantly turned and left the garden.

Tyrion took a seat across from Sansa, his eyes softening as he reached out to take her hand. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to draw her from her daze. “I can’t let you starve, Sansa,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet compassion.

Sansa didn’t react. She stared past him, her blue eyes hollow, as if the world had dulled to nothing but gray. Shae, now at the far end of the garden, cast a furious glance back toward Tyrion, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

A FEW DAYS LATER

KITCHEN KEEP, KING'S LANDING — DAY

The kitchen was a chaotic blend of sounds and smells, with servants rushing around, preparing the feast for the garden party. You focused on your tasks, slicing fruits and arranging them neatly, hoping the repetitive motions would calm the unease bubbling in your chest. The Lannisters' garden parties always came with tension—too many eyes, too many secrets.

Serena, ever observant, moved beside you with a conspiratorial smile. Her presence had always been a quiet comfort, an unspoken pact between two women wronged by the same family. She nudged your side playfully, her voice just loud enough for you to hear over the clattering pans and murmurs of other servants.

“Guess what I overheard in the gardens earlier,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of fresh gossip.

You glanced up, your curiosity piqued. “What is it now?”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower. “Tyrion and Lord Varys were having one of their secret little chats. Something about Shae.” She gave a sly smile before recounting the conversation she’d overheard, her voice adopting a mocking impression of Tyrion's measured tone.

“Lord Varys. Breakfasting with the king?”

Your hands paused over the fruit, recognizing the weight of that simple greeting. Serena continued, now mimicking Varys’ smooth, ever-cautious reply.

“I’m afraid foreigners aren’t welcome at such exclusive affairs,” she quoted, barely concealing a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. Tyrion and Varys—always circling each other, testing the limits of loyalty and power. Serena’s impression was spot on, and the dry chuckle she added to Varys’ line brought the exchange to life.

“Oh, to be foreign,” she muttered in Tyrion’s voice before glancing around the bustling kitchen with exaggerated suspicion, mimicking Varys’ quiet amusement.

“Ahem,” she finished with a soft laugh.

The kitchen clamor drowned out any chance of someone overhearing, but you kept your gaze fixed on your hands, focusing on the fruit before you. "What did they say after that?" you asked in a low voice, not wanting to appear too interested but knowing that information like this was often a lifeline in King's Landing.

Serena's smile dimmed slightly as she continued, her tone more serious now. “They were talking about Shae. Varys warned Tyrion that she’s been noticed. That Sansa’s maid saw them together, and it’s only a matter of time before Cersei—and worse, Tywin—find out.”

Your breath hitched slightly. That was dangerous—too dangerous for a place like this.

You glanced up at Serena, who nodded grimly. “Varys told Tyrion his father has promised to hang the next whore he’s found with.”

Your stomach twisted, though you managed to keep your expression neutral. Information like this could be a weapon if used correctly. But it also carried its own risks, especially for someone like you, who lived in the shadows of these powerful people. You simply nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, DAY — 301 AC

The gardens of the Red Keep, beautiful though they were, could not ease the tension that clung to the air. The lush greenery and sea breeze seemed wasted on the gathering before you, where cruelty simmered beneath the surface. You moved silently among the servants, pouring wine, offering trays of food, your head low as your sharp eyes observed everything. No one here was truly safe—not even those who smiled and pretended otherwise.

You had learned long ago to watch, to listen, to see things others missed. And here, among the so-called lords and ladies, your simmering hatred boiled just beneath the surface. Revenge had a way of lurking in quiet moments like these, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

At the head of the table sat King Joffrey, his golden crown glinting in the sun like a mockery of all that was just. Around him, the key players of the realm gathered: Queen Cersei, her eyes sharp and watchful; Lord Tywin, stoic and commanding as always; Prince Tommen, innocent and ignorant of the malice around him; and Grand Maester Pycelle, old and leering.

But your attention flickered to Sansa Stark. Pale, withdrawn, her once-vibrant spirit all but crushed under the weight of her suffering. She sat beside her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who, despite his small stature, radiated an awareness far sharper than anyone gave him credit for. The tension between them was palpable, an unspoken grief they both carried.

Your heart tightened as you watched, knowing Sansa's pain was not unlike your own. Like her, you had learned to survive in silence, though your silence was of a different kind. The Lannisters had taken too much from you. They were going to pay for it one day, one way or another.

Across the table, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, carrying a gleaming goblet, his voice filled with a pride that bordered on foolishness.

“From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honor to present you with this wedding cup.”

He placed the goblet before Joffrey, who barely looked at it, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

“A handsome goblet, my lord. Or shall I call you Father?”

You noted how Mace Tyrell’s face flushed with both pride and unease. He bowed deeply. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

As Mace withdrew, Shae moved gracefully through the crowd, setting a tray before Sansa. You saw how her eyes flickered toward the young girl, but there was no response from Sansa, no recognition of the kindness that once might have been there.

Then, the sharp voice of Queen Cersei pierced the moment, her words venomous.

“She’s the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one.”

Your blood boiled as you saw Shae stiffen. The insult cut through the air like a blade, but Shae, ever composed, turned to leave without a word. You noticed how Tywin’s cold eyes followed her, narrowing as she walked away.

“Have her brought to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding,” Tywin ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet as sharp as a death sentence.

Tyrion’s face darkened. You could see the concern etched into his features, his helplessness as he tried to control a situation slipping further out of his grasp. Your heart raced, knowing the precarious game being played here—and how dangerous it was for all involved.

Shae’s departure was barely noticed as Podrick stepped forward, carrying a large tome. He placed it carefully before Joffrey, and Tyrion followed, a strained smile on his face as he addressed the king.

“A book,” Joffrey said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Tyrion clasped his hands together, speaking with calm civility. “The Lives of Four Kings. Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read.”

For a brief moment, Joffrey hesitated. His sharp tongue seemed to fail him as the weight of the gift hovered in the air. But Tywin’s piercing gaze prodded him, and the boy-king forced a mocking smile.

“Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom,” Joffrey said, his voice laced with scorn. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Tyrion bowed, but the tension between them crackled like a hidden storm.

Before anyone could breathe, The Mountain lumbered forward, carrying a sword swathed in black cloth. He laid it before Joffrey with all the reverence of a knight presenting a sacred relic. Tywin rose, his voice steeped in gravitas as he spoke.

“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace, freshly forged in your honor.”

Joffrey’s eyes gleamed with an almost childlike excitement as he tore the sword from its sheath, its blade gleaming ominously in the sunlight. You felt a ripple of unease roll through the gathered nobles as the blade sliced through the air.

“Careful, Your Grace,” Pycelle croaked from his seat. “Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.”

But Joffrey’s wicked grin only widened. “So they say.”

In a sudden, violent movement, Joffrey swung the sword down, cleaving the book Tyrion had gifted him clean in half. The sound of tearing parchment and splintering leather echoed through the garden. A gasp rippled through the crowd, but Joffrey was delighted with himself.

“Such a great sword should have a name,” Joffrey declared, his eyes burning with cruel glee. “What shall I call her?”

The crowd murmured suggestions, none of which seemed to please the boy-king. But then, his lips curled into a malicious grin.

“Widow’s Wail. I like that. Every time I use it, it’ll be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You saw Sansa freeze beside him, her face drained of color, her entire body rigid with the memory of her father’s execution. Across the garden, Shae watched, her eyes narrowing with unspoken fury.

You kept your head down, but the seething rage inside you boiled hotter. One day, they would all pay for this. The Lannisters, their cruelty, their arrogance—it would all come crashing down. And you would make sure of it.

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, LATE AFTERNOON — 301 AC

The preparations for the royal wedding between Joffrey and Margaery were endless, consuming the days and nights of everyone within the Red Keep. But while others concerned themselves with the surface duties, your mind was preoccupied with a far more dangerous task.

The thought of the Strangler stones hidden within Sansa's necklace gnawed at you. The pieces were already in motion, each step methodically planned. Your hands moved through the flowers you were tasked with arranging, but your thoughts were elsewhere, carefully calculating the next move in your plot to bring down King Joffrey without implicating yourself.

As you worked alone in the gardens, the late afternoon sun blazed overhead. The sweat clung to your skin, and the heat forced you to roll your sleeves up just enough to reveal the faint, jagged lines of scars that adorned your forearms. The burn scars, remnants of your brutal encounter with Ser Gregor Clegane, were still a reminder of what you endured—and survived. The pain was still fresh, but it fueled your resolve. Spite, after all, was a powerful motivator.

You barely noticed the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across your path. Looking up, you were met with the sharp, knowing gaze of Oberyn Martell. His smirk was playful, as it often was, but there was something deeper there—an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through you.

"You work too hard," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. "It’s a crime to see such beauty covered in dirt."

You straightened, brushing your hands on your apron, trying to keep the panic from showing. "I have my duties, my lord," you replied, keeping your tone even. The way Oberyn looked at you—intense, almost predatory—made your heart race, though you tried to remain composed.

He crouched beside you, plucking a flower from the arrangement and twirling it between his fingers. His eyes flicked briefly to the scars on your arm, scars you quickly moved to conceal by rolling down your sleeves. But it was too late—Oberyn’s gaze lingered on them for just a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

The way he studied you wasn’t merely out of curiosity, but recognition. His next words carried a weight that hung in the air between you both.

"There are stories... of a servant who once attended to Princess Elia." Oberyn’s tone remained casual, but you could feel the shift, the tension creeping in as he spoke. "They say she escaped the Sack of King’s Landing with her life. Barely."

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still. You had heard those stories too. After all, you had lived them.

Oberyn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Some say she vanished, swallowed by the chaos. Others claim she survived through sheer will, fueled by spite." His dark eyes locked onto yours, searching. "I wonder… do you know of such tales?"

The question lingered in the air, heavy with suspicion. You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, but your face remained a mask of composure. "Many stories are told in King’s Landing, my lord. Few of them hold any truth."

Oberyn’s lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes remained sharp, watching you carefully. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But then again, some tales are more dangerous than others." He stood up, still twirling the flower between his fingers, casting one last glance at your concealed scars. "Sometimes, survival speaks louder than words."

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Ellaria Sand approached, her eyes already on you. There was a possessiveness in her gaze, though softened by intrigue.

“So this is the woman who has caught my prince’s eye,” Ellaria remarked, her voice a low purr as she moved closer, her hand brushing lightly against Oberyn’s shoulder.

You bowed your head, hiding the inner storm brewing within you. "My lady," you greeted, though the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Ellaria’s gaze flicked to Oberyn, then back to you. “She is different,” she said, her tone intrigued, but there was an edge of caution in her words. “I wonder what it is you see in her, my love?”

Oberyn chuckled softly, his attention still on you. “There’s something about her,” he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with deeper meaning. “Something familiar.”

Ellaria looped her arm through his, drawing him closer to her side. “Familiar or not, I trust you know where your loyalties lie.”

Oberyn’s smile deepened, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. "Always," he replied to Ellaria, but his words were aimed at you, and the unspoken suspicion between you both lingered in the air, unsaid but undeniable.

As the two of them moved off together, your heart pounded in your chest. Oberyn's words, the way he had looked at you—he was starting to piece it together. He suspected who you truly were, but for now, he remained silent, watching. You returned to your task, but the weight of his suspicion clung to you.

Everything had only just begun, and you were already in far deeper than you had anticipated. But like the scars on your skin, the memories of your past had shaped you into what you were now. And just like that day long ago, you would survive.

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