oberyn martell imagine - TumblrViewer

LIVE

Din Djarin

Din was thrilled from the moment you announced your pregnancy, he would sit down with Grogu explaining the responsibilities of a big brother.

When you give birth, he helps you. It was his fault that you were on a deserted planet after all. He feared the worst, but you were strong and so was your child.

When he first held his daughter, she was still covered in blood, but in his eyes, she was the definition of perfection.

Jack Daniels

This wasn’t the first time he was about to become a father, but this was the time he was super cautious. Making sure you were safe at every second, he doesn’t want to go through the same pain as before.

When you gave birth, he was on a mission. He was called by Ginger and he immediately dropped everything. But he was late.

By the time he arrived to the hospital, you were sleeping and so, he let you sleep while he walked over to the glass so he could see his child. And surely enough Jack found him. The only baby with just a last name, meaning you wanted to wait until he was there to name him.

He felt a tear fall from his eyes as he looked at him, he knew he would do anything to keep his family safe.

Marcus Moreno

It was a quiet night, everyone was sleeping when you woke up. Marcus didn’t even move an inch when you got out of bed. You were in desperate need to pee.

But on your way back to the bed, you felt a terrible pain.

Of course, when you woke Marcus up, he was running around like a chicken without a head, thank God for Missy who was able to help you out.

This wasn’t the first time Marcus her his own baby and standing there he wouldn’t want this to be the last either. He cried. Tears rolling down his face while he held his youngest daughter.

Of course, Missy took multiple pictures of him which she planned on blackmailing her father later on in his life.

Oberyn Martell

Childbirth was something he was used to. He had many daughters before you even came into the picture.

But this was the very first time he held a son and not a daughter. It felt special, and as much as he loved his daughters, his heart still felt a different way to see the youngest addition to his ever-growing family.

He swore his entire life to protect him as he would be his rightful heir. You even caught a glimpse of a tear running down his cheek before he whiped it.

Javier Pena

Panic wouldn’t even begin to describe what he went through that day. He thought he would rather go after another Escobar guy instead of going through this hell, and he didn’t even had to do anything. He held your hand and that’s all. You did all the work.

His mind often went to that dark place, that dark place which told him to just run, leave and never come back, but he stayed.

And that dark voice in the back of his head disappeared when he held his daughter for the first time. And how glad he was that he didn’t leave.

Tiny little girl with his eyes. Perfection. He just stood there, frozen as he looked at her. Not even giving her to the nurses when they asked.

Pero Tovar

After your third child you thought Pero would have enough. You thought he would have enough and not want more children. But you were wrong. Two girls and a boy weren’t enough. He wanted more. And you were happy to give him more.

Each birth was more terrifying to him than the last. He loved his children all the same and he just loved you a little more as he held his second son. Each time he was reminded just how amazing you were and it made his heart explode.

Him, a rough swordsman, such a soft and kind father and husband. He never saw himself in that position. As you finally fell asleep, he watched the kids, showing them his youngest, like the proud father he was.

Taglist:imreadinggoaway @fleursirvart @v-2bucky ehsebastiancrunch-time-sports @pxstelrainbowablogbypeteparker liamssmilersmexylemony @greenarrowheadfeelingsareharddd @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @avengers-r-us @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster celebsimagine @capsiclesdoll snoopy3000 @firstangeldragonranch @puknow crazzyter @alwayshave-faith @soleil-dor @alex12948 scream-kiwi79 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl@liveforkarljacobs

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

@multific

Wed, 04 May 2022 08:22:24

Oberyn Martell x Stark!Reader

CW: Mention of minor character death. Mention of marital violence. Mention of sexual activities, but nothing explicit.

Word Count: 2532

AN: Per la bellissima @nuvoleincielo

AN2: This will not have Ellaria in it—either in this part or in future parts. This is pre-Ellaria, timeline-wise. Give it a pass if you feel a certain way about that.

AN3: Other parts can be found here.

When Oberyn Martell was eighteen years old, and when his sister Elia was nineteen years old, they attended a tourney in Highgarden. Oberyn was happy to see his sister again—only a few years earlier, he’d been exiled after some ugliness with Lord Yronwood. He had traveled around Essos, explored the Free Cities, and now he was back in Westeros.

All of the great houses were in Highgarden. A thousand colorful banners fluttered in the breeze, each one representing the houses and their bannermen. Houses clustered along ancient alliances: the Stormlords around the Baratheons, the Dornish houses clustered around House Martell, the northern bannermen with the Starks.

Oberyn saw the grey direwolf banner snapping in the wind, and his hand drifted to his other wrist, where the scars from your bite had faded into silvery crescents against his skin.

Elia caught the gesture; his sister was quiet, but she missed very little. She nudged him and said, smiling, “I don’t think your little wolf-cub is here, brother. She’s likely slipped the chains of Winterfell and is running wild beyond the Wall.”

Elia was half-right. You weren’t in the lands Beyond the Wall, but you were running wild. You and your sister both, a pair of wild wolf-girls. You were both lean and skinny in that way that children were when they left toddlerhood but hadn’t yet reached maturity, all lanky arms and legs.

And you were both in the boiled leathers of Stark squires, not the simple, pretty gowns that other girls your age were wearing. Your sister Lyanna’s hair was plaited back in a tight braid, but your own hair was short, barely brushing your shoulders as the two of you darted between the tents of the great houses, shrieking and whooping like Dothraki screamers. You each held a training weapon aloft: Lyanna with a wooden sword, and you with a long spear with a dulled wooden tip.

Oberyn and Elia watched as the two of you ran right through the Dorne section of tents, right past them. If he had wanted to, Oberyn could have reached out and grabbed you, but he already bore the scars from pushing your temper. He smiled to think of the damage you’d do with that training spear of yours.

He only saw you once more at that tourney. Oberyn was a busy young man at Highgarden that season, conquering at the joust and conquering in the bedrolls. He bedded a pair of buxom cousins from House Fossoway and then a groom of Lord Hastwyk. He had been taking his leave of the groom that morning, early. Just as dawn was reaching out its rosy light across the dark sky, he saw you again.

You and your sister both, this time in dark, somber dresses. You both looked as though you’d been thoroughly chastened for the hell you raised earlier in the tournament. Indeed, the two of you were being ushered into a carriage by a dour-faced septa. The carriage was on the Roseroad, facing north.

Oberyn only caught a glimpse of your face, and it was much like the last time he saw you in Winterfell: red, swollen eyes, a deep frown.

It wasn’t until the next day that his sister told him the truth of the matter: Lady Lyarra, who had stayed behind in Winterfell, had died after a brief, sudden fever. Your father had only gotten the raven hours before Oberyn saw you.

Oberyn sent up prayers for you and your family: one to the Mother, in honor of Lady Lyarra Stark, who had been a sweet, gentle hostess when he had met her. One to the Stranger, to see her soul safely to the other world.

And one to the Warrior, which he offered with a sad smile. A prayer to the Warrior for you, a fierce little wolf-cub, that the Warrior may give you peace as the one left behind in the land of the living.

He and Elia knew what it felt like, after all. They had just lost their own mother the year before.

*****

Changes came quickly once your mother was placed in her crypt.

Your brother Brandon settled into Winterfell permanently, his fostering at Barrowtown complete. Your other brother, Eddard, returned to the Eyrie. You and Lyanna and Benjen were supposed to stay in Winterfell too, but your father had other ideas.

Specifically about you.

Your father was a stranger to you. Like most northern lords, he held any scant affection for his children specifically for his sons, and he only viewed you and Lyanna as gems to barter away for alliances or gold or more titles. Before this day, you could probably count only a handful of words your father had spared for you, and most of those were to chastise you for your wild behavior.

“I’ve secured you a position as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella,” he told you without preamble. There were no kind words, no comfort for your motherless status. Straight to business, as you’d overheard the servants say of your father before, Lord Rickard and his southron ambitions.

“Father, I—”

He held up a silencing hand. “Your mother let you run wild for too long. A woman’s weakness for her youngest, I suppose. But you are only ten years old and already you have a reputation as a reckless thing. No one wants to even discuss a betrothal of their sons to you.”

As ever, the thought of a betrothal or marriage made your stomach roil and churn in anxious fear. You’d had a sheltered upbringing in Winterfell, but not so sheltered that you didn’t see what marriage did to a woman: boxed her in, caged her, turned her into a broodmare pressed into having enough healthy sons to carry on her husband’s lineage.

“But Lyanna—”

Another silencing gesture, this time a cutting glare. “Your sister is wild yet she abides her septa. She doesn’t bedevil Maester Wayls. She does not climb the weirwood or the broken tower. She does not creep through the corridors, spying on her betters.” A pause, a sigh. “I won’t struggle to find her a good marriage match that will advance Stark causes.”

You knew it was no use to argue with your father. Lord Rickard’s word was law in the north. Maybe if you’d had more time to plan, you could have slipped out of Winterfell, made your way north. The one scullery girl in the kitchen had grown up Beyond the Wall, an actual wildling, and you’d begged her for stories until the cook chased you away and forbade you from the kitchens altogether.

Beyond the Wall, a woman could live however she wanted. If she wanted a husband, she simply placed his boots at her hearth. If she wanted to rid herself of that same husband, she simply threw his boots outside.

If she didn’t want to marry at all, she could live alone. She could cut her own wood, hunt her own food. She could climb any tree she wanted, read any stories. She never had to embroider a single stupid pane of embroidery if she didn’t want to.

But you had no time to plan, to run away. Your father told you of your new circumstances, and you were immediately sent off with your septa to pack.

You were allowed, at least, a long moment to say goodbye to Lyanna, the two of you sobbing in each other’s arms until the Stark bannerman in charge of your journey to King’s Landing gently pulled you away.

*****

When Oberyn Martell was twenty-two years old, and when his sister Elia was twenty-three years old, he saw you again. It was at the tournament celebrating his sister’s betrothal to Prince Rhaegar, though you were much changed.

At first, he would have thought you tamed: you were in a lovely blue gown, your hair down and neatly brushed, the sides swept away in little braids. You walked through the tourney grounds of King’s Landing with Queen Rhaella, your hands folded in front of you. The perfect picture of a genteel lady.

“It looks like your little wolf-cub has finally lost her fangs,” Elia said beside him, and Oberyn would have agreed…except as he watched you, as he watched the Queen’s retinue make its way to the royal box, he saw a Tarly squire reach out and pinch the bottom of the young lady in front of you. You caught the action, and in a swift movement—never breaking your sedate stride—you reached out and punched the squire squarely in his belly.

The squire doubled over in a soundless oof, and no one seemed any wiser to the minor skirmish that had just happened in their midst.

Oberyn caught your pleased smile, though. The feral little curl to your lips, the way your cool eyes gleamed as you followed the Queen.

“I do not think this wolf is quite yet tamed,” he told Elia, who laughed softly.

*****

It wasn’t just a tournament for the sake of lords to beat each other with lances and swords: it was a celebration of Prince Rhaegar’s betrothal to Princess Elia of Dorne.

There was nothing to celebrate, as far as you were concerned. Your time with Queen Rhaella had only solidified your stance on marriage: the mad king took his pleasure roughly, and your beloved queen often bore the marks of his violence.

How many times had you smoothed healing ointments on her arms, her chest? How many times had you clumsily tried to comfort her, patting her hands or brushing out her silvery hair? The woman had become something of a second mother to you—indeed, she seemed to understand your wolf-blood better than your own family—and you ached to see her hurt.

You would hate to see the gentle Elia bear that same marital violence. You remembered her from the Martell visit to Winterfell all those years ago, the sweet girl fragile as blown glass. How she had humored all of your questions about Dorne—one of the first people in your life to indulge your natural curiosity rather than stifling it.

Still, Prince Rhaegar seemed different from his mad father. True, he seemed to have the same melancholia that some Starks had, a sad countenance and a faraway way of looking into the distance. Maybe that would be the most he ever suffered from, or maybe he’d descend into madness too.

Another mark against marriage, in your mind. That a woman could be bound to a mad husband with no escape other than death.

But Rhaegar and Elia seemed a happy couple at the betrothal feast that night. Elia seemed shy, perhaps, from all of the stares and attention from the northern lords. There was an unhappy rumor that Lord Tywin Lannister was furious about the betrothal, that he had slated his daughter Cersei to marry the Targaryen lord.

You were the only representative from House Stark, likely by design. Your father was busy as ever, running down suitable matches for your elder siblings. You wrote frequently to Lyanna and Benjen, and they fed you the northern gossip. You, in turn, kept them updated to the goings-on in King’s Landing.

Like this feast: you studied the gathered houses as they ate and drank and toasted the young couple. You already knew how you were going to describe Lord Tywin and his pursed mouth, like he had sucked on a green lemon. And the Baratheon sons: Stannis and his spare frame, Robert and his bearlike stature, Renly and his almost too-pretty looks. How three young men could come from the same sire and be so different fascinated you.

The Martells with their golden good looks and bright robes. You saw the younger prince, the one they now called the Red Viper, the one who had come to Winterfell. You scowled to see him. You hadn’t forgotten his mean remark that day in the godswood—you held every slight close to your heart, a list of people to revenge yourself on if the chance ever arrived.

At least you’d bitten him that day. At least he perhaps had learned a lesson not to aggravate a direwolf. A direwolf, you figured, outplayed a viper. A viper just had venom, while a direwolf had gnashing, tearing teeth and claws and a pack of other direwolves.

Oberyn must have felt eyes on him, because he turned and studied the crowd. His eyes settled on you after a beat, and the arrogant bastard had the nerve to smile at you, to tip you a polite nod.

You scowled at him and turned away, returning to the task of drafting your letter to Lyanna in your head, describing the great houses in attendance.

The rosy beauty of the Tyrells. The harsh, salt-stained Greyjoys. The Freys with their shifty eyes and mean little mouths.

That pesky voice in the back of your head: which house would your father marry you into, once you came of age?

That wasn’t for a while, hopefully. You were only thirteen, and while you’d shot up in height over the last year (Queen Rhaella joked about your skirts being scandalously high, with your overnight growth spurts), you were still very much a girl. Thankfully.

*****

Oberyn, something of a libertine, ate too much good food and drank too much good wine at his sister’s betrothal feast. He had already secured the services of several lovely whores at the best brothel in King’s Landing, and he only had to go take his leave of Elia.

“I wish you every happiness, sister,” he said as he pressed his beloved sister into a hug. She felt so slight in his arms, never very sturdy or healthy. Oberyn’s heart clenched in a vague fear of what King’s Landing might do to her. What being queen might do. The toll it all may take. Right now, she was Elia of Dorne, nourished by the sun and the heat like a desert flower. King’s Landing….well, it stank like shit and was full of venomous lords and ladies who may hurt his sister.

Still, her answering hug felt firm around his shoulders. Perhaps he worried needlessly.

“Thank you, Oberyn,” she replied. She pushed him away gently, and he could see the happiness writ across her lovely face. Then, the joy ceded to a slight smirk. “Off to take your own happiness, I presume?”

“You know me too well.”

She snorted softly. “Yes, I helped our brother write many pretty, pleading letters to get you out of trouble. I know you much too well.”

On his way out of the great hall, he caught your eye—the Stark girl that had left marks on his wrist that were still visible, a little constellation of scars that gleamed white against his tanned skin. He had smiled at you earlier, and you had scowled back, so you obviously remembered him.

Now, leaving, Oberyn winked at you. That earned him a scowl and your lips peeled back in a sort of growl, which made him laugh. A few years in King’s Landing, serving the Targaryen queen, hadn’t tamed your nature. Maybe Elia would be safe too.

~~~Tag List~~~
@bananas-pajamas @massivecolorspygiant @imspillingcoffee @amneris21 @paintballkid711 @mad-girl-without-a-box @bestattempt @rosiefridayrogersunday @strawberrydragon @hoeforthefictional @greeneyedblondie44 @leannawithacapitala @stardust-galaxies @buckybarneshairpullingkink @isvvc-pvscvl @mrschiltoncat @stillshelbs @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @tobealostwanderer @nuvoleincielo @knivesareout @frankie-catfish-morales @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @aistheamazing @softieekayy

#oberyn martell #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #game of thrones

@tropes-and-tales

Sat, 14 May 2022 17:14:18

Oberyn Martell | Imagines

✨ this masterlist is a compilation of wonderful writers* that have blessed us with their amazing works ✨

Warnings/mentions: Alcohol Drugs Violence

Keys: Angst Fluff Smut Smuttish Keyless

Oberyn’s Masterlist|TheMasterlist

if you don’t reblog this it’s all good, but r e m e m b e r to REBLOG and~~maybe reply too, ya know? that’s also nice~~ the original posts bc these people are blessing us with their writing for f r e e!!! likes are nice and all but they don’t get writings anywhere really! having a lot of notes is cool and whatnot but actuallyreblogging something is ✨ so yeah be the real mvp and reblog the author’s works bye!

*if your stuff isn’t here: it’s not you, it’s me! i’m a lazy ass! and also i couldn’t keep up with the amount of works being posted if you would like to be added pls just message me orfill this form! i know adding absolutely everyone is impossible at this point, but i’d love to add as many people as possible, i mean it

#oberyn martell #oberyn martell fanfic #oberyn martell headcanon #oberyn martell oneshot #oberyn martell imagine #the red viper #masterlist #reblogs are much appreciated ✨

@pascalisthepunkest

Sat, 14 Aug 2021 02:56:21