#Bitter Retribution series

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Tear You Apart Part 1: You’re Mine✨

Series Masterlist

My first dark! Joel fic and I think I’m obsessed. I plunged into this head on and got major inspiration from the vampire scene in Saltburn and Little Red Riding Hood. This is filthy and I absolutely love it! There might be a part 2 for this! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. I would love to hear your thoughts 🖤

“The wolves prey upon the lambs in the darkness of the night, but the blood stains remain upon the stones in the valley until the dawn comes, and the sun reveals the crime to all.” - Kahlil Gibran

- Summary: Joel comes for you late at night. He always does. Always stalks, chases, and prowls after you like a starving wolf. And when he catches you, he devours you, feeds on you like the animal he is. Will you run and hide or will you give into the temptation that calls you in the forest?

- Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY MDNI)

- Word Count: 9,718

- Tags: Dark themes, Little red riding hood references, dark! Joel, Joel is a menace, oral, fingering, choking, unprotected P in V, cream pie, filthy smut, degrading actions, not really violent but lots of dark themes, manipulation, rough sex, dirty talk, Joel calls reader little lamb, possessive Joel, feral! Joel, post outbreak! Joel, controlling Joel, dom! Joel, submissive reader, Joel x fem! reader, Joel is in his late 40’s and reader is in her late 20’s

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Songs: “Change” and “Rosemary” by Deftones

The wind tears through the frigid night of Jackson, banging its haunted whispers against the side of the little wooden house. It screams in warning beware, beware. He’s coming. A glaring caution sign from the ghosts of the forest. They scream your name, shrieking and bellowing from the soil below as they make their way above the cold, vacant dirt, floating their way to your doorstep. Clawing, knocking, warning you that he’s close. Get out, leave. He’s near, he’s near. Run.

You want to run, want to sprint out of bed and run as far as you can, but you can’t. He’ll find you, stalk you till he hunts down your scent and discovers you hiding. You pray that he won’t, but he will. He always finds you. And when he does he takes and takes until you have nothing left, feeding his anger and bitter soul, using your body to escape whatever hell he had been through in the past.

You know he’s lost something special, something close to him. You can see it in the wrinkles that encase his forehead. See it in the dark brown flecks of his tired eyes. See it in the way he carries himself, worn and tattered like the old leather boots on his feet. Can feel it when he crowds your body as he lays over you in the middle of the night. Can feel it on his calloused fingers as he bleeds you dry from the inside, hollowing you out and sucking your lifeless soul and taking it as his own.

You never know what he’s lost, can never figure out what it was that was stolen from him. He doesn’t talk about it, will never let you in even though you beg him to. But you can feel the pain, the absolute agony that holds close to his cold heart. It’s whatever he’s lost that drives his rage, his desire for retribution. And it’s that loss that feeds his desire to take, destroy everything in his winding path. That’s why he comes, always at night, always at the dead blackness of night. He comes crawling to you, needing a way to soothe his scorching temper, needing a way to bury the agony of it all.

He’s broken, just like the shattered black military watch he wears on his left wrist. You try to ask him about it, try to graze your fingers over the broken glass, but he growls at you. Gnashing his sharp teeth as he releases the caged up wolf inside him. You know better, but you push back. Let me in, let me in, you scream. But he never does. That just pushes him further, bringing out the beast from within.

He’s coming closer. Almost here, almost here, the ghosts whisper in warning. You can feel him, as if he was already there at your doorstep, as if he was already clawing his fingers into your fragile skin. Tearing you apart piece by piece just the way he likes it.

Your body starts sweating, you toss and turn against the cold sheets that cling to your damp skin. He’s coming, they call. And it’s then that you can feel him as if he’s standing right outside. You can feel the weight of his steps on the cold, snowy ground. You can hear his shaky, quivering breaths as he trudges through the patches of white snow, can feel the warm breath as he blows it out, can reach your shaky fingers out as his breath kisses the sky. You can feel it, can almost taste it as it whips through the wind, landing up against your fogged up bedroom window.

Run. Hide. He’s here, he’s here, the voices warn. But you don’t listen, can’t listen. Joel’s deep voice washes the voices out, makes them flee from your mind. Mine, mine, he screams in your head as he claims you over and over again with his hands. Those big, rough hands that you so desperately want wrapped around you.

You shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t desire it, but you crave him like you’ve never craved anything in your life. He’s like a disease. Festering and invading your body, making you sick with want, with need. Pulling at your insides so much that you can’t ignore it. Can’t ignore the deep ache in between your thighs as you yearn for his touch, for his entire being. And you’re certain that you’re just as fucked in the head as him now.

He makes you sick. Sick with need, with desire. You shouldn’t crave him, shouldn’t want this. Most days he’s unkind, barely speaking, barely able to tolerate his own self. But he gives as much as he takes, and you crave the way he gives. And now you’re just as bad as him, just as selfish and needing as him. Mine, mine, you call in your mind. He’s yours just as much as you are his.

Your eyes open wide as you look at the small clock that hangs on the wall, the hand ticking and ticking as it reaches 1:00am, the time he usually comes after his late night watch shift. Your body quakes from the anticipation of him. You can hear him now. He’s here.

You feel the weight of his heavy feet against the wooden floorboards as he opens the front door, hearing it shriek as it closes behind him with a soft shutter as it knocks against the glass window. He’s coming, he’s coming.

You hear the narrow stairs creak as he climbs up the steep steps. He’s coming for you, coming to claim you, to devour you. He’s like a wolf in the night as he stalks his prey. His dark eyes search for you, your scent hanging in the air as he comes for it, chases it, wanting to taste it. Wanting to rip you to shreds under the weight of his body as he claws and pounces on you. Claiming you as his one and only as he dominates you. But you fully oblige, always surrendering yourself to him completely.

You’re little red riding hood, and he’s the big bad wolf that wants to eat you alive as you spill yourself for him, letting him mark his paws all over you until you can only see the blacks of his eyes as he claims you. My, what large eyes you have. But he’s talking to you as he’s in between your legs, lapping up your flavor as he looks up at you with those dark pits and smiles with his sharp canines glistening in the night. And God, you’re already wet thinking about it, already trembling in the sheets as you wait for him, waiting for him to completely ravage you and destroy you until you’re no more.

You want to touch yourself, want to put an end to that aching throb in your center as slick pools inside you, fighting hard to hold back the urge. He’ll be mad if you don’t wait for him. If he sees you fingering yourself before he gets to you, he’ll be furious. He’s selfish, always so fucking selfish with you. He wants to be the one that makes you feel good, under his conditions. He’s dominating, controlling, wanting your orgasms to come from him and him alone. He’s greedy, but he always gives, feeding into your sweet desires as he revels in your body, in your arousal, in your taste.

You hear the rusty doorknob twist and turn under his grasp, hear the door start to creak open as his dark form clouds against the darkness of the hallway. Take me, take me, you beg in your mind. And you swear he can hear you as he stalks towards you with his massive form.

He’s tired, you can see it in his weathered stare as his dark eyes search for you under the silky sheets. He throws off his tan, heavy coat and tosses it to the side of the room. As he makes his way to you, he pushes up his plaid, green sleeves slowly, exposing thick veins that spiral down his arms, ending in his massive hands. You gulp at the sight, taking in the way his arms flex against his sleeves. They pull and tug so tight that they’re bound to rip at any moment as his bulging muscles encase your nimble body.

He stops at the end of the bed, pulling back the clean sheets as he takes in the sheer nightgown you’re in. His eyes trail over your body as his deep scowl turns into something primal, dominant. “Get up,” he demands as he yanks you up by the wrist and pulls you to a standing position. There’s never such a thing as a hello or hi, beautiful. Only ever demands and commands as he comes for one thing, your body.

He pulls up the wooden chair that sits in the corner of the dark room and places it in the middle of the floor. He looks up at you with the darks of his eyes and curls his index finger, coaxing you to sit in the chair. Your body is hypnotized as you dance your way over to him under a waning spell that puts you at ease.

“Sit,” he says firmly as he pushes you down gently, your back hitting the hard wood as you sit up straighter, preparing yourself to give yourself to him. Your hands fall flat against your thighs as the sheer nightgown barely reaches the tips of your knees. You can feel the cold wind as it blows hard outside your window, can almost taste the white snowflakes that linger on his leather boots.

Your breathing goes ragged as he circles the chair. Circling and circling as he trails a calloused finger over your bare shoulders as he takes you in with his chocolate eyes, inspecting you as he drinks in your features. Your throat goes dry as you watch him stalk around you. He’s a hungry wolf and he’s starving for you.

“Tell me, have you been a good girl today?” His words drag against his teeth as he snarls the words out. He continues to circle, making you audibly gulp at the words that leave his mouth.

“Yes, sir,” you answer, your nails digging into the flesh of your aching skin.

“Have you touched yourself today?” he asks as he circles you again, peeling his hands over your arm as you shiver from his rough fingers.

“N-no,” you stutter out, falling over your words. Except you had. You did earlier in the shower, thinking of Joel’s hands, pretending his fingers were yours as you made yourself feel good, spilling yourself all over the tiled floor as you called his name. Joel, Joel.

“You filthy little liar. I know you did. I can smell your arousal all over your fingers.” He grabs your hand tight and pulls it up to his nose as he inhales deeply, his eyes closing as he breathes in your scent. When he opens his eyes up, he takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks slowly, watching you with cold, heavy eyes. Your eyes go wide as you watch him slurp your taste up. A wave of slick runs down the seam of your lacy underwear, and you have to squeeze your legs shut at the growing throb that’s now aching to be touched.

He releases your fingers slowly as you watch him pool his saliva all over you, watching it slide over your hand as he drops it back to your knees with a slapping sound that echoes through the walls of the bedroom. He makes a slow, steady circle around you as he halts right next to you. You see him out of the corner of your eye as he bends and places his hands on his knees, slowly curving his spine as he eyes you with a hard line strewn across his lips. You gulp and sit up straight. You’re in trouble, you know it too.

“I, I didn’t mean to…” you squeak out carefully.

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me,” he growls. You automatically go quiet, afraid to interrupt him again. “The next time I find out you pleasured yourself without me, I’m gonna make you fuck yourself on my fingers while I watch, you got that?” he hisses.

Your mouth drops open at the mention of you fucking his fingers yourself, and you have to gulp down a moan at the thought of it. “Mhm,” you hum.

“Repeat it!” he yells, anger seething up in him.

“Yes, I understand,” you say with your eyes low, looking down at your shaking hands.

“Good.”

He skates around and stops in front of you, bending down as he places his rough hands on your knees. “Now, what are we gonna do with you, huh? You gonna be a good girl for me?” he asks as he moves your hands away and places his own on the end of your sheer nightgown.

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice shaky as he inches your nightgown higher, grazing his calloused fingers over your thighs, feeling that low tingling sensation start in the back of your spine.

“Good. That’s good,” he groans as he pushes your nightgown up higher and higher, climbing up your thighs until no more material is touching your legs. The only thing left is your white lacy underwear that are ruined from how drenched you are.

“Now, tell me. What were ya thinkin’ about in the shower?” he asks as he slowly pushes your thighs apart, trailing his fingers up nice and slow as he teases you, getting you all worked up for him.

“You, I was thinking about you,” you gasp as he pushes your legs even further, causing more slick to build up from the action of his rugged hands.

“Were ya thinkin’ of these fingers curling up inside you as I make you cum? Or maybe my tongue swirling around that pretty pink clit of yours?” he purrs as he glides his fingers against the edges of your lace, almost touching you where you need him as he ghosts over your center.

“Y-yes, both. Please, Joel,” you beg as he teases you again, ghosting over you without so much as a light touch to your aching center.

“Please what?” he asks with his brown eyes growing darker, the edges of his pupils expanding into dark coal.

“Touch me, please,” you beg, licking your lower lip in anticipation. He sees you slide your tongue over your lip and you see his eyes grow sharper, arousal swirling all around his black pupils.

“Well, since you asked nicely.” He glides his fingers through your clothed folds, and you gasp at the feeling of your budding arousal. “So fuckin’ wet for me,” he groans as his chest rises and falls in waves, pulling his fingers away again as you huff in frustration.

He loves to tease you, loves to torture you as he builds you up and then makes you beg for it. He wants to hear it, wants you down on your knees as you plead and moan for him, calling his name as you beg again and again. Touch me, taste me, fuck me.

“Joelllll,” you beg again, dragging the last syllable out as you call his name, needing his fingers on you, needing his tongue, his cock, his everything.

“Such a needy girl, aren’t you?” he teases, trailing his fingers over your seams again as he slowly unhooks the material from your hips. He slides the wet material down your legs and disposes of them on the ground, leaving you completely bare from the waist down.

He pushes your thighs apart and smooths a thumb over your center as he slides it all the way up, collecting slick as he goes along. You shudder under him as you feel yourself drip on the wooden chair, so turned on that you feel like you could orgasm right at this moment. “Goddamn, you're drenched,” he groans as he takes his thumb in his mouth, sucking all the slick off as he stares into your eyes intensely. And fuck, it’s hot.

“Now, you’re gonna be a good girl and show me exactly what you were doing in the shower. Go on,” he nods at you. “Show me how you touched yourself.” He stands back against the wall and leans on it, crossing his arms and knitting his eyebrows together in concentration, watching as his flexed muscles pull at his plaid shirt. “Any day now,” he says sternly. “Touch yourself. Now,” he growls. You automatically obey and nod up at him.

You gulp saliva down your throat and slowly bring your right hand over your center, gently pressing your fingers to your throbbing clit as you circle yourself, leaning back into the chair as a quiet moan escapes your mouth as you feel the pressure building fast. You’re so close, already so close.

“Eyes on me,” he commands as the low, guttural sound emits around the room.

You pull your head up and lock eyes with him as you focus on your breathy moans, hitting the sensitive bundle of nerves again and again. You hear the pulsing blood rush through your ears, feel your body tense as you close in on your orgasm. Almost there, almost.

“Place a finger inside you,” he commands, his voice vibrating through your bones. You obey and slide your middle finger inside as you feel the drenched, tight walls cave around your finger. “Another,” he demands as his eyes go pitch black watching you play with yourself. You slide a second one in and curl them up, hitting the spongy walls that threaten to make you cum.

You let out a loud, aching moan as you curl your fingers again and again while your thumb circles your clit in meticulous circles. Your mouth shapes into an O position as you feel your walls clench around you. You pull out a deep rising orgasm that starts low in your spine and spreads over your heated cunt as you climb higher and higher into bliss.

“Good girl,” he growls as he watches your orgasm wash over you. White, hot heat spreading through your entire body as you ride out your first orgasm, throwing your head back as your eyes roll back into your skull, feeling the wooden chair become soaked with your slick.

You take a moment to come back down to earth, back to where you can breathe again. Feeling your ragged breaths become even as you open your eyes and focus on Joel as he stands in the corner brooding and revelling in your pleasure. He’s breathing fast as his broad chest moves up and down, can practically hear him as his breaths come out choked and fast. He’s turned on, you can see the bulge in the outline of his dark jeans as he takes you in with his eyes, trailing over your center again.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks with a deep voice rasping in the back of his throat.

“Yes, so good,” you breath out tensely. “Want you to make me feel good though,” you beg as you open up your legs for him, feeling his eyes scrape over your soaked outline.

“Oh? Think you learned your lesson?” he asks curiously with a raised brow.

“Yes, promise,” you confirm, already biting your lip at the anticipation of his fingers on you.

“Mmm, alright. Since you did what I asked, I guess you earned a reward.” He stalks toward you, bending down before you as he gets on his knees and brings your legs up over his shoulders, slowly trailing his fingers up your inner thighs as he works you up again, getting you ready for your second orgasm.

“Look at this pretty pussy, all soppin’ and drippin’ for me. Want me to make you wetter? Want me to make you see stars?” he purrs as he blows on your center, making you buck your hips up at the breezy feeling as it tickles your most sensitive areas.

“Fuck, yes,” you squirm, begging for his touch.

“Mmm patience, little lamb. Gonna take ya nice and slow. You gonna be a good girl and cum all over my fingers?” he groans as a deep growl escapes his chest.

“Yes, fuck. I’ll be the best girl, your best girl,” you whine out.

“Mmm that’s what I like to hear,” he praises. Before you can respond, he licks a long, slow stripe up your center as you moan out his name.

“What’s that, little lamb? Couldn’t hear you over your moans,” he teases.

He pulls you lower in the chair as the wood scrapes along your back, feeling his rough hands wrap around your thighs tight. He inhales deeply and then spits on your cunt in a degrading, ravishing way. He takes his thumb and spreads the warm spit over your folds as you writhe under his touch.

“Hold still,” he warns as he presses his other hand on your thigh. You nod up at him and let him continue stroking his thumb up and down you, spreading your wet folds as he gently presses slow circles around your bundle of nerves. You let out a low, drawn out moan as he slips two fingers inside you and flicks his tongue back and forth in slow, lapping circles, so close to bringing you to the heavens again, so close to orgasm already.

One more thrust inside of you and then he’s pulling his fingers out, leaving your clit as he takes his mouth off you and backs up, dropping your legs from his shoulders as he stays straddling in between your legs. Why did he stop? Why did he fucking stop?

“Joel, I need to…I need to…” you whine out. He hushes you with the swipe of his finger to your lips, and you quietly pout as your eyebrows furrow together. Need to cum, need to cum.

“Think you deserve it?” he asks as he wets his bottom lip with his tongue, building you up even more as you beg to cum.

“Yes,” you cry out, your clit throbbing with need, your body sick with desperation to let go.

He chuckles a low laugh and smirks up at you, his dark eyes honing in as the black pits expand around him. He’s cruel, wicked, a devil in disguise as he torments you. He knows what he’s doing, he knows.

Filthy trickster, vicious teaser. Cruel, cruel, cruel, the voices whisper in your mind, filling you with regret and longing as you dig your nails into the wooden chair, feeling your body screaming at you. Let go, let go. Need to cum, need to cum. Joel sees the torment in your needing eyes, sees the way you’re scraping your nails into the wood as you beg him to release you with your watering eyes.

“You know, the female orgasm is a complex thing. I can feel you screaming inside to let go, can see the way you ache for release.” He grunts as he pushes a wet, hot finger inside your mouth, slowly pushing a second in as he slides his fingers further up, feeling your saliva cake around him.

“Suck,” he commands. You do as he says and suck his fingers, feeling your sweet arousal slide down the back of your throat. “Good girl,” he praises, but he doesn’t let up. He keeps his fingers inside your panting mouth.

“It’s just so hot to watch you suck my fingers with your dripping slick all over them,” he says as he bites his lip, sending his fingers further down your throat as you gag and choke on them, seeing his eyes become full black pits as he watches with pleasure. “Such a good girl, choking on my fingers. Wanna see you choke on something else,” he growls as his sharp incisors beam up at you in a smirk as he slowly releases his fingers from your mouth, pulling saliva with him.

You groan at the sight of his disheveled, tousled curls, at the grey patchy beard that encases his face, at the smoldering stare he’s giving you, at that devilish smirk that’s taunting and teasing you in the most torturous way.

“Your mouth. God, your mouth looks so inviting, and your teeth. They’d feel so good closed around my neck,” you whine as you beg him to finish you off, let you cum in peace.

“Mhmm. The better to eat you with, my dear,” he smirks. The little red riding hood quote takes you for a ride as you feel your cunt clench up around nothing, needing a release.

He smirks up at you once more and winks before he dives back into you, his fingers curling up inside as they jab up into your spongy spot, his mouth pulling and sucking your clit into his mouth. You feel the bubbling sensation, feel the waves crashing around you as they pull you under, drowning you in a wave of bliss and white heat as it explodes around you. You scream his name loud and desperate as you feel yourself let go. You clench around his fingers and then release, spilling your slick all over him. But what takes you by surprise is that’s not all.

You feel another orgasm take over as your body crumbles underneath him as he continues licking up your slick, working his fingers up and down you as he draws out more, spilling all of you, taking all of you for himself. Selfish, so selfish. But he builds you up so good that this is the best release you’ve ever experienced, like you’re walking on cloud nine as you feel a squirting sensation take over. Feeling yourself inject him with your slick as it sprays all over the front of his plaid shirt.

“Goddamn!” he yells as he pumps his fingers inside you, slowing his rhythm as he works it all out of you. You feel your legs shake and shutter around him as he holds your thighs open, not letting you close until he’s gotten every last drop out of you. After a few seconds of total bliss, you feel your body relax as there’s no more. That was the most intense orgasm of your life, and you wanted more. Needed him to continue to do that for however long this would go on.

“See what happens when I make you wait, when I tease you,” he smirks. “Makes you feel that much better,” he smiles, a devilish grin taking form on his face.

“You’re a menace, Joel Miller,” you respond out of breath, your eyes glazed over as you look over his aroused face.

“A menace, huh? Is that what I am?” he laughs.

“Yes,” you say carefully.

“Better watch your mouth,” he warns, slowly sliding his hands over your pale skin as he drags over your thighs, ending at your knees.

“What if I don’t?” you mock, wanting to test the waters, wanting to feed his anger. Keep quiet, keep quiet, the voices whisper. But you don’t listen. You never listen, always pushing them aside.

He stays quiet for a moment, but you see his features turning from day to night. He’s furious, his anger fuming inside him as you challenge him. Back down, back down, run, the ghosts scream. But you don’t. You stand your ground, let him rip into you as he takes control. You want him to, you need him to. He’s ruined you like the dead soil that lies in the snowed over dirt outside. He fucking ruined you.

You watch as his eyes turn frigid, his blood running cold as his eyebrows furrow up, his rage conforming to every bone in his hollow body. He’s on you in the next second, his hand wrapping around your throat as he squeezes just slightly, not enough to hurt you. He’s warning you, declaring his dominance over you. Telling you that he owns you, controls you.

He hovers in front of your face as his hot breath blows over you, smelling a hint of coffee and whiskey as it surrounds you like a cloud. You could get drunk off his scent, drunk off him. “Don’t you dare talk back to me, little lamb. You know what happens when you open that pretty fuckin’ mouth of yours.” He narrows his eyes as they stare into you like sharp daggers.

He squeezes your neck tighter and you try to open your mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s not to the point of pain. He never goes too far, only gets you close. It feels good, so good the way he’s squeezing, the veins in your neck begging him to put more pressure into it. You’re sick, infected with his poison with the way he mind fucks you into doing anything he says. You're a puppet, and he’s pulling all the strings.

Get out, get out, they scream. He comes to take, he comes to destroy, they warn. But you don’t care. Let him destroy. You want him to, need him to destroy your body. You let him take, let him consume you as he throws you to the wolves. Except he is the wolf, and he is the one that tears you apart piece by fucking piece. A lamb to a wolf’s slaughter.

He ghosts his lips against your ear, slowly biting down on your earlobe as he pulls down sharply. You wince and he lets go slowly. His rough tongue glides up your jawline as he squeezes lightly around your throat, building that sweet pool of arousal up again as he twists your emotions. You can barely tell the difference between pain and pleasure anymore. He’s been so rough with you, has done so many demoralizing things as he takes and takes from you, feeding his hatred and anger from the ghosts of his past. But he makes you feel so good, so fucking good. You can never deny him, can never run from him. You want it, you want it. So you’ll have it, you’ll have him.

“I could just eat you right up,” he purrs as he bites at your lower lip, pulling it back and releasing as it slaps back into place. You feel the sting of his teeth mark your throbbing lip, but it feels so good. So good.

“So do it. Take me,” you beg, choking out the words with his strong hand wrapped around you.

His eyes go black as he smirks up at you, his eyes smoldering into yours. “You asked for it, little lamb. Now c’mere.” He growls as he releases his death grip on your neck and yanks you out of the chair, slamming you into the white wall as he pins your arms above you and shoves the sheer nightgown up your body. He rips it over your head and tosses it to the floor in a heap.

You feel the cold air across your bare skin as his body crowds you, his lips sinking deep into your neck as he bites at the thin flesh. He pulls and tugs and sucks in a needy, aggressive way. You release breathy moans as the pain turns to pleasure, as you fall deep into the wolf’s trap as he claws at you. Taking, taking, taking. He’s rough, insensitive, always taking what he wants, what he craves. But you let him, you always let him.

He rolls your nipples with the pads of his rough thumbs, gathering your breasts as he kneads them together, making you pebble underneath him as he bites at them, leaving marks all over you. He claims, he takes with no regard for you. It’s what he needs, but you need it just as bad now. He’s brought you to ruin again and again, and he’ll continue to take advantage. You’ll let him, you’ll let him.

He glides his tongue back up to the crook of your neck and bites hard as you scream in both pleasure and pain. It’s too much, too much. But you take it, allowing him to have his way with you. He needs it, he needs it.

You feel the edge of his bulge against your leg as his hips dig into you, feel the shape as your body shakes around you. You want it, you need his cock. Your hands are still held against your will above you, so you lift your leg up slowly, skimming the base of him as you feel his large length through his denim. He grabs your leg fast and shoves it down as he grabs your chin and brings your eyes to his level.

“Did I say you could fucking touch me?” he snarls as his jagged teeth shine in the moonlight.

“No…” you whisper scarcely.

“No is right,” he snarls with bared teeth. “You do as I say when I say it. Got it?” he asks as he shoves you up against the wall, keeping his hand planted firmly against your jaw.

“Yes, sir,” you respond with a shaky breath.

“Good girl,” he smirks. “Now, let me teach you a little lesson on how to fucking do as you’re told,” he growls. “Stay,” he commands as he leaves you clinging to the thin wall. He saunters over to the wooden chair and takes a seat as he spreads his legs, palming himself slowly as one hand unlatches his leather belt and drops it to the floor with a clank.

“Get on all fours, now,” he commands as he swiftly unzips his jeans, slowly yanking them to the ground as he kicks off his leather boots and pushes the jeans to the floor, leaving him bare from the waist down. You gawk at the size of him, of that massive twitching erection as it plants firmly against his tight stomach, a bead of precum glistening on the swollen tip of him. He’s so fucking pretty sitting there, about to palm himself as he watches you. Something about that brings out the sultry, unruly side of you. You want to taste him, need to feel him inside you.

You’re on all fours, waiting for his commanding call as he allows you to come to him. You need to feel him, need to taste him, need to smell him as his hot arousal encases the air, taking over every logical sense of your brain as he calls to you in your mind. Come out, come out wherever you are, little lamb. Time to come play with the big, bad wolf.

“Crawl,” he growls from the middle of the room, glaring his dark black pits into your soul. You generously oblige as you scrape your nails over the wooden floor, feeling your knees drag behind you as you make your way to him slowly and steadily. You feel your eyes gloss over with pure lust as you stare up at him, watching him pump his hand up and down his large cock, spreading precum all over himself. You gulp at the sight, at the massive length he has on him.

God, he’s so big. So big that when he takes you, he stretches you to your limits. Splitting you in two as he drives into you over and over again. It’s never vanilla, it’s always rough. So very rough. But you like it. Like the way he feels inside you as he claims you, dominates you. You’re mine, all mine, he grits through his teeth as he takes you, digging his nails into your skin as he rips at you, shredding you to pieces.

Take me, take me, you beg through your mind. And you swear he hears you by the way he sits up straighter at full attention and smirks down at you with eyes full of pure lust. And he’s telling you now with his smirk, with his eyes. You’re mine, he growls. And you know it, you know it. His to take.

You grovel over to him, batting your long eyelashes up at him as if that’ll stir the desire in him. You bite your lower lip and flick your tongue across the edge seductively as you smolder for him. Take me, take me, you scream.

The anger builds in him as he snarls down at you and hisses as he continues to pump his large length. The thick veins cascade around his thick cock as shots of precum drip down around him, ending in his coarse, wiry hair. You want to taste him, need to taste him. You’ve never craved anyone like this in your entire life.

He wrapped his twisting vines around your wrists and pulled until he had a forceful hold on you. He dragged you through the pitch black forest and devoured your body, claiming you as his own in the first week he met you. And you were hooked ever since, never being able to say no to him. You could even hear the forest shrieking its warning calls. Run away, leave, get away from the wolf with dark eyes. But you didn’t listen, only hypnotized by the dark, dominant beast of the night.

When you finally reach him and work your way in between his legs, he grabs your jaw with his rough hand and forces you to open as he squeezes you tight. “Tongue out,” he presses and you fully oblige.

You stick your wet tongue out, and he brings the tip of his cock to you as you slowly lap at the end with your tongue. “Fuck,” he groans from deep in his chest as he stares down at you with a snarl. You slowly draw sensual circles with your tongue along his most sensitive spots and lap up precum into your mouth as you generously swallow the salty flavor of him. You smirk up at him as you lap at his tip, giving him your best smoldering eyes that you can.

You watch his eyes turn coal black as he grabs the back of your hair and pulls your eyes up to his. You wince at the pain simmering through your skull as he holds you tight, unable to move an inch from him. “Quit fuckin’ teasin’ me,” he growls as his piercing eyes sear through you like a knife. He pulls your hair tighter and you cry out in pain. “You gonna be a good girl and behave?” he asks with a twinge of anger in his deep voice.

“Mhm,” you nod as he stares his hard eyes into you.

“Better be.” He bares his teeth as he lets his grip drop from you, and you catch yourself on his knees. “Now be a good little lamb and show me how good your mouth fucks,” he growls as he sits back in the wooden chair and scoots his hips up, waiting to be pleasured by you.

You’re quick to appease him. You wrap a hand around his thick cock and slide your hand up and down, spreading precum all around his length, and then you take him in your mouth. You work him nice and slow as you bob up and down, up and down, gathering spit all over his cock. He moans a deep, sated sound out of his throat as he watches you with hollowed out black eyes.

You continue flicking your tongue and sucking his thick, substantial length as you work up and down to please him. You can tell he’s right on the edge of release by the way he’s clenching his jaw and breathing out ragged, concentrated moans. But he won’t end there, not tonight. He’ll push your boundaries, he always does.

As you pull back to his tip, he reaches down and grabs your hair hard and thrusts up into your mouth. He brings your head forward and forces you down as his large length hits the back of your throat, making your eyes start to water from the action. He doesn’t let up, he just keeps thrusting harder and faster as he mouth fucks you forcefully.

You choke and gag on him as he hits the back of your throat over and over again. Your mouth is a swimming pool of saliva as it drips down your chin, caking his cock with slick drool. You feel like you're drowning and can’t breathe underneath him, but he keeps going. He’s almost there, almost there. Need to breathe, need to breathe. Your eyes water as tears spill down your crimson cheeks and fall to the cold floor. He’s pushing you, always pushing you to your limits as he pushes past them. He loves when you choke on him, loves to hear the gargled, gagging sounds as your throat constricts around him. And when you look into his black eyes and see the way he bares his sharp teeth down at you, you know you made him feel good.

“You look so goddamn pretty choking on me, little lamb. Feels so fucking good when you deep throat me, when I fuck your mouth with my cock,” he moans as he pushes you deeper, nearly suffocating you under the weight of his massive cock that’s coated in drool. “Now you’re gonna be a good girl and swallow for me,” he commands as he thrusts inside you.

You can’t take much more. You’re out of breath and you’re digging into his thighs as you continue to take him, barely able to hold on anymore. You see him clench his jaw again, his breath speeding up as he groans curses out of his mouth. He’s there, he’s there. His dark eyes roll back as he holds your head in place and releases his load all through the back of your throat. You feel the white, hot liquid slide down your throat as you swallow the salty taste of him.

“Good girl. That’s a good fucking girl,” he growls as he finishes releasing himself in you. You watch his body go slack against the back of the chair as he breathes hot, whimpered moans from deep within his chest. He drops his hand from the back of your head, and you pull back, finally able to breathe again. You catch your breath and cough as you choke on more saliva and cum. You brace your hands on the cool floor and sink your nails into the wood, getting a grip on reality again as your body comes back to earth. Your voice is so shaky, so raspy as you wipe the drool from your chin and swipe the tears from your eyes.

He takes, he takes, the voices whisper. But you let him take, you let him ravage you as much as he wants. Don’t give in, don’t listen to the beast. But you do, you always do. The beast has claimed you as his, and little lambs always listen to their master.

The shrieking wind blows against your window, warning you of the beast that lies inside. Warning you that there’s danger near, and it’s lurking. That danger sits in your wooden chair, revitalizing himself before he crowds your body over the bed. He’s not done with you just yet. He needs to feed, needs to devour the entirety of you. He needs to destroy every last part of you as he claims you for himself over and over again.

He slowly pushes himself out of the wooden chair and grabs your arm, pulling you up from the cold floor as he grasps you tight. “On the bed,” he commands as he bares his teeth and pulls you over to the queen sized bed. He pushes you down as you fall on your back into the cool, satiny sheets.

He slowly unbuttons his plaid shirt as he stalks toward you with dark eyes that look like they want to devour you whole. When he gets to the last button, he pulls off the shirt and drops it to the floor, leaving him completely bare. He’s so goddamn handsome that it hurts to even stare for too long.

His broad shoulders and thick arms make it hard to breathe. His bulging veins that spider down his arms and cover his massive hands makes you want to whine in need. His tousled curls and brown flecked eyes make you want to come undone just from one look. They’re hypnotizing, spellbinding. And if you look close enough, you swear you can see the flash of yellow in his eyes as he stalks toward you, ready to pounce as he comes in for the kill.

Run, go now before it’s too late, the voices warn. The wolf comes to steal, the wolf comes to kill, they shriek. Let him, you whisper to the voices. You’re his to take. You want him to take. Take me, take me, you beg. And he will, he always does.

You feel the mattress shift underneath you as he drags his body over the edge of the bed, slowly crawling on top of you as his massive form hangs over you. His eyes are black pits as they stare at you, tempting you to come into the darkness as he drags you down again and again. Your eyes go wide and your pulse races in your neck as you stare up at the man made of nightmares.

“What’s the matter, little lamb? Scared of the big bad wolf?” he asks as he smirks down at you, his eyes pooled with darkness.

“No, I’m not scared,” you whisper out as you gulp down your fears.

“Then why can I smell the fear on you?” he smiles, his teeth like white, jagged razors.

“I’m not scared of you. No. I’m scared you’ll run off into the night and never come back.” Your voice comes out meek, breathy. Why the fuck did you just say that? His smile drops from his face and his eyebrows knit together. You can’t tell what he’s feeling, can’t tell what he’ll do. Don’t go, don’t go, you whisper. You need him. You need him.

His jaw flexes and relaxes as you see his waning features in the moonlight. He grazes his calloused fingers over your jaw slowly and comes to cup your chin as he pulls your eyes up to his. “You don’t have to worry about that, little lamb. Even if I run, I always come back. You’re mine and mine alone. Tell me who you belong to,” he growls possessively, making you desperate for his touch. You need him, you need him.

“You. I belong to you. I’m yours,” you gasp out, not able to hold on much longer. Touch me, taste me, devour me.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises.

Before you can comprehend what happens, he crashes his lips down to yours and devours you. Sucking, biting, kissing your throbbing lips as he shoves his tongue in your mouth and glides his rough tongue against yours. He swirls and swirls, filling up your senses with the taste of him. He tastes so fucking good, you could get lost in his whiskey taste, needing to drown in it until it fills up your lungs completely.

When he releases from your mouth, he cages his arms around your shoulders and crowds your body with his. “Little lamb, little lamb. What pretty eyes you have,” he purrs as he slowly pushes your legs apart with his knees, spreading you wide open for him to take. You bite your lip at the gentle praise and feel yourself become wet with arousal at the sight of him spreading you.

He lowers his head to your neck and licks a stripe up the side, right in the sensitive crevice of your neck. “And you taste so fucking good, I just love eating you up,” he groans as he bites down on your most sensitive nerve ending in your neck. You moan at the sharp, hot sensation as a wave of slick runs down your inner thigh.

He trails his hand slowly down your center, starting at your chin, gliding down your sternum, sliding over your abdomen, and ending at your wet, hot center. He spreads your soft folds and draws tight, slow circles around your clit as you hear the sloshing noises from your arousal.

“Joel,” you moan out, whining as it takes you under a sea of hypnotic pleasure. “Take me. Please, take me,” you beg.

“That’s right, little lamb. Good girls get rewarded, and you’ve been such a good girl for me tonight,” he praises through your thick cloud of pleasure. “Gonna fuck you now, little lamb. Gonna show you how good I can make you feel,” he says with bared teeth.

“Please,” you beg as he takes his thumb off your clit and pulls you down further in the bed, angling your hips up as he wraps your legs tight around his back.

“You’re mine, little lamb. Mine,” he growls as he plunges his thick cock in you, spreading you wide and splitting you in two as you moan out in pleasure.

He keeps his strides steady and slow, quickly picking up the pace as he fucks up into you over and over again. Driving your moans out of you as he bottoms out inside you, pounding over and over again against your tight walls. He throws your legs over his shoulders and digs his nails into your hips as he fucks you hard and fast, repeatedly hitting the soft, spongy area inside you over and over again. It’s too much, it’s too fucking much. You whine out as you moan his name over and over again. So good, it feels so good. You can feel the pressure building, feel your orgasm about to take form as your walls flutter against his cock.

“You’re squeezin’ me so tight, little lamb. Feels so fuckin’ good. Let go for me, want you to come for me. Tell me who fuckin’ makes you feel good. Tell me who you fuckin’ belong to,” he growls as he fucks inside you harder, pressing the pad of his calloused thumb against your throbbing bundle of nerves as he circles and circles, drawing that sweet orgasm out of you.

You feel the tingling sensation wash over your head, down your spine, and ending at your aching cunt as your toes curl around him. You keep your eyes trained on him as you’re barely able to keep them open. You feel your mouth drop open wide as you let out a loud moan that’s meant for Joel.

“You. I belong to you, Joel.” You scream out his name as your orgasm washes over you, feeling your walls clench up around him and then release white slick all over his cock as he continues to thrust up inside you, as he continues to circle your pulsing clit. White, hot heat spills through you as you completely lose yourself to him. Your body feels staticky as your mind goes fuzzy and your brain fogs over, only thinking of the man with dark eyes that takes you over completely.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” he growls as he leans over your body and hovers over you, driving his thick cock in and out, in and out. Bottoming out so many times that you see stars. He’s there, he’s almost there, he’s about to cum. Four more thrusts and his body tenses up, his black pupils expanding as he throws his head back and clenches his jaw. He spills his seed inside of you as you feel the sticky cum coat your walls. He claims you, he claims you, and you love it, can never get enough. Mine, mine, mine, he growls possessively. And you’re his, you’re all his.

He slowly pulls out of you as you feel his seed drip down your inner thighs. “Did so good for me, little lamb. So good,” he praises as he cleans the mess from your thighs, wiping away the evidence that he had been there. He collapses next to you in bed and pulls you to him as he wraps his strong arms around you, crushing you to his chest. It feels good, this feels good.

He always leaves right after he finishes, never stays to comfort or hold you. He’s selfish, mean, but tonight he holds you. He holds you. He stays. You don’t say anything about it, don’t ask him why he stays because he’ll just get up and leave, leaving you empty and alone.

You feel the heavy weight he holds close to him, feel the heartbreak he carries with him day after day, can feel the cold glass of the broken watch grazing against your back. But you don’t ask, don’t chance it. You feel the loss cover him, feel his anger seething somewhere underneath his calm demeanor. It’s there just waiting to pounce, waiting to lash out at whatever stands in front of him.

He’s the wolf that stalks Jackson, the wolf that terrorizes the forest, the wolf that haunts the whispering ghosts that lie buried in the cold, dead ground. He goes around destroying, rampaging, slaughtering in the thick of the night. He’s a menace that looks for anything he can sink his teeth into and bleed dry. He’s a looming threat over every area he enters, threatening to destroy and kill. He takes, he takes. Again and again. But that’s what wolves do. They hunt and they take and they dominate while their prey cower before them, just waiting for the kill.

Joel is a wolf. A reckless, vengeful, powerful wolf. He loves to devour, loves to control, loves to dominate you. But he also gives, never letting you go starving for his touch. He always comes at the dead of night, always pulls you from your deep sleep to tumble around with the wolf in the sheets.

He’s like a melodic, captivating melody that hypnotizes you, calling you into the forest night after night with his deep howl. You always go, never ignoring the call that’s meant for you and you alone. And when you go, the ghosts reach for you from under the dirt and try to pull you away, warning you of what you’re about to face. But you ignore them, stepping over their graves as if they were never there. You go, you always go. Never betraying the lonely wolf with the sad, dark eyes.

It’s now while he holds you tight in his arms that you realize maybe you were meant to find him. He’s broken, a lone wolf that walks the hollow streets of Jackson just trying to find a purpose to keep going, to keep fighting. And when you showed up a few months ago, it's like a little light turned on inside him when it was all around black before you came.

You see him now for what he really is. He’s not all bad, not all teeth and claws. He yearns to break free from his wolf form, begging to run free with the rest of the pack instead of being cast out like he is. You see it in his wrinkled forehead, in his jaw that repeatedly clenches and relaxes, in his dark brown eyes that hollow out when you stare into them.

He’s so close, so close that you smell his mahogany forest scent that clings to him as it pulls you in, intoxicating you into a relaxed state. He stares at you with those dark eyes, his chest breathing in and out in shallow waves. You try something new, feeling brave all of a sudden. You slowly reach out your hand and brush it through his tousled curls, gently moving away a dark piece that falls against the side of his face. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lash out at you like a wild animal. He stays calm, just staring at you with a soft expression. His eyes change to a chocolate brown instead of the deep black pits he usually has. And then he surprises you by reaching his hand up slowly to your face, hesitating at the gentleness of himself. He trails his calloused fingers over your cheek, as light as a feather as he takes in your tranquil features.

He changes, he changes, the voices call. No more teeth, no more slaughter, they chant louder. A quiet victory to the ghosts that haunt the forest.

And just like that, you have tamed the wolf, controlling all his pent up rage, giving him the restitution he needed all along. You can see it in his big brown eyes, how he looks at you as if you saw him for the first time when no one else did. When no one else could give him what he needed. He needed someone that could understand all the hurt and loss he had been through. You’ve lost, you’ve died a thousand times through grief, but you found your way again through him. The hungry wolf that you were searching for all along.

And so the lost, scared lamb found herself in the face of the big, bad wolf. He came to destroy, to take, and to use. But you found a way to tame the claws, to tame the gnashing teeth. Somehow you controlled the beast, showing him that he truly wasn’t alone. Never leave, never leave, you call to him in your mind. And it’s like he can hear your thoughts because he drags his thumb lightly down your jawline and responds.

“I’ll stay, little lamb. I’ll stay,” he whispers. And he does, he does.

Maybe not all wolves are out to steal, kill, and destroy. Maybe there are wolves that are just lonely, broken, needing to know that someone understands them. Needing to know that they’re truly not alone. Joel is that wolf. He just needed to find you. He needed to find the lamb that wouldn’t run and cower in his presence. He needed a lamb that would stay by his side, that would show him the way out of the dark and into the light. He needed restitution. He needed you. He needed you.

And so he stays, he stays. The lonely, bleeding, broken wolf finding resolve and contentment with the quiet, gentle lamb. He stays.

Tags: @janaispunk @amyispxnk @iamasaddie @ashleymsnodgrass @tuquoquebrute @whxtedreams @fanfictilltheend @burntheedges @cinnamongorll @studioghibelli @pedrostories @blueseastorm @trea-bae

[theetherealbloom]

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

[credince--writes]

I'm thinking about the Better Off Dead series right now- and the first sexual encounter of Roach & Getter.

(Poly!Soap x Ghost x Roach x Reader)

Smut Below The Cut

Sorry I wrote this on my phone. Brainworms.

This is one of those 'man I have this idea but I don't want to write the oodles of plot that would lead up to the scenario

You're pawing at eachother, anger meeting in a clash of tongue and teeth that reminds you of home.

Stumbling back, back back and into Gary's room not thinking much of it

The pounding in your ears and the sounds of rustling clothes tunnel visions in on pulling Gary's shirt off and over his head- tossing it forgotten to the side

It's a bitter ritual of begging for forgiveness- his hard body going soft and placid beneath your fingertips as you push him back- direct his body as you see fit. Pushing down- the sudden loss of contact of skin only because his feet caught on a pair of boots tucked neatly at the end of the bed.

Back colliding down onto the soft surface below- a soft gasp leaving Gary's lips before you climb on top.

Your hands, you would always recall in these moments- are so much smaller than his. But yet wrapping your fingers around his wrist he allows you to pin his arms over his head.

He knows the second he breaks the illusion of power you're gone.

You're so, so angry.

The glob of spit left your mouth without even thinking. One hand leaving his wrists to breach your thumb against Gary's lips, press down against his tongue and hold his mouth- hot and wet open.

There's no words. Nothing is spoken but the glazed, hazy look in his eyes tells you enough that all the anger, red faced bile sinks its claws into your throat- clawing up and up until-

"You fucking whore-" you grit out, ignoring the hot feeling on your cheeks, the breathy way your condescending words leave your lips.

He just groans, rolling his hips up against your own.

Yanking down his trousers and briefs, roughly taking his cock in hand and giving him a singular dry tug down the length.

He bucks up, finally- noise- retribution leaving his lips as a groan leaks out into the air. A thick, choking smog.

It's not loving.

There is no care in the actions tugging your own bottoms off before fulling seating down on his cock.

You see the strain of his biceps as he holds himself back.

Back when he was a good boy- he'd be able to wrap his hands around your soft middle. Lifting you up and down on his cock when your eyes went cross.

Pawing at your tits, pulling you close to suck on them.

No, this wasn't the past.

You want to be mean.

Hateful.

You want to hurt like you've hurt.

You played with your clit when you ride him, ignoring the desperate, airy huffs of air leaving his lips.

Your orgasm hits, much to your dismay.

You hand leaves his wrists, but he dares not to move them from over his head.

Both hands planted on his chest, fingers digging into the collarbones beneath the flesh.

The ringing in your ears subsides before lifting your hand and slapping Gary across the face as hard as you can-

Grimacing as his cock twitches inside you

It fills you with a dreadful anger- the scab peeled off. Naked in front of him- all of the emotions come rushing back.

You lift your hand again.

A large, much larger hand wraps around your wrist. Engulfing your hand in a way that makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise-

Danger, predator.

The top of the food chain.

The apex.

You twist your neck, a small breath you hope is undetected unwillingly leaving your lips as Gary's cock pushes against the spongey ceiling of your insides as you lean back

Ignoring the twitch of your toes

Only to be greeted with the skull balaclava

You thought you were mean?

Oh, you're about to meet someone much, much meaner sweetheart.

[bonearenaofmyskull]

Hi there! I need your thoughts on the Dolce head-sawing scene. I have read different analyses, and the most recent one I read was saying that the reason Hannibal wanted to eat Will was because Will rejected him and eating him is the only way they could be together. Also, some say that he decided to kill Will only after Will tried to stab him. Additionally, was he slowing the process and waiting for someone to show up and stop him? What are your thoughts on this theory?

My thoughts about this can be more or less represented as, Well, yes, kind of, but also not really, and also definitely not. All these pieces are disjointed from the development of the relationship in the context of the season itself, as well as the series as a whole.

First off, I don't think Hannibal was super excited about the decision to eat Will in the first place because the expression on his face when he's talking to Bedelia about it looks pretty sick to his stomach. In the scene itself he has kind of a mournful tone--tender sometimes, cruel others: a little angry, a little bitter, a lot regretful. He talks about it, how he's sorry to be leaving Italy because he would have liked to do some things for himself there, but mostly that he would have liked to show it to Will. So it's not a stretch to believe that Hannibal didn't really want to eat Will very much (except insofar as he's probably curious about eating most people just as a general rule of thumb, and ofc since this is Will eating him would probably be omg so much better than eating anyone, so there is that).

But the decision had been made. After all, he did have the location prepped with a bone saw all ready to go. He made the decision all the way back in "Secondo" when Bedelia helped him draw the connection between how his sister influenced him in ways he could not control to the way that Will influences him in ways he cannot control: from love, to betrayal, and thence into forgiveness. That Will, through his interactions with Chiyoh that reflected Hannibal's interactions with Bedelia, had come to his own version of the same conclusion that Hannibal came to--that each's influence on the other was so sufficiently out of control that the only way to end it was to kill (and in Hannibal's case, eat) the other--was of no particular consequence to Hannibal's choice, at least not in a cause-and-effect fashion.

Thus it is not a rejection on Will's side any more than it is for Hannibal: it is a gesture of their forgiveness. "You dropped your forgiveness, Will," remember? "You forgive how God forgives," he complains, in his usual hypocritical fashion (which Will turns around on him with the comment about God gloating, which of course Hannibal approves of, since they are each God in his mind). This is, God-like, forgiveness through retribution. Seeing it as rejection is far too sane and rational--and certainly far too conventional--for these two delicate creatures. Hannibal eating Will and keeping a part of him inside forever in the Hobbsean style of cannibalism, as he did with his sister, is an acceptance of how important Will is to him. On Will's side of things, choosing to kill Hannibal is the exact same gesture of acceptance: Will cannot reject Hannibal through the choice of killing, of all things, which is exactly what Hannibal influences him to do. As we see later in "Digestivo," Will can only reject Hannibal through choosing not to kill him. What happens in "Dolce" or any other point in time in S3 isn't ever a rejection (including the hug, I might point out)--not as long as Will is playing their zero-sum game. Not as long as violence is involved. Never forget that violence is love and sex and all things in between on Hannibal.

Thus they each must attempt to kill the other simultaneously because they are one, not in spite of it. Bedelia observes that "Will Graham is en route to kill you, while you lie in wait to kill him" as an extension of the conversation about the reciprocity inherent in Hannibal and Will's relationship. Everything they do, they do reciprocally, at least at this point. This is why they can have such a tender meeting below La Primavera before getting down to business: all the deceptions are gone, and they're both seeing each other with not just truly clear eyes, but truly appreciative eyes. They each can see how much they mean to the other just as much as each thinks the only path forward is to subsume the other in order to regain self-control. They each offer the other "understanding and acceptance," Jack explains to Pazzi, right as Hannibal and Will are coming to same conclusion to off each other. Will can no more reject Hannibal in this moment than Hannibal can reject Will because they are the same.

As for whether Hannibal was slowing the meal process to wait for someone to show up and stop him, we have to look at the evidence of both what Hannibal knows and whether what he knows observably influences his choices.

Hannibal may have been able to deduce that Bedelia would give him up to the Polizia just as he would count that she'd give his location to Jack, but he might not have--Bedelia's kind of a wild card in that fashion, and her choice to give him up seems to have been made specifically in exchange for the investigator telling her that he'd let her off the hook for her and Hannibal's crimes in Italy. If she had not been able to solicit that commitment for whatever reason, then there's no reason to think that she'd have betrayed their location. She wouldn't play her card without getting her win. So it seems unlikely to me that that could be something that Hannibal would be able to know confidently one way or another.

Even if he did, it's hard to see it in the scene itself. He does wait for Jack initially, but that's because Jack has an important role to play. Hannibal doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry in the scene even after Jack shows up, but then he never is, so that means nothing in itself. He doesn't really waste any time once Jack is there, either. He incapacitates Jack and drugs him (he needs to do that to ensure Jack will eat), finishes his mise en place while he waits for Jack to become coherent-ish, and then to be fair, it's pretty minimal conversation before breaking out the bone saw. Just a couple minutes. So there's no evidence in the scene itself to suggest delay, and a certain amount of evidence to suggest otherwise. If the show had wanted to demonstrate delay, it would have been prudent to write Jack getting to the table earlier in the episode, and then use their conversation to emphasize the delay, with more than one scene in the episode. They could cut the elevator scene without any significant bearing on the plot. God forbid they speed up a scene with Bedelia in it. xD

But I think the real reason I reject the notion that Hannibal was delaying is because Jack was there. Hannibal is the devil, his punishments are symbolic retribution, the three of them are literally there in Florence acting out their own version of the Inferno. Hannibal may have been eating Will's brain to try to regain his own peace of mind, but he was absolutely involving Jack in the action because Jack deserved it. He played: it's his time to pay. And it isn't like Hannibal to half-ass a murder dinner, especially if he has a guest. How rude that would be!

I think these analyses that you've read tend to fall apart in kind of the same places as a lot of analyses these days, wherein they seem to assume that because the Hannigram relationship is the heart and foremost hook of the show, the only things that are analyzed are the actions of the two men. Where their actions and words don't directly and explicitly explain something, then people fill in the gaps with their own imagination and values, when in fact the other characters' words and actions and the overall context of the show usually explain things pretty clearly. The other characters are important, as is the overall path of the relationship.

[darknesseddiem]

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: In the midst of what was anticipated as an ordinary school excursion to Romania, little did you and your friends anticipate the descent into darkness and bloodshed that awaited. The innocuous journey swiftly morphed into a harrowing odyssey as you delved deep into the enigmatic depths of a local legend, its ancient whispers beckoning you towards an abyss of chilling secrets.

What commenced as a lighthearted escapade swiftly spiraled into a nightmarish reality. Grotesque and inexplicable deaths cast an ominous pall over the once jovial atmosphere, while the fabric of reality itself seemed to fray at the seams. Disappearances plagued the tranquil neighborhood, shrouded in an eerie silence broken only by the unsettling whispers of the wind.

The Hawkins gang found themselves ensnared in a web of intrigue and dread, as unsettling dreams wove themselves into the fabric of their waking lives. Each night brought visions of unspeakable horrors, foretelling a fate intertwined with the ancient curse that gripped the land.

As the veil of ignorance was lifted, long-buried truths clawed their way to the surface, revealing a tapestry of forgotten loves and bitter enemies from lives long past. It became evident that the specters of history were not content to remain confined to the annals of time, but instead sought retribution and resolution in the present.

Amidst the chaos and despair, a flicker of hope emerged—a beacon of possibility amidst the encroaching darkness. Could you, a mere schoolgirl thrust into the heart of an ancient mystery, unravel the tangled threads of Romania's cursed legend? Dare you confront the malevolent forces that lurk in the shadows, and strive to liberate a poor soul ensnared by the chains of destiny?

In a land where the echoes of the past reverberate with haunting intensity, the fate of the Hawkins gang hangs precariously in the balance. Will you succumb to the seductive whispers of despair, or rise to the challenge and confront the darkness that threatens to consume all in its path? The choice is yours, as you embark on a journey that will test the limits of courage, resilience, and the enduring power of the human spirit.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Heavy content, dark themes, violence, blood, murded, witchcraft. More will be added

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,3k

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: So, this is is the rewritten version of my old series "Strolling Through Romania", I have an obligation to warn you that this version will be a little more explicit and a little harsher for certain readers. Please, if you are sensitive to these types of topics, do not read. I have other fanfics that you can read if you don't feel comfortable with this one.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @ali-r3n @birdysaturne @maedesculpaeusoubi

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: In the heart of the ancient woodland, a frantic escape unfolds as shadows whisper of ominous fates. Reality warps, concealing a lurking malevolence. Amidst chains of torment, an eternal curse is woven, binding a soul to endless longing. In the haunted depths, a mysterious tale unfolds, shrouded in darkness and secrets, known only to the silent forest.

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲: As Arcadia High School diligently readies its senior students for an academic expedition to explore Romania's renowned museums, anticipation crackles in the air. Yet, amidst the buzz of excitement and preparation, you finds yourself haunted by a chilling nightmare that lingers like a specter in your mind, casting a shadow over the forthcoming journey.

Meanwhile, across town, the Hawkins police force grapples with a harrowing investigation—the savage and enigmatic murder of a young boy, a crime so brutal it sends shockwaves through the city's core.

𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐈𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟: Caught between nightmares and a shroud of chilling secrets, you uncover truths long veiled by your parents and grandmother. Meanwhile, Hopper, haunted by his own past, recognizes the ominous pattern of history destined to repeat itself. As you navigate the murky waters of family deceit, a race against time ensues, urging you to unearth the hidden truths before the shadows of the past envelop you in their unforgiving grasp.

[otaku-girl-ao3]

Wonka Masterlist | Otaku_Girl | AO3

Wonka (2023) fics from Otaku_girl (AHatfulOfDreams) on AO3. Predominantly featuring Felix Fickelgruber, Willy Wonka, Arthur Slugworth, Gerald Prodnose and The Chief of Police (Francis).

The easiest way to follow my work and get the latest updates on all of my fics is via Archive Of Our Own - subscribing via my main Otaku_girl or my Wonka-specific pseud AHatfulOfDreams. 

🔥 smut writer 🔥

Please for the love of Blorbs do not read my AO3 if you aren’t 18+

Banner art commissioned August 2024 - @tikiss

Sugar daddy? Call me (sir)

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥 Dark?: ❌ Status: WIP  | Chapters 99/? Series: Simply quid pro quo Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka Used to being in control during his working life, Willy wants (needs) someone to take control of his life outside of the inventing room. But trying to juggle his wants and desires without risking his dream may prove to be more tricky than he had anticipated.

Felix likes to be in control. A man of power, he’s not used to hearing no. Everybody has a price. Everyone. There’s no way some upstart chocolate maker would dare do anything but roll over for Fickelgruber, is there?

⭐Recommended⭐ Longfic 200k+ | Sugar daddy | healthy bdsm dynamics | happy ending

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His (darkness)

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥 Dark?: ✔️ Status: WIP | Chapters 18/75 Pairings: Dark!Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber, Felix Fickelgruber/ Arthur Slugworth

“Arthur. You cannot be serious.” Voice pitched low so that only Arthur would hear him, Felix stood beside the other man, body trembling as dark, almost black eyes turned on him. There was a sharpness to Arthur’s eyes, to his smile, that promised retribution when it was just the two of them behind closed doors.

“As you can see, he is mainly housebroken. But he still needs to be put in his place on a regular basis. He needs to be taught a firm lesson, as it were. You can take Felix if you want him. Consider him my little welcoming gift to you. He’s not as pretty or as young as he once was, but at least he’ll keep thin for you. And he’s very obedient when remembers to mind his manners.”

“No, Arthur, please.”

“Do you think that you can handle him, Wonka? He is clearly in need of some remedial lessons.”

“I think I shouldn’t have a problem, Arthur. I thank you for the gift. I shall make sure to use it thoroughly before your return. Perhaps he could do with a reminder of precisely who he deserves to be owned by. Property doesn’t get to choose its master.”

⭐Recommended⭐ Dark!Wonka | longfic 50k+ | whump and angst

(A world of) my own

Rating: General Status: Complete Pairings: Arthur Slugworth/Willy Wonka Wonka’s store stood, a hollowed-out husk, the remains burned to cinders. When the cartel came, what if Arthur felt a twinge of something he hadn’t felt in years? 

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Bitter choices and unsweetened dreams

Rating: Mature Smut? 🔥 Suggestive not explicit ❌ Status: Complete | Chapters 4/4 Pairings: Dark!Willy Wonka/Reader While trying to escape capture, you try to ask for Mister Wonka's help. It's best to be careful what you wish for.

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Can't (help) fall(ing) in love

Rating: General Status: Complete Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka Felix Fickelgruber’s life had always been dictated by his words—his soulmark, a phrase destined to connect him with his soulmate. Unlike others who struggled with ambiguous marks, Felix’s were clear and unmistakable, setting a path before him that many would envy. Yet, Felix found this clarity more of a burden than a blessing. Soulmates AU.

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Count on me

Rating: Teen Status: Complete Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber & Arthur Slugworth Notes: Platonic bdsm, asexual Felix, non-sexual bdsm, sexual situations mentioned

“What have you eaten today, Felix?” Arthur waited patiently. There was no judgement in his gaze, only patience. Some days Felix couldn’t help but think that made things worse. “I know that you did not stop for lunch. Did you eat anything at breakfast?”

Felix remained silent. He couldn't rightly remember. He did not think that he had, but he wasn't certain.

Knowing eyes met his gaze. “Would it be any easier if you were to kneel for me?”

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Dark deeds and bitter choices 

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ✔️ Status: Complete | Chapters 7/7 Pairings: Arthur Slugworth/Felix Fickelgruber, Arthur Slugworth/Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka, Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka What if Mrs Scrubbit decided that they could make more money using Willy's talents elsewhere, outside of the washhouse?

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Darling Boy

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ✔️ kidnapping, dubcon Status: Complete | Chapters 13/13 Pairings:  Felix Fickelgruber/Ariel Conroy  You took something that belongs to me, Mister Conroy. And I shall have you repay that debt. One way or another."

Ariel thought that he was just hacking funds from another wealthy nobody. Too bad that Felix doesn’t take kindly to having his money stolen. Luckily for Ariel, there are other methods of repayment that he is willing to accept.

The Wonka x You, Me and The Apocalypse (crossover).

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Drop

Rating: Mature Smut? ❌ Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth, Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka Felix experiences sub drop after a one-night stand. Arthur helps pick up the pieces.

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Empty 

Rating: Teen Dark?: ✔️ Depression  Status: Complete Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth  There’s no colour in the sky when Felix wakes up. There’s no warmth in his chest, or excitement in his gut. There is nothing but the unwavering certainty: he is not enough.

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Falling in love (with my best friend)

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete | Chapters 5/5 Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Gerald Prodnose “What happened this time, Felix?”

“I made an utter fool of myself. Again. I thought…” he trailed off. Settling the delicate china down, he allowed his hands to rest in his lap. He turned them over slowly, eyes running over the delicate bones shifting just beneath the surface, the faint calluses that could truly only be felt rather than seen unless you knew to look for them.

Nobody ever looked at Felix and thought to look for them.

“Felix?”

“He called me a slut.”

Friends-to-lovers fluff and smut (with just a touch of angst)

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For a moment

Rating: Mature Smut? ❌ Dark?: ✔️ Domestic violence (non-explicit) Status: Complete Pairings:  Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth, Arthur Slugworth/Willy Wonka

“I have a spare room. It’s nothin' fancy, but it beats any of the shelters I’m meant to recommend in these cases.” “These cases?”

The chief looked down, before steeling himself and meeting Felix’s gaze once more. “I think we both know what I mean, Mister Fickelgruber, Sir.”

“I do not think that we do. You shall have to spell it out for me.”

It takes an average of seven attempts for a person to leave a domestic violent situation for good.

⭐Recommended⭐ poignant | personal favourite

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For a moment like this

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ❌ Status: WIP  | Chapters 2/? Series: For a moment like this  Pairings: Poly chocolate cartel, Arthur Slugworth/Gerald Prodnose, Arthur Slugworth/Gerald Prodnose/Felix Fickelgruber, Felix Fickelgruber/Gerald Prodnose

“Arthur.”

There’s no space for words between them. The name falling from his lips — an admonishment, a prayer, a breathy, needy plea — is more than enough.

Thick fingers — strong enough to break him, if Arthur so wishes — tug at delicate tweed. The unmistakable sound of fabric tearing, of buttons skittering across wooden floorboards, of bare flesh meeting bare flesh intertwines with their harsh breaths.

All thoughts of excitement, of anticipation, of gently building softness and whispered sweet nothings lay by the wayside; those moments are for when Felix can find a spare moment to join them. For when words tease as much as clever fingers and dexterous tongues and wicked little smiles.

Gerald, Arthur and Felix share moments together. [Now] a collection of polychocolate cartel vignettes.

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Forget Me (K)Not

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥 Dark?:❌ Status: Complete | Chapters 25/25 Pairings: Willy Wonka/Cartel, Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber, Willy Wonka/Gerald Prodnode, Willy Wonka/Arthur Slugworth, Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber/Gerald Prodnose/Arthur Slugworth 

“Please? Please. I need…”

“The boy is clearly a beta, Felix. Use your nose. No self-respecting omega would go around smelling like that. And have you not seen his clothes? The callouses on his hands? I know you have a weakness for pretty little things, Felix, but wake up. This is no more than another pathetic attempt by a money-grubbing, greedy child to get a leg up. So no. Absolutely not. I will not even entertain the thought.”

Omega!Willy goes into his first heat.

⭐Recommended⭐ A/B/O  | Poly chocolate cartel 

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Good boy

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥 Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete Series: Yours (mine) Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth 

They need no words as Arthur buckles the leather in place. He can feel how Felix swallows, eyes wide and hopeful, as Arthur’s fingertips brush against him. He can feel the racing of Felix’s pulse beneath his hands as he slips his collar in place.

“Good boy.”

Nothing compares to watching those words sink in. Tension melts from every inch of Felix, a graceful, bonelessness settling about him like a second skin. It suits him, Arthur thinks, as well as any bespoke tailored suit. Better in fact.

“You have been all alone all day, haven’t you, pet? Such a brave boy. Come. Such good behaviour deserves a reward.”

⭐Recommended⭐ Pet play | soft feels and smut

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His jewel

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Status: Complete Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/The Chief of Police

Francis hates the feeling of not being plugged. It had been one of Felix’s first requirements, when they first began their little arrangement. He had thought the other man was joking at first. Until he had seen the look of disappointment in Felix’s eyes when he had slipped a hand beneath his uniform trousers to check, and found his hole clenched tightly shut, not a single sign of use since the last time Felix had deemed him worthy of his time and attention.

Felix gets The Chief a special little something to help him think about him whenever they aren't together.

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His jewel

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Status: Complete Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/The Chief of Police

Francis hates the feeling of not being plugged. It had been one of Felix’s first requirements, when they first began their little arrangement. He had thought the other man was joking at first. Until he had seen the look of disappointment in Felix’s eyes when he had slipped a hand beneath his uniform trousers to check, and found his hole clenched tightly shut, not a single sign of use since the last time Felix had deemed him worthy of his time and attention.

Felix gets The Chief a special little something to help him think about him whenever they aren't together.

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(Hold me close) in your arms

Rating: Mature Smut? 🔥 post-smut, aftercare, minimal smut Status: Complete Pairings: Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber

"Relax. Listen to the music. Float for as long as you wish. I will be here when you are ready to come back."

Felix takes care of Willy after a scene. Soft aftercare and fluff.

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If I pretend (that nothing ever went wrong)

Rating: Teen Dark?: ✔️No, but upsetting themes ❌ Status: Complete  | Chapter 6/6 Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth, Felix Fickelgruber/Investor

Felix is thirteen when he learns that he cannot trust his heart to anyone, no matter how sweet their words or how warm their smiles may be. He is thirteen when he learns that money, not love, is what he truly needs.

5+1 ~ 5 moments that built Felix Fickelgruber (+1 man that changed him forever).

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Just give me a reason (just a little bit’s enough)

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete Series: Just give me a reason (part 2) - can be read as stand-alone Pairings:  Felix Fickelgruber/The Chief of Police

“What brings you to my doorstep this evening, Chief? I do hope that I shall have the opportunity to counter whatever offer Arthur has made you before you proceed.”

The Chief looked at him blankly. He could see the tenseness around Felix’s mouth, the tightness around his eyes. Was that his hands shaking, just visible above his desk? Surely not. Felix didn’t get nervous. Not like that. Unless…His stomach dropped. “Before I—Jesus Christ Felix, I’m not here because Arthur sent me.”

When Felix misses a cartel meeting, The Chief of Police can't help but worry. Shameless smut ensues.

⭐Recommended⭐ Personal favourite  | get-together

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(Keep my head above) water

Rating: Teen Dark?: ✔️ near death experience  Status: Complete

After seven years of life upon the ocean, Willy finally decides to bid the seven seas farewell and start pursuing his dreams at The Galeries Gourmet. But what prompted him to leave his life at sea?

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Make me (break me) 

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete | Chapters 3/3 Pairings: Reader/Felix Fickelgruber

“I can assure you that it is all there.” He sounds insulted that you would even consider checking that the amount in full is there before things get started. “Just like the first envelope this evening had the exact amount agreed upon.”

You send him a small placating smile. “It is nothing personal, Mister Fickelgruber. It is just business.”

"Now. Strip."

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Make me (yours)

Rating: Mature Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete Series: Ethical slut (part 1) Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth

“In the mood for something particular this evening, sir?”

“I am looking for someone,” Arthur hesitates. “Mister Fickelgruber?”

The attendant’s smile widens. “Felix is set up in the blue room. Third floor; you cannot miss it. The queue should not be too long at this time of night.”

Where on earth have you led us, Felix?

⭐Recommended⭐ Vignette | Slutty Felix | healthy relationship (get-together)

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Party favour 

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ✔️ Starts dark, gets better ❌ Status: WIP  | Chapters 4/5 Pairings: Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber, Arthur Slugworth/Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka/Chief of Police, Willy Wonka/Gerald Prodnose, Willy Wonka/Chocolate Cartel, Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth/Gerald Prodnose “Remember this is what you asked for. You wanted this.”

Hands clenching and unclenching, he wished not for the first time, that he had been more careful. He had relied on the kindness of strangers for so long — too long. It would seem that he had grown used to their help, their honesty and support. He didn’t think to look for deception in their every move, to seek out the potential dangers in their every action.

He should have learned his lesson from his contract with Mrs Scrubbit and Mister Bleacher.

He should have done a lot of things.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to stay right here. I’ll make sure anyone who comes even remotely our way will enjoy the view to the fullest.”

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Pet 

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ❌ Status: WIP | Chapters 1/? Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth  “It really is quite simple, Arthur. I have certain… predilections when it comes to my partners. I enjoy a certain, shall we say, power dynamic within the bedroom.”

“You wish to be held down and told what to do? I can do that."

“You misunderstand, darling. I prefer to be the one doing the ‘holding down’ and ‘telling what to do’, as it were."

Arthur Slugworth was not a man who took orders. And yet, for Felix...he could learn to be.

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Pretty little mis(understanding)

Rating: Teen Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete Pairings: Reader/Felix Fickelgruber “What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ hanging around here after dark?”

You swallow hard. “I-I don’t have much money on me.”

“You think I’m after your money?” He sounds angry, incredulous. Almost… insulted. “And now you’re disobeying an officer of the law!”

“Officer? Please, I didn’t realise—”

You have a little run-in with The Chief of Police while waiting for Felix.

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(Pure) imagination

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Status: Complete | Chapters 5/5 Pairings:  Willy Wonka/Reader You wouldn't go as far as to say you love your job, but you do love the freedom it gives you. One frozen night, you encounter a customer unlike any other, who seems determined to show you a world beyond your imagination.

Mr. Wonka tries to hire your services for the night. You end up with far more than you bargained for.

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Secret (inside)

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Status: Complete Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka

“Are you ready to be my good boy?”

The low thrum of the crowd around them wasn’t enough to catch Willy’s attention. He let out a low, desperate whine as he felt the flared base of the plug catching on his rim.

“How does that feel, sweet boy?” Felix’s lips brushed against the shell of his ear, warm breath tickling his skin. Willy shuddered. “How does it feel to have Daddy’s come filling you up? Does it remind you of who you belong to?”

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(Sharing is) caring

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥 Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete Series: Ethical slut part 3 Pairings:  Arthur/Felix, Felix/Gerald/Chief/Arthur “You are sure about this?”

A smile curls on Felix’s lips as he reaches for Arthur, pressing their foreheads together. “Darling.” It’s a confirmation and admonishment.

He can feel Arthur’s answering smile, small, wry and real. Strong hands squeeze gently as they part.

“I shall see you once our guests arrive.”

Arthur makes good on his promise to help Felix become a 'messy, fucked-out pillow princess' - with a little help from Gerald and the Chief of Police.

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Strength (in silence) 

Rating: Mature Smut? 🔥 Dark?: ❌ Status: WIP | Chapters 4/? Pairings:  Arthur Slugworth/Felix Fickelgruber Arthur is a man who knows his strength all too well. He thought that he was concealing his fears from Felix; yet the other man would never cease to amaze him in the most unexpected of ways.

A soft colleagues-to-lovers bdsm fic with gentle!Dom Felix and Submissive!Arthur, where Arthur is afraid of his own strength (and Felix is determined that isn’t a good enough reason for them not to fuck like bunnies).

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The investor

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥 Status: Complete Crossover: Wonka x BBC Ghosts Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Julian Fawcett World famous chocolatier Felix Fickelgruber is always willing to exchange a little of his time for the promise of new investment in his business. MP Julian Fawcett has a certain reputation for appreciating the finer things. Who better to target as his next investor?

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The most fearsome foe known to man

Rating: Teen Status: Complete | Chapters 3/3 Pairings: Willy Wonka/Reader Willy accidentally angers the most fearsome of potential foes known to mankind: a librarian. Despite Noodle’s warnings, he doesn’t understand the importance of returning library books both in the state in which they were borrowed and, most importantly, on time.

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The most (un)romantic day of the year

Rating: Teen Status: Complete | Chapters 4/4 Pairings: Poly Chocolate Cartel, Arthur Slugworth/Felix Fickelgruber/Gerald Prodnose Arthur did not consider himself to be a romantic man. Yet even he felt it was not too unreasonable to expect to spend their anniversary together.

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Three’s a crowd

Rating: Teen Status: Complete | Chapters 4/4 Pairings:  Reader/Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber, Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka “Let me buy you a coffee at least, to say thank you?” You had only meant to apologise for accidentally destroying his stock, yet once the words had left your mouth, you felt unable to take them back.

“Oh. I’m very flattered, but…I’ve already got a boyfriend.”

When a chance meeting with Willy leads to rejection — and the loss of your job — you aren’t sure how you’re going to make ends meet. Luckily for you, a fresh start is just around the corner.

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Things (best) left unsaid

Rating: Teen Status: Complete Series: Just give me a reason (part 1) Pairings:  Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth  “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“Er, yes? Yes I am Mister Fickelgruber.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

As Felix and the Chief of Police watch the flames grow from Wonka's sinking ship, Felix contemplates marriage and the evolution of his relationship with Arthur.

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Too much (not enough)

Rating: Teen Smut? ❌ Dark?: ❌ Status: Complete Series: For a moment like this (part 2) Pairings: Felix Fickelgruber/Arthur Slugworth/Gerald Prodnose “Fe, Arthur really is getting rather impatient. Are you still—“

Both men fall still. Silence stretches between them as pale blue eyes meet hazel.

He cannot stop his tears from falling.

“Oh, Fe. Has it been one of those days?” There’s no judgement in Gerald’s tone; it’s the only thing that helps Felix to nod, to ignore his instinct to deny it all, to give in to the need to retreat and hide and be done with the day. Be done with everything.

Just as he fears they will be done with him.

Felix has a bad day. Gerald and Arthur are there with just what he needs.

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Three strikes 

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ✔️ Status: Complete Pairings: The Chief of Police/Willy Wonka, Felix Fickelgruber/Willy Wonka Willy thought back to their last meeting, to the freezing cold water, to the sharp whack to the back of his head. It was not a situation he hoped to repeat anytime soon."Officer, I—”

"That’s the problem with all of you young upstarts. You never do think.”

While waiting to meet Felix for their date, Willy manages to draw the ire of the Chief of Police.

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Until it happens to you (you won’t know)

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥  Dark?: ✔️ Status: Complete  | Chapters 6/6 Pairings: Willy Wonka/Chief of Police, Willy Wonka/Felix Fickelgruber, Willy Wonka/Chief of Police/Felix Fickelgruber, Chief of Police/Felix Fickelgruber  “Willy! I thought you had everything sorted with the Chief? What happened with your little chat?”

“I… everything is fine, Noodle. It’s fine. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

“There you are, candyman. I knew I’d find you around here somewhere. You know, the funniest thing happened. I came lookin’ for ya, and I couldn’t find you anywhere. Even that nice Mister Bleacher couldn’t find you. It’s almost as if you were hiding from me. Me! You wouldn't be stupid enough to hide from the police, would you, Wonka?”

The Chief of Police decides to reinforce his little message with more than just a bonk on the head.

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When I see you cry (it makes me smile)

Rating: Explicit Smut? 🔥 suggestive ❌ Dark?: ✔️ Status: Complete Pairings:  Felix Fickelgruber/ARthur Slugworth, Felix Fickelgruber/Chief of Police “Gentlemen. There must be some kind of misunderstanding.”

“Sorry Mister Slugworth. Orders are orders.”

Everyone has a breaking point. Felix finds his.

[mummer]

hellooooooo smart person!!! i have two asoiaf questions to ask you. so i was reading adwd, the chapter with ellaria sand making her big speech (can i take the skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night?) which was literally one of the best monologues ever. but i think it frames justice in a bitter, bloodthirsty manner. the martells are completely understandably pissed off by the lannisters, is george saying in this instance, even though vengeance is good (emotionally), it’ll screw everyone over? and does this apply to the starks/boltons too? we have so many good speeches on war and justice: broken man, this one, bathe in bolton blood, the mummer’s farce is almost over, etc. but they do conflict. is that the point? justice is better not pursued? or needs to be thought out?

ALSO. your vibe is that you’re a theon enjoyer. so i was wondering where his story is. it’s about identity, yes? but who is he? he’s not a greyjoy, i don’t think, he seems so disconnected from that violent culture, but he’s no stark. i think he wants a family, but the north will never accept him as a stark. so what’s theon’s purpose? i’m so sorry for talking so much but i always love your answers

ok ok ok. anon ily. i might answer the theon one in a separate post if i have time; im gonna try to be as brief as possible but i am gonna put this under a readmore because you touched on uhhh probably the central question of the whole series lol! in fact you could probably write a phd thesis about violence and justice in asoiaf lol, but lets see if i can boil it down quickly maybe not clickbait???? (i lied, this got egregiously long)

ok ok ok some disclaimers up front. I personally am probably a bigger pacifist than most people lol, so this may colour my take somewhat. secondly spoilers but my answer is that i dont think the series actually has a solid answer to the question of retribution/vengeance. my favourite kinds of art are pieces that ask questions that can't be answered. and: is violence ever acceptable? can it be used as a means to a good/just end? <- is like, a hugely unsettled matter in the entire human experience. this is a question we all ask ourselves at some point. it's even more complicated and tangled in real life! is the death penalty ever okay? how can we wage just wars? how do we protest subversively? can people be rehabilitated? even: can we change? that's what politics are all about! the q of violence is something i am constantly thinking about and am still unsure of my answers! most people are!

what asoiaf does so well is pick at the idea of violence in about a hundred different ways and though a hundred different lenses. not all violences are equal! of course not! it is very clear about this, as well as that said violence is not always physical, is most often institutional. and justice.... well justice is completely incoherent in this world!!! the first chapter opens with the protagonist executing a man we as readers KNOW did nothing morally wrong! the thing with asoiaf is that there is always an added nuance to challenge you when you think you've made up your mind. someone shows a glimmer of humanity, or else descends into unexpected cruelty, or else complicates the narrative. there is always a 'but'.

for example: take robb's war for ned. he is trying to avenge his father, save his sister. okay, that's noble. that's just. you want to root for that. BUT: their warpath endangers hundreds of thousands of smallfolk, not to mention the thousands of innocents in their armies forced to fight one another and die for the sake of one man. how could that be worth it? BUT: tywin's army was desolating the riverlands anyway, so wouldnt it be a net good to defeat them? BUT: protecting smallfolk was never their priority; their 'justice' is only for the highborn; politically, an independent north would probably not be any better or worse for the peasantry. a tree of hanging women who lay with lions. "the north remembers", when it's first used on page, is not a joyous rally; it's robb reflecting bitterly that harrion karstark cannot openly forgive him for killing rickard, or risk losing face. rickard, who was killed for killing lannisters, because the lannisters killed his sons-- because robb waged war, because the lannisters killed ned! a poisoned cycle that can't end, an ideology defined by war, remembrance and loyalty as its own sort of sickness.

the thing about violence as justice in asoiaf is that it is never portrayed as revelatory. it's not... like... cool lol. did tywin deserve to die? idk, maybe. but this does not lift a weight off tyrion's shoulders. it doesn't feel like he won. this is something all characters must bear and grapple with. arya in particular is rich with this and that could be its own essay ofc. at its simplest, though, we have sandor. he killed her friend. a child. do child-murderers deserve to die? a lot of people in the world would say yes. but when he is at her mercy, when he is literally begging for her to kill him, she can't. it's too much. when dany orders the disembowlment of the slavers, she questions the choice internally. does torture have utility, here? what is it worth? ("But later, when she passed the men dying on the posts, when she heard their moans and smelled their bowels and blood... Dany put the glass aside, frowning. It was just. It was. I did it for the children.") again, i dont think the narrative has a straight or easy answer, which is why she's asking at all! if these answers were easy there wouldnt be a book. or things like jon's babyswap, which i consider its own kind of violence— but it is born from an unflinching desire to avoid worse violence. so... can it be just, then? theon murders the miller's boys. little kids. does he deserve to be punished? yeah, right? but then we are confronted with reek, and the empathy in the reader flinches, says: nooooo not like that!!!! and then feels bad for ever thinking it! so if he can change, did he ever deserve to die? when joffrey dies-- joffrey!!!-- there is very little catharsis to be found. ("He has Jaime's eyes. Only he had never seen Jaime look so scared. The boy's only thirteen.") the prose focuses on his purple face, his futile desperation to breathe. the way he looks like a child, because he is.

and then there are all the logistical, logical ends that need to be dealt with when seeking retribution. you got back at someone: great. now their family or allies or loved ones will get back at you, and on and on it will go forever until no one remembers the original injustice (see: the brackens and the blackwoods). now there is a power vacuum, or a counterrevolution, now the crops have burned and everyone is starving, now there are orphans. so... was it worth it? this is generally never the intent, but none of this can be sidestepped, either. a large point: no matter how justified in war you may feel, these consequences must still be borne. whether they are worth it in the end is your decision to make.

so we come to ellaria, with no clearer answer than what we started with. and i agree, it's one of my favourite quotes too. the endless question of: what do we do with what has been done to us? the violence has already been done, there is no way to bring someone back, there is no retribution. the victims are dead and so is their killer. and yet it is a hollow justice, because nothing has changed. women like elia are still bartered as political pawns and discarded. again, there is no coherent justice in westeros. it is only by chance that gregor died anyway. the systems of power are still functioning, and the aberration of that is felt. the sand snakes are grieving, but they are grieving the only way they know how. oberyn walked past obara's weeping mother when she picked up a spear. the only language in westeros is violence, the only power in blood. well, it's better than being powerless, right? .....right?

there is no good option. doran picks a side, having agonized over it for decades. this was not easy for him! the martells are understandably pissed off by the lannisters— of course— but... who is left to seek justice from? tywin is dead. robert is dead. aerys and rhaegar are dead. gregor is dead. amory lorch is dead. they could war against/kill cersei... i guess. jaime, maybe? myrcella? tommen? great, what would be the point? will their deaths feel good, emotionally, to the martells? or will they just feel hollow, like so many scenes of retribution in the series?

so i might favour ellaria's vision-- peace and submission, anything just to survive, to avoid hurting people. but this has its own very very obvious problems! pacifism is not a get out of jail free card lmao! "war will come, whether we wish it or not," obara says. it's highly possible this move would be seen as a sign of "weakness", and would only invite worse violences from the ruling power. again— the misery of this world is systemic, not individual. that's what feudalism is. that's what power is. it requires violence to maintain. but violence is also almost always required to challenge or protest it. so, ok. fuck. fuck! how can a world like this be borne? and how can we change it?

god i wish i knew!!!!!! — george rr. martin, 2011

[polyhexian]

I think Hunter, after making Darius squirm with a series of infuriating yet harmless acts, would be the first that it was enough retribution and stop. Probably would ask Jasper to cease too. It wasn't like Darius wasn't the person who behaved the worst towards himself on the castle by a long shot.

I just don't see his anger running longer than Jasper, even if he's the aggrieved party. Jasper expected much better from Darius; Hunter didn't. So this is an enormous betrayal to Jasper.

Absolutely. Hunter is much more forgiving. He doesn't hold grudges. He's a good boy. And he honestly really likes Darius, he REALLY wants his approval. For whatever reason he's fixated on darius- we only really have the one example but perhaps it's reflective of the typical dynamic. Darius might be cruel to him, but all of the other coven heads don't acknowledge him at all. If Darius is the only one who really acknowledges him, even that cruelty will seem kind.

Jasper might hate Darius but if he can see how important it is to hunter that Darius like him. Because Darius does like him now. First he just felt guilty but once he gets to know him even just a little bit, he actually likes HIM because he's a good kid. so as much as Jasper might hate Darius, he loves hunter more. If it's important to him that he gets Darius's approval and attention, that he has this mentor figure in his life, Jasper WILL deal with his own bitterness. He won't let that get in the way of his baby's happiness.

Darius and jasper like the most messy divorced couple ever who are attending the same events to support their beloved son. They're at a school play and any time hunter isn't on stage jasper is glaring at Darius rhshdjfk

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Gideon Rachman: “I believe in America.” That phrase has rattled around my head, throughout the rise, fall and rise again of Donald Trump. Only belatedly did I recall that this comforting sentiment is the opening line of The Godfather. The words are uttered by Amerigo Bonasera: a man who has actually lost faith in America, and who is turning to a mafia don in search of vengeance. Trump is now telling American voters that “I am your retribution” — appealing to all those who have been “wronged and betrayed” by the system. It is all very Don Corleone. And it is working. Trump is generally ahead of Joe Biden in the polls for the 2024 presidential election. He is the bookmakers’ favourite, not just for the Republican nomination, but for the presidency.

So how can I keep the faith in America, when the voters seem poised to elect a man who faces trial for trying to overturn the last presidential election? “Believing in America” can mean two distinct things. First, you can believe in what America stands for. Second, you can believe that America will come good in the end. The two ideas are related — but they are not the same. My belief that America is a force for good in the world has led me, over the years, into some bitter arguments — even in Britain, which counts itself as America’s closest ally. Whether it was the Vietnam war, Ronald Reagan’s arms build-up, the Iraq war or gun violence, America’s passionate critics have always had plenty to point to. My usual response is that, like every great power in history, America has done terrible things. But in the three great global confrontations of the last century — the first world war, the second world war and the cold war — the US was on the right side. In fact, America was the decisive factor in those conflicts, ensuring that the democratic world prevailed over autocracy or outright dictatorship.

That is why so much rides on my second form of belief in America — the belief that the US will come through in the end. For the past 80 years, America really has been the “leader of the free world” — both an example of democracy in action and as the protector of its fellow democracies, through a network of alliances with other free countries in Europe and Asia. If democracy begins to crumble in America, then liberal democracies all over the world will be in trouble. It is reassuring that the world’s richest and most powerful country is a fellow democracy. In a second Trump term that sense of reassurance might disappear. Many Trump supporters will respond that, if their man wins the election, his victory would be an example of democracy in action, not of a slide into autocracy. But a Trump election victory could not scrub the record clean. We know the character of the man. Trump is somebody who has already demonstrated that he has no respect for the most basic of democratic procedures — a free election. His promise of “retribution” also involves repeated threats to put his political enemies on trial, ranging from Biden himself to Mark Milley, the former head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Unlike the indictments against Trump, these would not be cases brought by independent prosecutors who have weighed the evidence. They would be political show-trials ordered by the country’s leader. That is the hallmark of an autocracy.

So how do I keep believing in America under those circumstances? First, and most obviously, nothing is foretold. There are still many months to go before the election in November.

Second, America’s period of greatness and global leadership has always involved turmoil and melodrama, from John F Kennedy’s assassination in 1963 to the “war on terror” under George W Bush. In the end, the country always righted itself and its underlying dynamism and constitutional system reasserted themselves. So it seems unlikely that this latest melodrama — “America season nine”, as some call it — will bring the series to a definitive and tragic conclusion. The melodrama that America churns up — even the Trump melodrama — can be a sign of vitality as much as sickness. The US is a country with a rebellious, anti-establishment streak that allows it to shake things up and constantly reinvent itself. Voting for Trump is a sign that people are demanding fundamental change. And even if Trump is not the right answer, his emergence is a sign of that restlessness and refusal to settle for the status quo.

Trump’s enduring popularity may even belatedly be prompting some necessary self-examination by the American elite. Biden’s effort to put equality back at the centre of US economic policy is one example of that correction. So is the beginning of a backlash against “woke” thinking. As one Biden aide put it to me, in a moment of introspection: “We’ve realised that a lot of people are frightened of the American left.” Trump’s “retribution” against the left could take the US off in some new and frightening directions. But I believe in America enough to think that it would take more than one more term of Trump to destroy American democracy. The US is not Hungary. It is a big, complex country with many different sources of power and wealth. Trump and his acolytes could not bring them all to heel, in just four years. So you can still count me as somebody who “believes in America”. Me and Amerigo Bonasera.

[Financial Times]

[bananaofswifts]

5 STARS

If the Taylor’s Versions project has taught us anything, it’s that the past doesn’t have to be a foreign country.

Sure, they did things a little differently there, but with the right motivation (reclaiming the songs that were sold behind her back), Taylor Swift’s glorious history can be recreated almost exactly how it was when she first burned these songs onto the soul of a generation.

That approach, however, was always likely to face a few challenges along the way and ‘Speak Now’ – for true hardcore Swifties, perhaps the most cherished album in even her beloved catalogue – is one of them.

Because her third album saw Swift fearlessly taking control, writing every note of the record herself and boldly choosing to capture a snapshot of her unvarnished teenage truth.

So, ‘Speak Now’ is always honest, sometimes brutally so. No one batted an eyelid at it in 2010, but in 2023, such things tend to be viewed through a different lens.

So, this third in the series of Taylor’s Versions sees the first significant rewriting of her not-so-secret history. She replaces the controversial ‘Better Than Revenge’ lyric, “She’s better known for the things she does on the mattress” with the more sisterly, “He was a moth to the flame, she was holding the matches.”

The new line works well, even if it might not hit as hard. So, before the faceless suits that now ‘own’ Swift’s original albums celebrate that there might be at least one song in their vault to still get streamed after receiving the TV treatment, it should be noted that that is the album’s only real attempt to mitigate the raw emotions of the past.

Instead, it’s worth noting that ‘Better Than Revenge’ is followed by the wise-beyond-her-years philosophising of ‘Innocent’ in which Swift observes that, “Life is a tough crowd/Thirty-two and still growing up now”.

Swift was indeed 32 when she re-recorded those words but the empowering, elemental force and simmering hurt that made the original ‘Speak Now’ such a remarkable record remains strikingly intact. The snarky gown-shaming in the wedding-crasher title track remains wonderfully unfiltered. The wounded distress at teenage tormentors and bitter bloggers in ‘Mean’ still cuts every bit as deep. And the forensic disassembly of a gaslighting ex on ‘Dear John’, now with added protective wisdom for her younger self, is as quietly crushing as ever.

In short, Swift knows exactly where to draw the line. And, on ‘Speak Now’, the lines she draws are beautiful, showcasing the countless things Swift excels at beyond hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-teenager-scorned retribution.

So, the joyous shimmer of ‘Sparks Fly’ reminds you even this most heart-breaking record still had moments of unfettered delight. The nostalgia of ‘Never Grow Up’ remains as guilelessly devastating as ever, despite the fact that Swift is now as far away from the third verse’s uncertain adulting as she was then from the first verse’s childhood snoozing. And best of all, ‘Back To December’ – a serious contender for Swift’s finest song – shows that, actually, there is nothing Swift does better than regret.

Of course, Taylor’s Version offers her the opportunity to do what that song’s protagonist couldn’t: go back in time and change it. But, while the main album production (by Swift and Christopher Rowe, replacing Nathan Chapman) softens the Nashville neon and country vocal twang, she generally resists the temptation to mess with perfection.

Meanwhile, the ‘From The Vaults’ unheard tracks – with co-production from Taylor’s favoured 2023 colleagues Jack Antonoff and Aaron Dessner – showcase both where Swift was and how far she’s come.

As befitting SN’s status as her most emo album, her collaborators come straight from 2010’s alt-rock top drawer. So, Fall Out Boy elevate ‘Electric Touch’ to soaring pop-punk status and the presence of Paramore’s Hayley Williams on ‘Castles Crumbling’ makes it a duet for the ages, their voices gorgeously intertwining as they wrestle with the fear that the cheers may one day turn to jeers.

Everywhere, you’ll find foreshadowing of Swift’s supremely versatile future: the astute third-person observation of ‘When Emma Falls in Love’; the folk(lore)y mannerisms of ‘Timeless’; the edgy guitars/saucy lyrics combo of ‘I Can See You’.

Her current tour has made Swift a bigger star than ever but, 13 years on, ‘Speak Now’ remains the foundation stone that her songwriting empire was built upon.

It was, as the main album’s closer ‘Long Live’ notes, “The end of a decade/But the start of an age”. And even if things have changed a little since your last visit, this Swift era is still guaranteed to give you the time of your life, whatever dragons you may be fighting these days.

[justforbooks]

Best crime and thrillers of 2023

Given this year’s headlines, it’s unsurprising that our appetite for cosy crime continues unabated, with the latest title in Richard Osman’s Thursday Murder Club series, The Last Devil to Die (Viking), topping the bestseller lists. Janice Hallett’s novels The Mysterious Case of the Alperton Angels, which also features a group of amateur crime-solvers, and The Christmas Appeal (both Viper) have proved phenomenally popular, too.

Hallett’s books, which are constructed as dossiers – transcripts, emails, WhatsApp messages and the like – are part of a growing trend of experimentation with form, ranging from Cara Hunter’s intricate Murder in the Family (HarperCollins), which is structured around the making of a cold case documentary, to Gareth Rubin’s tête-bêche The Turnglass (Simon & Schuster). Books that hark back to the golden age of crime, such as Tom Mead’s splendidly tricksy locked-room mystery Death and the Conjuror (Head of Zeus), are also on the rise. The late Christopher Fowler, author of the wonderful Bryant & May detective series, who often lamented the sacrifice of inventiveness and fun on the altar of realism, would surely have approved. Word Monkey (Doubleday), published posthumously, is his funny and moving memoir of a life spent writing popular fiction.

Notable debuts include Callum McSorley’s Glaswegian gangland thriller Squeaky Clean (Pushkin Vertigo); Jo Callaghan’s In the Blink of an Eye (Simon & Schuster), a police procedural with an AI detective; Scorched Grace by Margot Douaihy (Pushkin Vertigo), featuring queer punk nun investigator Sister Holiday; and the caustically funny Thirty Days of Darkness (Orenda) by Jenny Lund Madsen (translated from the Danish by Megan E Turney).

There have been welcome additions to series, including a third book, Case Sensitive (Zaffre), for AK Turner’s forensic investigator Cassie Raven, and a second, The Wheel of Doll (Pushkin Vertigo), for Jonathan Ames’s LA private eye Happy Doll, who is shaping up to be the perfect hardboiled 21st-century hero.

Other must-reads for fans of American crime fiction include Ozark Dogs (Headline) by Eli Cranor, a powerful story of feuding Arkansas families; SA Cosby’s Virginia-set police procedural All the Sinners Bleed (Headline); Megan Abbott’s nightmarish Beware the Woman (Virago); and Rebecca Makkai’s foray into very dark academia, I Have Some Questions for You (Fleet). There are shades of James Ellroy in Jordan Harper’s Hollywood-set tour de force Everybody Knows (Faber), while Raymond Chandler’s hero Philip Marlowe gets a timely do-over from Scottish crime doyenne Denise Mina in The Second Murderer (Harvill Secker).

As Mick Herron observed in his Slow Horses origin novel, The Secret Hours (Baskerville), there’s a long list of spy novelists who have been pegged as the heir to John le Carré. Herron must be in pole position for principal legatee, but it’s been a good year for espionage generally: standout novels include Matthew Richardson’s The Scarlet Papers (Michael Joseph), John Lawton’s Moscow Exile (Grove Press) and Harriet Crawley’s The Translator (Bitter Lemon).

Historical crime has also been well served. Highlights include Emma Flint’s excellent Other Women (Picador), based on a real 1924 murder case; Laura Shepherd-Robinson’s story of a fortune teller’s quest for identity in Georgian high society, The Square of Sevens (Mantle); and SG MacLean’s tale of Restoration revenge and retribution, The Winter List (Quercus). There are echoes of Chester Himes in Viper’s Dream (No Exit) by Jake Lamar, which begins in 1930s Harlem, while Palace of Shadows (Mantle) by Ray Celestin, set in the late 19th century, takes the true story of American weapons heiress Sarah Winchester’s San Jose mansion and transports it to Yorkshire, with chillingly gothic results.

The latest novel in Vaseem Khan’s postcolonial India series, Death of a Lesser God (Hodder), is also well worth the read, as are Deepti Kapoor’s present-day organised crime saga Age of Vice (Fleet) and Parini Shroff’s darkly antic feminist revenge drama The Bandit Queens (Atlantic).

While psychological thrillers are thinner on the ground than in previous years, the quality remains high, with Liz Nugent’s complex and heartbreaking tale of abuse, Strange Sally Diamond (Penguin Sandycove), and Sarah Hilary’s disturbing portrait of a family in freefall, Black Thorn (Macmillan), being two of the best.

Penguin Modern Classics has revived its crime series, complete with iconic green livery, with works by Georges Simenon, Dorothy B Hughes and Ross MacDonald. There have been reissues by other publishers, too – forgotten gems including Celia Fremlin’s 1959 holiday‑from-hell novel, Uncle Paul (Faber), and Richard Wright’s The Man Who Lived Underground (Vintage). Finished in 1942 but only now published in its entirety, the latter is an account of an innocent man who takes refuge from racist police officers in the sewers of Chicago – part allegorical, part brutally realistic and, unfortunately, wholly topical.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 2 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Two: Let The Dance With The Devil Begin

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, 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. 

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: 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.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

[tat-ch]

Fic stats game

Rules: Give us the links to your fics with the most hits, second most kudos, third most bookmarks, fourth most comments, fifth most words, and your fic with the least amount of words.

got tagged by @spinecorset to do this, so here we are 😂 I hope I got these right and it is the first most, second most, etc otherwise these aren't correct 🤣 I mean, i can always correct it if I was wrong ahahaha

Len is cryptic. It's super effective. Mick is confused A mostly canon following piece adding bits and pieces to their relationship and spinning it towards romance but with a positive twist at the end. Finished from Mick's pov, pending Len's pov on the whole thing. (I have plans to finish it one day)

Are you okay? 'Cause I feel fine. This was a very self indulgent piece where I just added Jason Todd, aka the Red Hood, to the Young Justice Universe and gave him the retribution/vengeance he deserved. It's one of the first things I wrote and posted and it's kinda old now? I still like it but I can tell my writing was baby at the time.

Hands wrapped around my soul Oh wow, I'm kind of surprised by this one. This one was originally for a challenge of "One must die" and had to be 2500 words tops. It's set during the length of time where Jason was dead, and Zatanna brings Constantine to the Watchtower because she's certain there's a ghost up there. This is the first part to my Serendipity series, which I love dearly.

There is no such thing as luck Aaaand that's a Big Bang entry. In which Gabriel Reyes isn't exactly human but gets stuck on Earth for a very specific reason.

Trinity A role reversal fic, probably the only one I ever wrote? (I would need to check) In which Gabriel is a bitter vigilante and Jack is... something else. Unfinished because of the whole fandom pairing drama that happened, though I do have some more chapters written for it.

There's actually two, because both are art compilations/fics. One is Family of heart an exchange fic, for... Gen dmbj? iirc. The other is Artwork for From Russia with Love which an art compilation for the series I cowrite with Shaish.

Tagging hmmmm @shaish @lunanoc @kelly42fox @ilgaksu and whoever wants to join in on the fun ✨

[pagebypagereviews]

In the cloak-and-dagger corridors of literary thrills, "Revenge" emerges as a tantalizing tableau of interconnected stories, where vendettas are dressed in elegance and intrigue. This book isn't merely a collection of vendetta tales; it's an intricate puzzle where each piece interlocks with agonizing precision, revealing the darkest corners of the human soul. As we navigate through each narrative, we become co-conspirators in a larger, more sinister world where motives are obscured, and satisfaction comes with a bitter aftertaste. The book grips the reader with its chilling paradox – a delicate balance between beauty and horror, leading us to question our own thirst for vengeance. The brilliance of "Revenge" lies not just in its ability to shock and awe, but in the author's deft handling of psychological complexity that elevates it from a mere compendium of retribution to a work of profound emotional intelligence. It dares to explore the depths of grief and the lengths to which individuals will go to rectify their pain. Each tale is a meticulous stitch in the grand tapestry of recompense, making "Revenge" a seminal piece that significantly contributes to the transformation of the revenge narrative in literature. It offers a cathartic journey for those who have ever felt the sting of injustice, providing not just escapism, but a mirror into the soul's capacity for darkness and light in the pursuit of justice. Plot The complex narrative of "Revenge" weaves together a series of interconnected stories that flirt with the boundaries between life and death. Each chapter can stand alone as a short story, yet they collectively form a tapestry of thematic resonance. The protagonists within the book's pages are often driven by loss and a deep sense of longing, their lives intertwining through circumstances that bear the imprints of the supernatural or the macabre. Intricately crafted, the plot reveals a morbid fascination with the darker aspects of human existence. Characters find themselves in surreal circumstances – a boutique that sells human hearts, a hotel for people planning to commit suicide, or an apartment where ripe tomatoes seem to assert an unsettling presence. These scenarios culminate in moments of quiet horror and reflective questioning over the nature of pain and the desire for vengeance. Characters The characters in "Revenge" are meticulously crafted to serve the overarching theme of the book. Each individual is an enigma, shrouded in the ambiguity of their pasts and present motives. The author pays careful attention to their psychological profiles, portraying them as haunted by grief or motivated by obscure desires. Through their interactions and individual stories, we glimpse a side of humanity that is often hidden, one that is capable of both profound tenderness and chilling detachment. For example, in one story, a woman cares tenderly for her neighbor's plants, while harboring her own secret, dark thoughts that bleed into the narrative in unpredictable ways. This dichotomy is a recurring motif that humanizes the characters while simultaneously casting their choices into a shadowy realm of doubt and mystery. Writing Style Revenge" is defined by a writing style that is crisp, poetic, and charged with an undercurrent of suspense. The prose is measured and deliberate, inviting the reader to savor each word while being propelled forward by the need to unravel the enigma of each story. Subtlety is the author's instrument; nothing is overstated, yet the emotions conveyed are intense, almost visceral. Sentences are constructed with an economy of words that nonetheless carry a weight of meaning. The author's technique involves planting evocative images and concepts in the minds of the readers, often leaving them to unpack the layers of subtext and symbolism. This meticulous approach can be seen in the use of motifs like spirals, which recur throughout the book, symbolizing the inescapable and entwined nature of fate and consequence.

Setting The setting in "Revenge" morphs across the chapters, yet it maintains a consistent aura that envelops the reader in an almost dream-like quality. The spaces chosen—be it a stark hospital room, a greenhouse filled with whispering vegetation, or an antiquated museum—are more than mere backdrops; they contribute to the story as silent observers, bearing witness to the unfolding drama. The settings tend to mirror the internal landscape of the characters, exemplifying their isolation, despair, and the sense of being caught in a liminal space between the real and the unreal. The details of each location are rendered with precision, crafting an ambiance that is as important as the characters themselves in evoking mood and advancing the themes of the stories. Unique Aspects Among the most unique aspects of "Revenge" is the inventive structure of the book, which operates both as a collection of short stories and a cohesive narrative. Echoing the complexity of human emotions, the book forges subtle connections between seemingly disparate tales, eventually revealing a larger, interwoven pattern. Such a format challenges the reader to engage actively with the text, piecing together clues that surface with each new chapter. Added to this is the author's penchant for blending the ordinary with the grotesque, transforming mundane objects into symbols with profound implications. An example of this is the recurring appearance of fruit, which at times embodies life and decay, becoming metaphors for the character's internal strife. Moreover, the book experiments with narrative perspective, allowing various stories to be told from different viewpoints, thereby providing a multifaceted look into the singular event or emotion that the book aims to explore. This multiplicity of perspectives highlights the complexity of cause and effect, especially as it pertains to the human experience of grief and retribution. Similar to Revenge Book Review ```html Revenge Book Review Analysis table width: 100%; border-collapse: collapse; th, td border: 1px solid black; padding: 8px; text-align: left; th background-color: #f2f2f2; .pros-section, .cons-section margin-bottom: 30px; Pros of the Revenge Book Review Provides in-depth analysis and critical thinking, enhancing understanding. Highlights key themes, character developments, and author's writing style. Includes varied perspectives, catering to different reader interpretations. Offers recommendations for similar books, aiding in discovery of new reads. Cons of the Revenge Book Review Potential for spoilers, which may detract from the reading experience. Subjective opinions may overshadow objective analysis for some readers. Could be lengthy and detailed, possibly overwhelming to casual readers. May establish biases before reading, affecting personal judgement. ``` This code creates a simple HTML page with two styled tables listing the pros and cons of the "Revenge Book Review" without any introductions or conclusions. These tables are styled with solid 1px black borders around each cell, headers are highlighted with a light gray background, and each 'pro' or 'con' is clearly enumerated for ease of reading. These factors directly impact the user experience by presenting information in a visually organized manner, thus making it easier to digest the key points of the review. Understanding the Genre Revenge is a prevalent theme in literature, spanning various genres from thrillers to historical fiction. When selecting a revenge-themed book, consider the genre that most appeals to your reading preferences. Are you looking for a fast-paced psychological thriller, a gritty crime novel, or perhaps a sweeping tale of historical betrayal and retribution? Different genres offer different approaches to the theme of revenge, influencing the book's pacing, character development, and the complexity of the plot. Author's Background and Writing Style Researching the author can provide insights into what to expect from a revenge book.

Some authors might be known for their intricate plots and complex characters, while others might excel at creating intense, action-driven narratives. An author’s background, experience, and previous works can signal the level of authenticity and detail they bring to the story. Additionally, reading samples of an author’s writing can help you determine whether their style suits your preferences. Complex, rich language might appeal to some readers, while others may prefer a more straightforward, fast-paced writing style. Plot Complexity and Originality A key factor in choosing a revenge book is the uniqueness and intricacy of the plot. A book with a multi-layered plot that offers twists and turns will likely be more engaging and rewarding. Look for narratives that give fresh perspectives on the revenge trope and avoid predictable storylines. Originality is crucial in making a revenge story stand out. Check reviews and reader comments to gauge whether the book offers new ideas or falls back on clichés. Character Depth and Relatability An effective revenge narrative often hinges on the depth of its characters. Protagonists in revenge stories need to be well-developed and multi-dimensional to evoke empathy and investment from the reader. Seek books that offer insights into the characters’ motivations and backstories, making their quest for revenge feel justified and compelling. Well-developed antagonists are just as important, avoiding one-dimensional villains can add depth to the story. Critical Acclaim and Reviews Before making a purchase, take the time to read critical reviews and check for any accolades or awards the book may have received. Professional critics and book award committees typically recognize literature that demonstrates superior writing quality and storytelling. Reader reviews can also be informative, offering a range of perspectives from a more general audience. However, be mindful of personal biases and spoilers that may be present in user-submitted reviews. Themes and Messages Consider what themes and messages you want to explore in the book. Revenge can be a powerful narrative drive but can also address broader themes like justice, forgiveness, and morality. Books that provoke thought and discussion on these issues can be more fulfilling and memorable. Look out for books that not only entertain but also challenge the reader to consider different viewpoints and ethical questions. Editions and Additional Content If a book has various editions available, such as hardcover, paperback, or special editions, consider which format you prefer. Hardcover editions might offer better durability and sometimes include additional content like illustrations or author's notes, while paperbacks are often more affordable and portable. E-books might provide a more convenient option with features like adjustable text size and in-built dictionaries. Price and Availability Lastly, factor in the price and availability of the book. If you are constrained by budget, compare prices across different retailers and consider purchasing used copies or electronic versions, which are often cheaper than new hardcovers. Check if the book is widely available in libraries or as part of a subscription service you already pay for, as this could save you money. ```html FAQ for Revenge Book Review What is the genre of the book "Revenge"? Revenge is typically classified as a psychological thriller with elements of mystery and suspense. It can also fall under the literary fiction genre, depending on the specific narrative style and depth of the book in question. Is "Revenge" part of a series or a standalone novel? The book Revenge can be a standalone novel or part of a series, depending on the particular book you are referring to. It's always best to check the book's details or the author's bibliography to confirm this. Who is the author of "Revenge"? Multiple authors have written books titled Revenge. It is important to specify the author's name for an accurate review.

For example, "Revenge" by Yoko Ogawa is different from "Revenge" by James Patterson. Is "Revenge" appropriate for all ages? Given the thriller and mystery nature of many books called Revenge, they may contain themes or scenes that are not suitable for all age groups. It is advised to consider the recommended age range provided by the publisher or reviews, and to use discretion based on its content. Where can I purchase a copy of "Revenge"? Revenge can typically be found at most book retailers, including bookstores and online platforms such as Amazon or Barnes & Noble. Availability may vary based on the specific book and its popularity. Are there any trigger warnings I should be aware of? Many revenge-themed books might involve intense themes such as violence, betrayal, psychological manipulation, or other potentially sensitive content. It is best to read content warnings or reviews if you are concerned about potential triggers. Has "Revenge" been adapted for film or television? Some books with the title Revenge might have been adapted into movies or TV shows. To find out if the specific book you're interested in has an adaptation, check the latest news from the entertainment industry or a database like IMDb. Can you recommend other books similar to "Revenge"? Certainly! If you enjoy the theme of revenge in literature, you might like books such as "Count of Monte Cristo" by Alexandre Dumas, "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn, or "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" by Stieg Larsson. These titles share elements of suspense and vindication. How can I find discussions or book clubs focused on "Revenge"? To find discussions or join a book club that focuses on Revenge, you can search for online forums such as Goodreads groups or social media platforms like Facebook where book clubs often advertise their current reading selections. ``` In conclusion, our in-depth review of "Revenge" underscores the book's compelling nature as a multifaceted work of literature. With its intricate plot, richly developed characters, and thought-provoking themes, "Revenge" stands out as a valuable read for anyone who appreciates a nuanced and gripping narrative. Not only does the book offer a fascinating exploration of the complexities of human emotions and the consequences of our actions, but it also provides readers with a layered understanding of the concept of vengeance and its place in human experience. The benefits of diving into "Revenge" extend beyond mere entertainment. Readers gain insights into the psychological underpinnings of revenge, the justice system, and the moral quandaries faced by individuals seeking retribution. The book's capacity to engage readers on an intellectual and emotional level makes it an exceptional choice for book clubs, classroom discussions, or anyone looking to delve deeper into the human soul. Whether you're an avid reader searching for your next engrossing tale or a student examining the literary treatment of complex themes, "Revenge" promises a reading experience that is as insightful as it is thrilling. By picking up this book, you are not just flipping through pages; you are immersing yourself in a world where every action reverberates with the raw intensity of human emotion. So if you're on the lookout for a novel that combines exquisite storytelling with profound reflections on life and morality, "Revenge" is a masterpiece that truly deserves a place on your bookshelf. Other Revenge Book Review buying options

[paragonrobits]

Supergirl AU taking general approaches similar to CW Supergirl except that Atrocitus is present in Kara's storyline during her establishing era as a superhero and acts as something of a toxic influence in her life, playing on the Red Lantern Supergirl arc by convincing her to act on her rage and desires for vengeance and retribution to the exclusion of all else, ultimately acting as a anti-role model contrary to Martian Manhunter (acting much as he did in the live action TV series); both of them have suffered terribly, much like Kara herself, but Atrocitus is consumed by his own bitterness and need to make SOMEONE pay, and he gives Kara valuable lessons and tutelage where J'onn is unable to help in the same way (though he acts as a much more stable and inspirational foil, having suffered as much as Atrocitus but has refused to make others suffer for his own gratification), but at the same time represents an extreme warning about what may befall her if she follows his ideas without thinking about it; a miserable, lonely berserker who empowers others to be defined by their loss and despair, and she increasingly has started to care about him enough that she wants to save him

this sets off a gulf between them; Atrocitus doesn't want to be saved, because he doesn't think he HAS to be saved. Dex-Starr (at this point a recurring character that grudgingly has come to care about Kara, in the same way as a rescue cat that has been badly abused has come to care about its owner) acts as a restraining element, trying to persuade him to at least hear her out. but Atrocitus won't. he CANT

he's suffered too much, immersed himself in the impotent rage and despair of all the universe, and he can't let go now. he CAN'T stop. the red light of rage beats for his own broken heart. He's seen too much, done too much to stop now. There is little love left in him, and it died with his family. Nonetheless, he feels doubt, and he can't quite feel as motivated to fight her as he once considered, setting off his own character arc as their dynamic switches up, with Kara becoming the inspirational figure to Atrocitus as he is forced to acknowledge that he doesn't have to abandon his anger or pretend the bad things in the universe don't happen, to also find love and happiness for himself.

[plaid-shirtsandvibranium-arms]

Nemesis: Reformation (3)

Summary: Frank Castle didn’t expect to end up in a HYDRA base when he followed a lead intended for the syndicates. He also didn’t expect to find you barely conscious and tortured within an inch of your life. His decision to save you at that moment led you to spend the next ten years rebuilding yourself from the ashes of your former life. Frank Castle, Billy Russo, and Matt Murdock aid you in your quest for retribution until your old life catches up with you.

Fandoms: Avengers, Marvel, MCU, The Punisher, Daredevil

Pairings: Female Reader x (Frank Castle, Billy Russo, Matt Murdock, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Pietro Maximoff)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY SMUT CONTENT AHEAD. polyamorous relationships, reverse harem, blatant disregard for canon timelines and events, Punisher canon level of violence and gore, strong language, physical insecurities, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), voyeurism, some light choking

A/N: Much thanks to @pigwidgeonxo and @venusofthehardsells for having a look just to check if I'm even making any sense. Also, hi @its-my-little-dumpster-fire. Do you still like Billy?

No permission is granted to repost, steal, or translate my work. Not even a credit makes it okay. Tumblr is the only place I post my writing. If you see it anywhere else please report it.

Series Masterlist | Full Masterlist

2:3 Roast Beef

Waking up after finally facing someone connected with your purpose didn’t feel like anything you expected. You had been actively chasing after the people responsible, purposely unearthing information that could lead you to your goal. Killing the man who had left his signature permanently all over your skin and even deeper wounds in your soul was a victory. You should be celebrating. This was a win for you.

But all you felt was cold rage.

His death by your hands had awakened a hunger inside your already unstable psyche. A hunger for blood. It was ironic that the first time in years that you had felt in control, not as a victim of shit circumstance, was when you let loose the turmoil inside you. 

The constant crippling ache of grief in your chest was all at once replaced with an echoing hollowness and a reinforced determination. Instead of relief, it only burned with more fury begging to be unleashed. And why shouldn’t you? The sorrow and trauma you had kept under tight control released and burned brightly in that last encounter. It consumed you, propelled you to kill with no remorse. This was a path of retribution you chose afterall, you reminded yourself. There was no relief, but there was a faint sense of accomplishment. You were a step closer to your goal and at the very least the decimated body you left would send a clear message.

You were coming for him.

You could be patient in your vengeance, but Billy and Frank were right. You needed to be ruthless. You knew that more than once blood would stain your own hands. You knew, but it was only now that you truly understood and now you have accepted it. There was one thing you didn’t count on and you weren’t sure how to feel about it yet. When you hurt your torturer, when you felt his life leave him by your hands, you liked it.

More than you expected.

More than you wanted to admit to yourself.

Frank barely recognized you when he saw you conscious again. His whole body went rigid as he felt the palpable shift in your demeanour. Your eyes now held a coldness that sent a shiver down even his spine; bitterness, resolution, and a calculating awareness now dominated your gaze. It filled him with apprehension and it only worsened as he saw you continually push yourself during training. 

“She’s gonna kill herself with exhaustion if she keeps this up,” Billy muttered as he stood beside Frank, joining him as he watched you from a distance as you completely destroyed a sparring dummy with your bare hands.

He was going to have to order a few new ones along with cases of bullets and new targets for the range. It wasn’t just your hand-to-hand you had been working on. There was a notable difference with how you fought now too. Where all your past training with SHIELD and the Avengers moulded you to be more on the defensive, to take measured and careful actions to disarm or disable efficiently, now you were taking more of a relentless offensive. You were a war dog off your leash. You were either preparing yourself to face Goliath himself or you were trying to work out all that aggression inside you. At this point it could be either one, but they both knew all too well how destructive this type of hyper focus could be.

Especially when murder was the goal.

“Or she’s gonna get herself killed on a mission,” Frank grunted, shaking his head. “She’s bound to get reckless.”

“Speaking from experience?” Billy teased.

Frank glowered at him, but he was too worried about you to put any real threat behind it. The only thing that gave him a sliver of reassurance was the fact that you still continued to crawl into bed with him. The mindblowing sex aside, he was glad that you still came to him to ground yourself from the nightmares that now plagued both your sleep and your consciousness.

That meant you weren’t totally lost.

But Frank was. He didn’t know how to help you aside from holding you through the night. This was a problem that couldn’t be solved with his fists. You needed more. You needed something else.

“What she needs is an outlet. I have an idea,” Billy said as he started to stroll toward you. He turned back to Frank for a second to throw him a wicked grin that pulled at the Punisher’s nerves. “You’re not gonna like it though.”

Frank jogged after him, wanting to discuss this idea between the two of them first but Billy was already smiling down at your curious expression. He looked far too pleased with himself.

“Do we have a new lead?” you asked as you tugged at the wraps on your hands. There was a hopeful anticipation in your eyes and a hard set on your chin as you waited for Billy to respond.

“Not yet, but I have something else for you. I may have a way for you to repay my generous hospitality.”

“I’m not sucking your dick, Russo.”

A laugh erupted from his lips as you rolled your eyes at him, but the small lift at the corner of your lips said that you weren’t too bothered. You were used to him propositioning you on a regular basis by now and it had grown to be part of your regular banter.

“Just to be clear, I’ve been asking you out to dinner,” he said while wagging his brows, which didn’t exactly support his claim to innocence. “But if that date happens to end with your pretty mouth making a meal out of me then I’m not about to complain.”

You shook your head, silently chastising him for his filthy mouth despite the small thrill that ran down your spine. The charm on Billy Russo should be classified as a weapon. It was downright lethal.

“So what did you have in mind then?” Your brow raised as his grin grew wider. He was definitely up to some trouble.

“I need you to shoot up some gangbangers for me.”

“Fucking what?” Frank yelled, his scowl speaking volumes on his disapproval.

"I'll do it."

Frank turned his scowl over to you at your easy agreement. You shrugged and he just kept shaking his head.

"I need something to do."

Something to kill.

“Now now, Frankie. Just because you’re parking your dick in the pretty girl doesn’t mean you can make her decisions for her,” he clicked his tongue as he playfully scolded his best friend.

Your head tilted in thought at that. Billy apparently knew, it appears for a while now, that you and Frank were sleeping together and yet he still kept pursuing you. It wasn’t a secret, but neither of you had been advertising your new closeness either. Unless he was completely joking about asking you out, but you knew that he would follow through the moment you said yes. Very curious. There was also no malice in his teasing. A part of you had been a little worried about how he would react when he found out, but all you heard in his voice was something like intrigue. You pushed that aside for another time, having no mental capacity to unpack all that right now.

Right now you have a mission.

Billy was smirking down at you, completely ignoring Frank’s grumbled protests and his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. It wasn’t a hard decision. The moment he mentioned the task, the bloodlust that was resting just under your very skin roared to life and you couldn’t help your own lips curling into a wider grin.

“Let's go paint the town red, pretty girl.”

“It’s a date.”

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

“I still think this is a bad idea, Blackbird” Frank grunted, scuffling could be heard over the comms coming from his end followed by a thick silence. 

A row of unconscious bodies lined the back alley wall by the dumpster he was crouching behind. The night covered him as well as the narrow alley behind the local bar that was the known hangout place for this gang. Frank had been blitz attacking every sorry patron that came out the back to smoke or piss. It would take them out of the equation for a while and allow you a clean opening for your targets.

You understood why he didn’t like this idea. It meant more blood on your hands, blood that wasn’t even connected to your vengeance. It meant you were getting deeper and deeper into this life, but goddamn it you were itching to pull the trigger. Sure this time it was a few low level gangsters who had attempted to kidnap the child of one of Billy’s clients, a senator and his family he had been tasked to protect. 

But what about next time?

“It’s just some anger management, Raven,” Billy chuckled from his rooftop perch three streets away, the faint sound of him tinkering with his sniper rifle travelled through the earpieces. “Two coming out. Last ones.”

Frank scoffed, knowing damn well that he offered this task for his own gain and he would probably continue to offer you similar ones in the future. Billy was a businessman and he saw an opportunity to please a client, help your growing agitation, and gain a new asset in you. Win-fucking-win. Frank could hardly do anything about it when you had so easily agreed so he resigned himself to doing his part.

"It's so cute how you two have pet names for each other," you said, teasing but lacking the previous sunny playfulness in your tone.

"They're not pet names," Frank snorted, huffing as the last one fell limp under his choke hold. "They're our old Marine code names. All clear, Blackbird?"

"Confirmed, Raven. Bartender should be moving to the backroom in five minutes as instructed," Billy said, his scope trained on the remaining three inside the bar. "Feeling left out, pretty girl? You can call me whatever you want."

You swear to god he winked. You couldn't see him, but you were sure of it. You rolled your eyes under the low hood of your jacket as you continued to pretend to be busy on your phone. You were sitting on the bus stop right across the bar as you waited for your cue to enter. You were leaning back and relaxed, looking just like any other civilian waiting for the bus but inside you your blood was roaring and your nerves were jumping in anticipation.

"We should give you a code name too though," Billy added, biding the time until he could signal you to go in.

"Hummingbird because you're a restless little shit," Frank suggested, the smile evident in his tone.

"Dead dove," Billy said to which both you and Frank snorted. "What? She is presumed dead."

"What about something cheesy then like Phoenix?" Frank snickered.

"Hedwig," Billy said and Frank hummed his agreement. "The fluffy snowy white owl in the wizard kid movies."

"Why can't I get a normal badass one like you guys? Why do I have to be a fictional bird?"

Because you weren't tainted like them.

At least that's what Billy thought. The code names that they carry weren't just a reminder of their brotherhood, but the darkened path that they previously walked together. He saw a spark of idealism and innocence in you when you first met. The world was still black and white to you, not the sickening variety of grey that Frank and Billy knew it to be. Even now your wrath was in the name of something good. Naming you something with humour was, to him, hopefully a reminder for you to hold on to your remaining light and for him to help preserve it. A snow white owl seemed appropriate.

"We can call you Pigeon instead. Your choice, pretty bird," Billy chuckled, far too pleased with his play on words.

"I hate you both."

"Lies," Billy laughed before his tone dropped to something more serious. "You're clear to enter, Hedwig."

You huffed as you rose to your feet, pocketing your phone while discreetly checking on your weapons. You placed your hands inside the pockets of your hoodie, a casual gesture but also meant to hide how your hands were slightly shaking. You forced yourself to take two steadying breaths before you opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit bar. 

Three pairs of eyes immediately followed you as you made your way to a seat by the empty bar, consciously not making eye contact with your targets. Your fingers tapped on the sticky countertop, looking like you were just impatiently waiting for the bartender but you were waiting for someone else entirely.

"You wanna party, girlie?"

Predictable.

You turned on your seat and watched the small shock and slow satisfied grin grow on the man's features. Even mostly hidden by your hood, it was evident that you had a beautiful face and he was thanking whatever god he subscribed to for his luck as the corners of your lips lifted in what he thought was flirtatious amusement.

"You say that to all the girls? Even underaged ones you plan on kidnapping?"

His smile dropped immediately, confusion replacing it followed by anger as his fists clenched. His hand snapped out to grip your wrist tightly, pulling you close to him until you could smell the stale beer on his breath. Disgusting. You frowned at the stench of him and the proximity of his ugly face to yours, an expression he mistook for you feeling intimidated.

"What the hell are you on, bitch? Who fucking sent you?"

The nervousness you felt earlier eased out of your body. In its place was a sense of calm and focus. Here was a target. A bad man. A man who needed to be punished because who knew whose child they would try to kidnap next. What if next time they succeeded? The reasoning was sound in your mind. The logic justified what you were there to do. The small smile playing on your lips widened as the bloodlust rushed through you.

"The senator sends his regards."

He was too slow to react, too slow to process the shock and confusion as he registered your words. Your free hand slipped into the pockets of your hoody, pulling the trigger of your pistol immediately and shooting through the fabric. It hit him right in the gut causing him to stagger away from you, releasing your wrist in favor of uselessly trying to clutch at his profusely bleeding stomach. He stared at you with horror before his eyes faded and he dropped to the sticky floor with a loud thump.

If the silenced gunshot didn’t get their attention, then their companion dropping to the ground lifelessly in a pool of his own blood certainly did. The other two shot to their feet, chairs scraping loudly and bottles crashing to the floor with all signs of inebriation vanishing from the sudden threat. 

They returned your shots as you made a jump to take cover behind the bar. Furniture went flying and clattered noisily. Your mind buzzed through the chaos as you calculated your next move, almost relishing the adrenaline pumping in your veins.

Their bullets continued to rain down on the front of the bar, the thick wood splintering loudly on impact but they didn’t sound like they were making any move to come closer. Fucking pussies. You rolled smoothly out of the other end of the bar, your gun poised and a sick grin on your face as you shot precisely at one of them.

Two shots to the back of the head.

You slid across the floor closer to the last man standing, grabbing a broken off chair leg along the way before lifting yourself to your feet fluidly while effectively knocking out the gun from his hand. One of your hands kept his arm hostage while the other shoved the sharp broken end of the chair leg through his throat. 

You kept your gazes locked, unflinching even as his blood spurted from the wound and splashed across your face and neck. You watched the life drain from him, a cruel satisfied smirk on your lips as he slowly slid to the ground. You shoved his hand away from your grip as he went completely limp.

Suddenly all noise ceased in the bar and an eerie quiet filled it along with the unmistakable smell of blood and gunpowder. The room was in chaos. Gunshots decorated the bar and the furniture was thrown in disarray. Three dead bodies. You felt a little of the weight on your chest lift and that sense of achievement and satisfaction tugged at you.

You felt good.

"Not gonna lie, that was hot," Billy said with a whistle. "But you missed one."

"What?"

A bullet whizzed right past your ear, freezing you to your spot before it found its home in the forehead of a rather large brute who had just come out of the men’s room. His pants were still halfway done up, haphazardly held up in his rush to investigate the ruckus outside. He had his gun in his hand, but Billy had already gotten to him before he could even turn off the safety. You tilted your head to the side as he also fell dead to the floor before you raised an eyebrow toward your sniper, knowing he could see you through the scope.

“Seriously?”

“What? I always have your back, pretty girl, and I never miss.”

You shook your head as you came to the plain realization that despite your better judgment, you trusted him to have your back. Just like Frank and Curtis, you trusted Billy Russo with your life. They did bring you back from the dead afterall. You nudged the nearest bloody body with your boot, satisfied that they were all indeed dead. The other members of the gang will wake up in a couple of hours to find their comrades.

Your work here was done.

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

The sound of idly dripping water from the recently turned off shower punctured through the silence of Anvil's locker rooms. Normally you wouldn't use the baths intended for the trainees and staff. Billy had given you his private quarters with an en suite in the facility that he used to occupy whenever he worked late. It kept you close to them and also hid you from the public while still allowing you to use the training amenities when everyone cleared out. 

You were supposed to be a ghost. You only wanted one person in your past to know you were alive and that was only so he could know you were coming for him. You wanted him to know death was going to be visiting him. You wanted him to be terrified. The rest couldn't know you had survived.

Not yet anyway.

After the adrenaline had worn out, a sharp searing pain bloomed on your side. It was only then that you noticed a bullet had grazed you just on the upper part of your ribs and that the blood on your hoody wasn't just from your enemies tonight. It wasn't too bad. Maybe a couple of stitches, but it did hurt like a motherfucker.

You were much too tired to make it up three flights of stairs and the medical kit down here was more readily stocked than the one upstairs anyway. Billy had excused himself to his office to make some calls and Frank grunted his need for sleep. You were alone. You were standing in front of the sinks, using the mirrors that lined the walls to aid you in stitching the wound. You huffed in frustration and shook your head at the difficulty of twisting your aching body to reach.

A low chuckle and softly padding feet pulled your attention and you fumbled with the towel draped loosely around your hips to cover your half naked form. Fresh from the shower and intending to take care of your injury, you were only in your black panties and bra but you might as well have been stark naked with the predatory way Billy was looking at you as he approached.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, his voice low but with genuine concern.

"I'm good. It's fine."

You quickly stammered out your reply, flustered at the sudden company and desperately trying to cover up as much of your skin as possible. Billy noticed. It wasn't as much the fact that you were barely wearing anything, but more on what was laid bare because of it. He noted how you were particularly covering one side of your neck, a part of your torso, a space around your thighs. He noted how you were trying to keep your arms beneath the towel and how you were angling your body so your back wasn't seen by him or reflected by the mirrors. He noted how you refused to meet his eyes.

You were covering up your scars.

Billy knew firsthand how fierce you were. How powerful. How strong. How fearless. How terrifying. Just tonight alone showed that you were a force to be reckoned with. Right now you looked so vulnerable and small. So unsure of yourself. Ready to tuck tail and run. It pained him and his heart clenched for your sake. He realized then how you had always been in long sleeves and hoodies. Even when you were sweating during training, you remained covered up. It knew now that it wasn't about modesty, but more of shame.

You had no reason to be. Not about this. Not about anything. Not if Billy had any say in it. He made a snap decision and before you could even give in to your instinct to bolt out of there, he had whipped his own shirt off himself. Your mouth dropped open as he revealed broad shoulders, lean muscle, chiseled abs, and a tapered waist. He looked like he stepped out of a goddamn romance novel. Heat flared on your face and somewhere much lower, your eyes darkening with inappropriate desires. You shook your head before they could fully take form in your mind.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Instead of answering you, he grabbed one of your wrists. He pried it free from the death grip you had on your towel, the fabric falling freely and now only held up by one hand. He held your palm low on his abdomen, just above the waistband of his jeans. You were too shocked to really react, surprised by how hot his skin felt.

"Gunshot wound. A militia in the Middle East ambushed us. We didn't know they had snipers waiting for us. I survived."

It took you a while to register his words and the raised discolored patches of skin beneath your fingers. You looked up at him, your expression morphing to angry confusion but he kept his own neutral and gentle even. He guided your hand upwards to his toned chest, his heartbeat feeling as quick as your own.

"Ka-Bar knife. Russian spy. I survived."

He moved your hand again and your entire arm felt like it had been electrocuted. He rested it just below his shoulder, a breath away from his collarbone. You swallowed and grimaced at how dry your throat felt.

"Metal pipe. New York mafia. I survived."

He went on for a while, dragging your hand across parts of his body and telling you stories of each earned scar until your expression had softened and the tension in your body relaxed. You chose to focus on his words instead of the steady heat building at your core from each touch.

"What happened to the one who gave you this?" you asked after one particularly gruesome scar on his bicep.

"Dead. You're not the only one who likes to settle scores,” he said, a small smug smirk on his face before it turned more serious again. “I killed all of them. Except this one.”

He raised your hand toward his face, running it along his hairline from the top of his forehead to just behind his ear. You winced at the long raised scar that was just hidden by his thick black hair. It was a horrid scar and it felt like his skull was almost cracked wide open. For all the time you’ve spent with Billy, it was only now that you even noticed this part of him. You felt a twinge of guilt at never really taking the time to get to know him.

“Who did this to you?”

“Frank,” he said with a sad smile as he refused to meet your shocked eyes. “I deserved it.”

You didn’t ask questions. You knew part of this story of theirs from Frank and though you were curious, this didn’t seem like the right time. You smiled gently at him, your hand falling to cup his cheek.

“Why are you telling me all this, Russo?”

“Because I survived,” he said simply, meeting your puzzled look this time. “Just like you did.”

Heat crept up to your face, embarrassed at how he was basically calling you out. It was subtle. He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t need to. What he was saying was that you were a survivor. The scars were a testament to your resilience. The marks were proud battle scars. They were trophies.

You willed yourself not to look away from his darkening gaze as he tugged the towel off you, the corner of his lip curling as the air sizzled around you both. The towel fell with a heavy plop on the floor, leaving you in only your underwear and your breath caught as he lifted a finger to trail along the marred skin along the side of your neck. He took his turn to touch you slowly, leaving a blazing trail down your collarbone and leading down one arm. 

He smiled lazily down at you, his eyes hooded as his hand moved to graze along your hip before winding to your back. Your body went rigid but his eyes were softly reassuring and coaxed you to relax back against his featherlight touch. Your back was where the worst of your scars were, spiraling and crawling all over in a mesh of broken skin. Here under the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom and with all the mirrors lining the wall, there was nowhere to hide from his perusal. You had never felt more naked in your life.

It scared you.

It thrilled you.

His palm came to rest low on your back, pushing you flush against him and trapping you against the counter. His body felt hot against yours, his lean muscles pressing on your softness and his jeans rough on your skin. He tilted his head and leaned in, your lips now inches apart and your breaths mingling in the tiny space. Your heart raced with anticipation as your eyes alternated between his smoldering gaze and his tempting lips.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

His head swooped in then, halting any further thought with a searing kiss. You shuddered against his lips, a soft sigh escaping you and allowing him to slip his tongue in to taste you better. He held you with a hand to the back of your neck, ensuring you can’t escape. As if you wanted to. As if you had any capacity to think of anything else except how electric his lips felt.

Your body arched toward him and his free hand roamed your skin, this time with more pressure. He pressed. He gripped. He squeezed. Each heated touch stroking the fire inside you and shooting straight to your core. More. You wanted more. The frenzy built between you and soon your hands grew more desperate to touch more, your body aching to press harder against him. Your arms wound around his neck, your hands burying in his hair and tugging.

He growled into your mouth and lifted you onto the counter, ripping your remaining clothing off your body. Large hands cupped your breasts and squeezed, making you gasp. He pulled his mouth away from yours but kept his face close, carefully watching your expressions with blown eyes. One hand tweaked your nipples while the other traveled down your body to test your folds, lifting one of your legs along the way and propping it up on the counter to spread you open for him.

“Been dying to taste you, pretty girl.” He kissed you quickly before dipping a finger inside you. Your hands gripped tighter around his shoulder as you squirmed. “Can’t wait to feel you strangling my cock with your pretty little cunt.” 

Your pussy clenched at his words and he chuckled. “Yeah, just like that.”

His movements were deliberately slow, torturous but with just enough pressure to have you panting for more as the pleasure built inside you. His mouth came down to nip at your lips, trail his tongue along the skin of your shoulders, and bite at the column of your neck. A hazy cloud of lust enveloped you and lulled your mind, pushing your insecurities away and leaving room only for all he was giving you. Everything else in the room faded away and the sudden closing of the locker doors jarred you to alertness.

Your eyes widened as they snapped toward the door. Frank. You panicked as you looked at him standing there in a wide stance and an unflinching stare, your heartbeat now racing for a whole other reason. Guilt bit at you as you tried to grasp at anything to cover your nakedness up with, your hands doing little to shield you but Billy wasn’t having any of it. He gripped you by the thighs, spreading you even wider and flashing you a grin full of deviance. You shook your head and tried to hiss at him, switching between looking at the two men.

“Don’t mind me,” Frank said, his voice coming low and raspy. It sent delectable shivers down your spine as he began to undress. “I just came for a shower.” 

You sat frozen to the spot, conflicted between leaping to a hasty exit or grinding your pussy against Billy’s fingers. Your eyes though couldn’t help but follow Frank as he walked toward the showers, taking the area just to the left of the one directly in front of you. You had a perfect view of him and that meant he had a perfect view of you.

“You’re gripping me so tight right now, pretty girl,” Billy whispered next to your ear. You grabbed his wrist, but it did little to stop him from stretching you open in front of his bestfriend. “And so fucking wet too. You like Frankie watching you, don’t you?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but all that came out was a sharp moan as he thrust his fingers hard and curled them. He chuckled as he watched your hesitance slowly drain away to be replaced by that desire again. He kissed the side of your jaw and kept his lips there, keeping your head turned toward Frank.

“Don’t worry. He likes watching you too.”

His words registered late, the tightening in your core distracting you from Frank’s presence. Frank had water pouring down his head and trailing down his body in the most erotic water show you had ever seen. You couldn’t help but follow the streams down until you saw something that made your breath hitch. 

Frank was rock hard.

Your eyes traveled up and met deep brown eyes that were already watching you. If his proud hard on wasn’t enough to convince you then the feral lust in his blown eyes certainly did. 

“Told you,” Billy said with a breathy laugh. “Let’s give him something to really watch.”

That was all the warning you got before he dropped to his knees and latched his mouth over your aching clit. You yelped in surprise, your hand flying out to clutch onto his dark hair. His free arm banded over your hips, keeping you in place as his mouth and fingers worked in tandem to drive you to insanity. In no time at all he had your thighs shaking around him and harried panting was all you were capable of.

“Billy,” you whined, all your reservations thrown to the wind in the face of your burning need to cum. “Please.”

He groaned and the vibrations made your toes curl. He picked up his pace, scissoring into you rapidly and sucking on your bud with purpose. You chanced a look at him and the intense hooded look in his eyes, commanding you to let go, was enough to push you off the cliff you were teetering on. You came with a scream, your hips rocking against his face and your hand pulling his head closer to your core. Your release came wave after wave, his attention still not letting up until you were cumming again. He held you as you convulsed, drinking up everything you had to offer until you fell back against the mirror limply.

Billy crawled up your body and pulled your head to crash his lips against yours, your taste on his tongue in your mouth was making you delirious. He kissed you hungrily, impatiently, as he fumbled with the opening of his jeans. Your hands clung to his chest, his neck, his shoulders. Anywhere you could steady yourself on. You felt his rapid heartbeat match yours and his obvious eagerness sent another wave of wetness to your core.

“You can choke on my cock later, pretty girl. If I don’t get inside you right now I might just kill someone.”

You shrieked as he pulled you off the counter, setting you on your feet and spinning you around to face the mirror. His long fingers wrapped around your neck, tipping your chin to look directly at the reflection. He bent you over just enough to lift your ass at the perfect height for him, wasting no time and sheathing himself in your heat. You gasped at his length, deliciously curving and reaching places you didn't even know a cock was capable of. He groaned as he felt your walls grip him, his other hand digging into your hip.

"Fucking hell. You feel even better than you taste. Fuck!"

Your eyes started to flutter close as he started to pound into you, immediately punishing as if he just couldn't hold back. As if the feel of you was too good for him to exercise any form of restraint. It felt too good. It felt so fucking good.

"No," he snapped, his hand on your neck tightening to get your attention. "Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch."

He lifted your knee up on the counter, spreading you wider and giving you a view of how your pussy kept sucking him back in desperately. Each time he pulled out you saw his shaft coated in your slick. God, you were so wet.

"I want you to watch how beautiful you look taking my cock."

He jerked your head when your eyes threatened to close again. Your eyes flew open as he snapped his hips, jolting you forward and making your breath catch. Each forceful thrust broke you, taking apart all your doubts and pushing you toward another orgasm.

"I want you to watch how much of a rabid fucking animal I am for your pretty little cunt."

Your gaze focused on him and fuck it if he didn't look exactly like he said. His hair was a mess and falling in front of his handsome face. A light sheen of sweat covered him, adding to the menacing feral look in his black eyes. His lips were curled in a half sneer, half smirk that was pure masculine arrogance.

"I want you to watch how crazy you're making Frank."

Frank. You had completely forgotten that Frank was bearing witness to Billy completely defiling you. You froze as you searched for him and what you saw almost made you cum on the spot. The shower was still running and beneath the stream Frank was furiously fucking his hand, mirroring the way Billy was ramming into you.

Billy's hand coming around to thrum on your clit had your legs almost giving out. Your body relaxed once more in his arms, forced to submit to his unrelenting pace. You could feel your orgasm wind tight in your core and Billy groaned as he felt you start to clamp tighter around him.

"Come on. Nearly there," he said between ragged breaths. "Fucking give it to me."

Tighter and tighter. Higher and higher. Your eyes went to Frank again just in time for you to see him throw his head back, his jaw clenched tightly as white streams of his cum spurted onto the tiles. God, he looked damn good cumming.

You screamed as your orgasm hit you like a truck, your whole body shaking as your hands clawed at the counter. Your vision blurred with white spots but you kept them open, greedily wanting to watch Billy finish too.

"Fucking hell!" Billy growled, slamming sloppily into you. 

He fucked you through your orgasm, not giving a damn that you were oversensitive and wrecked. A few more hard thrusts was all it took to have him grunting loudly as he spilled inside you. He collapsed on top of you, pressing you onto the cold counter as you both tried to regain control of your breathing. His weight and the feel of his heated sweaty body on yours felt oddly comfortable. You were both going to need another shower.

Frank stalked toward you, still fully naked and with water still dripping down his body. You were still sensitive from your release, your senses still buzzing and now laced with nervousness at how he's going to react to all this. He grasped your chin to turn your face toward him, planting a firm kiss on your lips while his best friend still had his softening dick inside you and his cum leaking around your pussy. His lips curled at the corner when you parted.

"Don't forget to turn the lights off when you come to bed," he mumbled before winking at you. "No rush."

He left you shocked and speechless as he sauntered off, leaving you with a rather nice view of his firm ass as he grabbed a fresh towel from the racks before exiting through the door. Did that really just happen? You had so many questions racing through your mind and it was Billy's breathy laugh filled with amusement at your struggle that pulled you back before your brain could overheat.

"So I was thinking that we needed a new strategy about Salvacion."

Your brows furrowed at the sudden change of topic, badly disorienting you given what you had just shared and who witnessed it. You shook your head to focus.

"You're really bad at pillow talk, Russo."

He laughed and you found that you liked the sound of it. You always had it seemed. He bent down to kiss you, tongue swiping for a moment against yours and his hips thrusting just that little bit.

Tease.

"Pillow talk is when we're done. I'm not even halfway done with you tonight," he mumbled against your lips, punctuating his words with a playful bite. "But stop distracting me. Whispers of the incident at the bar are already making the rounds and people are asking questions."

"What kinds of questions?" you asked, trying your hardest not to push your hips back against him. Your back was arching against him and your neck craned to the side as you looked at him through the mirror.

"They're curious to know who ordered the hit and who took it. The mercenary business is a tight community. They wanna know about the new female player on the board."

"Somebody saw?" you asked. It wasn't ideal that news would reach Jill or the Avengers about you. That was a complication you didn't want to face yet.

"Not enough to identify you," he said, brushing off your worries with a soft kiss on your shoulder. "The most they can possibly dig up is that you would have taken the request from Anvil or the senator. Either won't be a problem."

You nodded, a small frown forming as you thought. Anvil was known to employ more discrete security for special cases. Frank would sometimes take some of those assignments as The Punisher and hardly anyone would be surprised to think that the senator had sent someone to clean up after they had hurt his child. You gnawed on your lip as you worked through your worries before staring up at Billy with curiosity.

"You mentioned a new strategy?"

He beamed at you as he nodded. "We've been playing it safe this whole time, waiting and chasing down small leads. Backtracking and retracing what we know so far is not getting us closer fast enough."

A chord struck in you at how he was referring to all of you as a team. You had always been independent and so self-reliant. From supporting yourself and your sister to even when you were with the Avengers. You never felt like you were part of a team. Even with Frank and Billy by your side, you had still remained in that mentality that you were doing this all on your own.

You decided to change that.

Billy was right. By now, you all knew that Salvacion was too careful to leave any breadcrumbs for you to follow. It was irritating the hell out of you and it made you even more restless. He was just as much a ghost as you were and he knew far more about this world than you did. It was easier for him to hide. He might not even be aware that you were alive or if he did then he couldn't care less about you. 

He didn't see you as a threat.

Yet.

"What are you suggesting?"

"We get his attention. We use you as bait."

“How?” you said, raising a brow. 

"By rebranding you." You rolled your eyes as he talked to you all business, but with that mischievous smirk and glint in his eyes. "You'll take more hits, establish your reputation as a merc. It will open opportunities for you to access people and information that deal with the shit he does."

"You think we'll find something this way?"

"Or he might get curious and come out himself," he added. "We can set you up for some gear. Cover you completely so you can remain anonymous if that's what you want. I don't think a big ass spray painted vest with a skull on it is your style."

You snorted a laugh at the small dig at Frank. No, it wasn't your style. Your lips curved into a decided smile, your eyes now dancing with excitement.

"So where do we start?"

Billy smiled widely at you, pleased that you were happy with his suggestion. He kissed the side of your head and breathed in.

"Well every brand needs a name and I think you've outgrown Y/N."

Your smile flashed with sadness for a moment. You had outgrown your name. You weren't that person anymore. When Lily died, Y/N died with her. At the very least, she wished that she did. You spared a moment to mourn your younger self before you steeled your resolve. This was a new chapter. You were a new person. This was your rebirth, your reformation.

"Any ideas?"

"Yeah. How about Nemesis?"

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