#alternate universe modern

[confused-reading-ink-rat]

Blast My Way Into Your Heart

A Gelphie Oneshot

Elphaba Thropp enters a local block blast competition with Glinda Upland, both pushed into it due to their alleged 'block blast addiction'. The pair make it into the district, forced to tolerate each other until the finals.

Or

I'm forced to write this because of my block blast addiction

Elphaba can’t believe she’s doing this.

Then again, what could she do? She already said yes, and it wasn’t like there was anything particularly terrible about participating.

Well, there are two blondes she would like to strangle, and one of them wasn’t here yet even though she should be.

It all started a week ago after she let Crope and Tibbett borrow her phone because they were getting bored while in the waiting room for their friend group’s check-up. Nessa had suggested they take them together after she found out that Boq had not been to one since he was eight years old.

So they were in the waiting room, and the couple was dramatically bored. Boq was nervous about his check-up, so Nessa came with him, and in turn, he’d be with her for hers. 

So Elphaba had been stuck with the disasters, with her nose buried in a book she had bought on the way. She gave up her phone and opened her Block Blast app. After screaming about the score she never paid attention to, they urged her to sign up for the local Block Blast Competition downtown.

So now she was sitting at one of the tables while staff ran across the room, yelling orders, getting yelled at, bringing tables, organizing the various boxes they were unpacking, and making calls. All because her unfortunately late teammate was stuck in traffic and could cost them the damn district competition.

She could still remember the day she met the insufferable blonde.

. . . 

“This is a horrible idea, Crope,” She grumbled as the blonde dragged her along.

“It is not!" He replied adamantly. "Besides, it’ll be fun!”

“Fun because you’re not the one competing,” she huffed,

“It’s for money! We all like money!"

“It’s just a couple of dollars, we don’t even know if I’ll win this,”

He crossed his arms and sighed, “Okay fine, if you lose I’ll pay you a quarter of the prize.”

“Quarter?”

“That’s already seventy-five dollars, don’t push me.”

“You make it sound like it's a favor,” she smirked, "But fine, I'll play."

And Elphaba won.

Just after a blonde girl with pink, rolled her eyes and rested her chin on her hand with a pout, she was ahead by fifteen points.

Now she and that blonde were going to the district, and further.

. . .

Glinda couldn’t believe she was still stuck in traffic!

She had been here and an hour had already passed, she was about to lose it. Oh, Oz, she’d be strangled by Elphie, for sure.

With nothing to do but wait, she could only reminiscence.

“You have to believe me!” She had vaguely heard Shenshen whisper to Pfanne, lost in her phone, she had started playing Block Blast a week ago. It seemed like a fun way to pass the time, and it was. And that was what landed her in this mess in the first place.

“You’ve got to be joking!” Pfanne retorted, Shenshen snatched Glinda’s phone out of her hands.

“Hey! I was playing!” Her complaints fell on deaf ears as Pfanne’s jaw dropped, she took her phone back and kept playing.

“I’m sorry, what is her high score?”

“Nine hundred twenty-three thousand, five hundred forty-two,” Glinda answered absentmindedly. She blinked and turned to them. "That’s my highest score?!”

“See?” Shenshen squealed, “I don’t lie, Pfanne,”

“Sure you don’t,” He scoffed.

Then, a familiar figure approached, carefree as always, he greeted them with a smile and a hug.

“So, what’s this I hear about high scores?” He whistled when he looked at Glinda’s phone and gave her a look.

She huffed and crossed her arms, “I don’t need an intervention.”

He smirked, “I didn’t say anything about that,”

“You were about to,” She narrowed her eyes at him, “You think it’s an addiction,”

“Is it?” He pulled his head back, tilting it to the side.

“This is a skill, Fiyero,” She replied adamantly.

“A useless one at that,” Pfanne remarked, Shenshen giggled.

Glinda threw up her hands in exasperation. “Why is everyone ganging up on me today?”

He shrugged, sliding onto the bench next to her. “Well, what if I tell you there is a use for that ‘useless’ skill of yours?”

“Ooh,” She leaned towards him. “Tell me.”

And now she’s lost to Elphaba Thropp, some green girl who would make for a great model if she just knew how to dress herself. Well, she was second anyway, and they apparently needed two players for the district competition.

. . .

“Place it here,”

“I didn’t ask for your help,”

“Well, you needed it anyhow,”

…

“No, no! You should’ve used the heart method! Oh, Oz!”

“The what method?”

“The heart method!”

“What even is that?”

…

“Elphaba you look horrible in that,”

“I thought we were only criticizing each other’s block blast techniques, not fashion sense.”

“I wouldn’t criticize you if you had any.”

…

“For someone who claims to be smart, you never know when to shut up,” 

“You never talk, I’m compensating for you.”

…

“Oh, my favorite block!” Glinda squealed.

Elphaba raised an eyebrow, “You have a favorite block?”

“Don’t you?”

“If I have to choose, the 3×3 block.”

“You just chose the one I hate the most, didn’t you?”

…

“I was literally on 999, 936! I could’ve gotten to a million! But no , a stupid 3×3 just had to show up—”

“What is she talking about?”

“Give her a minute or an hour.”

…

"Roommates." Elphaba deadpanned as they both stopped at the same door.

"Oh my goodness," Glinda gasped, covering her mouth with her hand in surprise, "We are roommates!"

…

"Since we'll be rooming with each other for a while-"

"It will only be a few weeks,"

"Oh hush, I'm trying to be nice," The blonde rolled her eyes, "I hardly know you, and we're going to be working together."

The green girl sighed and finally turned to her, "Fine, what do you want?"

"Tell me a secret!"

…

“You got me a water bottle to drink?” Glinda's eyes widened and she preened. "Your kindness knows no bounds, Miss Elphaba."

“Take it before I lose my patience and give you an impromptu bath."

…

“Oh, Oz, there’s been a miracle!”

“Glinda..”

“You’re not a walking fashion disaster today!”

“Glinda…”

“Thank Oz, maybe there is a god!”

….

"I'm sorry, are you reading?"

Glinda looks up from her book, "Yes, I got it from the library."

"You know what it's called!" She threw her hands up in the air, "Next thing you'll tell me what a thesaurus is!"

"A what?"

…

“Will she be—”

“Please give her a minute, Elphaba needs everything completely perfect in place for her,”

“It’s just a chair—”

“And you’re just an employee. Let the girl adjust her chair,”

…

“Elphie, I need-”

“What did you just call me?”

“Elphie, anyways, do you have a stapler I could borrow?”

“Excuse me, Elphie?”

“I need a stapler!”

…

“Elphie,”

“Yes?”

“Oh, so you respond to it now?”

“What - I-”

“No need for words, Elphie, that is who you are now.”

…

“I heard cupcakes~!”

“Yes, we do indeed have cupcakes, my sweet,”

“My sweet? That’s new,”

“What can I say? You’re the personification of candy,”

“And you’re a sour patch kid packed into a person,”

…

"You're reading,"

"We've been over this, I can read just fine Elphaba-"

"You took my recommendation,"

"Yes I did- why are you on the verge of tears?"

…

“Elphaba,”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No, why?”

“You didn’t call me Elphie,”

“Aw, you’re used to it!”

…

"My sweet,"

"Yes, Elphie?"

Fiyero held up his hand, "Hold up, rewind, what did you two just say?"

…

"I want coffee, Elphie. Let's go get coffee."

"I'm driving, Glinda, and how did you get my number?"

"I have my ways, come to Three Queens, I'm at table two."

…

“To this day, I have not used the heart method,”

“She does not listen to me, I’ve tried teaching her on three separate occasions.”

…

“I hate these 3×3 pieces so much, do you need that much space?!?”

“I could say the same about you," she gestured to the piles of luggage the blonde brought with her.

“That’s not the same. I’m adorable Elphie, I deserve it.”

. . .

Elphaba pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had memorized since the first time she and Glinda went out for coffee.

“Where are you?!” She whispered as the staff members huddled together, no doubt wondering where that infuriating blonde was.

“Running down the street on my heels,”

“Excuse me—?”

“I found a bike, Elphie! Oh yes, can I borrow— here’s a hundred, have a nice day!”

“You—”

“I’m on the way Elphie, I love you, bye!”

Elphaba paused as the girl on the other end of the line hung up. She blinked at her screen, then she muttered, “I love you?”

. . .

Elphaba placed the blocks on her screen, her mind occupied with what the blonde sitting next to her said before hanging up. Glinda had arrived, running on heels for a mile and on a bike for the other two. Thankfully, she arrived thirty minutes before the event started.

Shoot.

Wrong block placement.

She saw Glinda lean over and point to the 2×2, “Here. " Then, she moved the block, clearing part of the board, just enough for the other pieces.

“Thank you,” she muttered. She couldn’t help but smile as the blonde effortlessly cleared her own board, placing block after block without a care in the world.

Maybe she should at least try to enjoy the damn thing instead of having a breakdown over not getting the right blocks.

. . .

"And in third place, Elphaba Thropp and Galinda Upland!”

The blonde shot up from her chair, squealing, wrapping her arms around the older girl’s neck as she laughed. She giggled, burying her face into the crook of her neck as Elphaba took their medals. They put their medals on each other, giggling incessantly as they came down from the stage to the audience, where Crope and Tibett brought party poppers while Pfanne and Shenshen squealed so high they nearly shattered a glass.

…

“We won,” Glinda whispered as they got in Elphaba's car, with the green girl in the driver’s seat and her in the passenger's seat. Glinda wondered how Fiyero was, looking for the car she abandoned in the midst of traffic.

“Yes, we did my sweet.” Elphaba nodded, adjusting the back view mirror.

“We should celebrate!” She squealed, buckling herself and Elphaba up.

“Aren’t we already having dinner with everyone?”

“I meant, just us,” She looked out the window. “You and me, we should celebrate together, Elphie.”

“Oh,” She blinked. “I see,”

“So?”

Elphaba grinned, “Of course, my sweet,”

. . .

It’s been a few months since the first competition. And Glinda met up with a very familiar green girl in a café one quiet afternoon.

“Elphie!” she waved, upon seeing her tucked away, Elphaba walked over, sitting across from her.

“I haven’t seen you since last week,” she smiled. “How are Popsie and Momsicle?” 

“Oh, they’re fine, they absolutely adore the names you’ve made up for them,” Sne smiled, leaning forward. “How has my emerald been?”

Elphaba scoffed at the new-found nickname, “Every day there’s a new pet name,” she chuckled, “I’ve been fine. Though I missed you terribly.”

Glinda giggled, a familiar warmth creeping up her neck to her cheeks. “Oh, you’re such a flirt, Miss Elphaba.” she pulled out her phone and smirked.

“Whoever loses pays the bill,” She challenged, the green girl’s grin widened.

“You're on, my sweet.”

This work can be found on Ao3 here

Mentions for those interested in the OG post; @mulder-its-me-223 @godofmurder @sevenofninehouseofmusiker @swiftholic-13 @spork2065 @skelloptis @thisismyhalfroomcutie @rulesdontapply56 @jordanbackupsoc

and my regulars; @nether2010 @kekescalope @spinelesscacti @filofandomfrenzy @thestorytellingfool @mulder-its-me-223 @soundofcomets @rainbow-tomato-draws @polyarmy @moonpheus @gemasivi

[slvx0]

Modern au klance, this was pretty self indulgent tbh

[artgremlinart]

season 3 spoilers..

[journen]

Mer Soap au, installment 2! Their meeting. I'm imagining they met after a helicopter Simon was in on an op got shot down over the water. Soap then pulled him to shore, and waited by him until he woke up.

This is Simon when he wakes up. 🤣

Installment 1 of this au is here!:)

[7s3ven]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! Hybrid! Reader where…

Notes: Y/N is a Dobermann hybrid, abuse mentioned, hybrid au where reader is a human with animal-like features, cussing, just a short little thing I wanted to write (might extend it later), reader is described as tall

Ghost wanted to forget most things from his childhood. They were traumatic and induced a sense of fear in him that he absolutely loathed.

The one thing he never wanted to forget, however, was you.

You were a hybrid, basically a pet to the Riley family. Ghost’s parents never saw you as fully human but they bought you simply to shut him up. Ghost remembered blabbering on and on about wanting a pet and then you showed up one day, tail wagging at the thought of being adopted into a happy family. That dream was soon crushed.

You were just as abused as Ghost. You were hardly fed and when you were, it was off Ghost’s plate. You were his duty and despite being yelled at day and night about how you were always in the way, he continued to love you.

You and his brother were the only good things in Ghost’s life at the time.

Ghost recalled allowing you to sleep in his bed when it got too cold, how he would snuggle up to you to regain some warmth through his thin blanket.

You were particularly protective over Ghost, always sending his father pointed glares when the older man snapped at him.

You hated his father just as much as Ghost.

Life with you around was bearable. You never complained when Ghost returned home and immediately tackled you into a much needed hug, tears threatening to pour out of his eyes.

“The kids at school teased me about my bruises.” He whispered and in response, you kissed the dark marks marring his skin.

You made life better.

Ghost was in his older teenage years, ready to finally pack up and leave with you when you suddenly disappeared. His lifeline had been torn out of his grasp by his father, who remarked how he sold you to earn some more cash.

All Ghost remembered was seeing red that day and storming out of the house with his things, never to return to that dreaded house.

He joined the military and his one most important mission in life was to find you. It didn’t matter how many years passed and how many ranks he had climbed, you were still all he thought about.

The world was different now. Hybrids were seen as actual people instead of glorified pets. There was still no trace of you; his last lead was a dead end.

Ghost was ready to give up before Soap and Gaz dragged a tall figure into the room. “Found ‘er at the enemy base.” Soap uttered, “Was snipin’ our men left an’ right.”

The figure had a bag over her head but Ghost’s gaze immediately landed on the prominent outline of two long ears.

“Hybrid.” Gaz notices his staring, “Some kind of dog hybrid.”

The hybrid is anything but calm. It takes both Soap and Gaz to hold her back.

Ghost is quick to rip the sandbag off her head, coming face to face with a pair of familiar E/C eyes. You look the same, only a little older. Your left ear was damaged, there was some sort of tagged embedded in your right ear, and the sight of a shock collar around your neck made Ghost sick to the stomach.

Seeing your face was a reminder of the pain Ghost had faced during his early years. He almost had the urge to back away into the corner as memories flashed through is head. But he remained strong.

“Take that damn fuckin’ collar off ‘er.” Ghost spat, staring at the shock collar in disgust. You didn’t recognise his face because of his iconic skull mask but his voice had your ears flicking.

You stared at him with your head tilted at a low angle, almost seeming like you were glaring but Ghost knew better. You were simply observing him.

The moment Soap’s fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, you wildly flinched. Despite being retrained to a chair, you thrashed around, slamming the back of your head into Soap’s face.

“Ow, lassie! Calm down!” The Scot yelled.

Ghost was quick to weigh you down, placing his heavy hands on your shoulders. “Ay, bloody hell, lovie, ‘tis alright. He’s only tryna help.” Without a second thought, Ghost lifted his mask to give you a peek of his face before he lowered it again.

You finally stilled, ears twitching as you stared at Ghost.

“You know her?” Gaz questioned as he picked at the locked collar with a screwdriver.

“Yeah.” Ghost’s reply was short. The moment the collar’s lock came undone, he grabbed it and threw it against the wall.

“Based on her injuries and the collar, I’d say she wasn’t working with the terrorist group willingly.” Price uttered, “Someone’s gonna have to patch her up.”

“The lass has already screwed me over, I ain’ doing it.” Soap grunted, holding his swelling nose.

“I’ll do it.” Ghost butted in.

Without Ghost’s teammates, you felt more at ease. You sat on the bed in Ghost’s room, allowing him to clean your wounds.

No words needed to be exchanged for Ghost to understand your pain. You leaned into his embrace as he carefully wrapped his strong arms around you, not wanting to alert you.

“Ain’ never letting ya go again, lovie. That’s a promise. Ya never gotta see my father or those terrorists again. I’ve got ya. You’re safe.”

[raphaerolo]

Codywan sketch dump

1. Arms awooga

2. Ben's favourite teddy bear

3. 17th century housewife Ben as imagined by Quin in surf au

4. Surf Au Ben at his lowest moment

5. Colour study with Tem

6. Codywan as implied in lego star wars rebuild the galaxy

7 + 8. Letterman jacket college au

I really love all these drawings i think they're neat

[official-cvntified-gay]

MINISKIRT masterlist

pairing: professor!wanda x fem!reader

warning: ??

wc: 1.7k

note: Inspired by the cunty miniskirt of aoa, been a while since I posted so here it is.

I'm wearing a miniskirt.

But why are you the only one who doesn't notice?

You felt good. You looked good.

Your hands trailed over your curves, fingers mapping the way your clothes hugged your body just right. A smirk curled on your lips as you admired yourself in the mirror—high heels elongating your legs, the fabric of your miniskirt perfectly smooth under your freshly painted nails.

you weren’t dressing for anyone in particular. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

"Holy—"

You whipped around at the sudden voice behind you, your roommate standing in the doorway, eyes shamelessly dragging over your figure.

"Who are we trying to look good for?" she teased, biting her lip, her gaze never leaving you.

"No one," you replied quickly, though it came out a little too defensive.

She raised a brow, clearly not buying it. She stepped closer, adjusting the collar of your shirt, her nails grazing your skin deliberately, coaxing the truth out of you. "Bullshit," she said sweetly.

Rolling your eyes, you felt a familiar heat creep up your neck. "I’m not trying to impress anyone."

But she wasn’t listening. She flopped onto your bed with a smirk that made your stomach twist. "She won’t be able to take her eyes off you now."

You swallowed, pulse quickening. "Still the same?"

"Yes," you muttered, collapsing beside her with a groan. "It’s frustrating. She used to look at me like I was…" You trailed off, the words hard to say.

"Everything?" she finished for you, her voice low, as if knowing what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Yes.

Because she had looked at you that way.

Professor Wanda Maximoff always found your eyes during lectures, her gaze lingering longer than necessary. Her voice would drop an octave when she called your name, and her touch—always fleeting but deliberate—lingered when she handed back your papers, or when your hands brushed in the hallways.

You had been her favorite.

Everyone saw it. Everyone knew.

But recently?

It had all changed.

Her gaze turned cold. Her touches vanished. Her words became clinical, dismissive. As though you were just another student—nothing special.

You didn’t know what happened. You didn’t know what had caused her to shut you out. But one thing was certain: if she wasn’t going to look at you the way she once did, you would make her.

Class was the next morning, and you had carefully planned your outfit. You chose the clothes you were trying on last night, a tight miniskirt and a fitted blouse—one that accentuated your curves, one that would make her notice you. You didn’t care that you might seem bold or inappropriate. If Wanda wasn’t going to give you the attention you craved, you’d find a way to force it from her.

As you walked into class, you could already feel it—the tension.

You chose a seat in the front row, a place you rarely sat, and crossed your legs slowly, letting the hem of your skirt inch upward. Your fingers brushed the fabric absentmindedly, smoothing it out, almost as if you were teasing her. What you didn't caught is Wanda’s eyes flicker to you, and it unconsciously sent a thrill down your spine.

You could feel her gaze on you, heavy and assessing, but she said nothing, continuing with the lecture like everything was normal.

This wasn’t normal.

Her voice dipped lower, harsher, when she called on you. "Miss Y/L/N, since you seem so comfortable today, why don’t you answer the next question?"

You tilted your head, playing innocent, pretending you weren’t aware of what you were doing. "Which question, Professor?" you asked, your voice steady.

Wanda’s fingers tightened on the lectern, her knuckles white. You saw her jaw tense, and something flickered behind her eyes.

Thinking your planned worked. You leaned forward just slightly, the movement causing the fabric of your skirt to ride up a little more. Wanda’s gaze flickered again—this time it lingered longer, and you could see her struggling to maintain control.

Her voice trembled, betraying her resolve. "What is the defining characteristic of a..." She trailed off, as if the words were becoming harder to say, harder to focus on.

You felt it, that familiar energy pulsing between the two of you. She was fighting it. But you weren’t going to let her win.

You shifted again in your seat, slowly, letting your body draw her eyes like a magnet. You traced your fingers over the hem of your skirt, just enough for her to see, but not enough to give you away.

"Professor?" you asked, your voice low, almost teasing.

She snapped her gaze back to the board, her breathing shallow. The class seemed to stretch on forever, but in that moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat—and Wanda’s quickened pulse beneath the surface.

When class ended, you didn’t wait. You stood immediately, gathering your things quickly, knowing she wouldn’t let you go without addressing what had happened.

You walked up to the front of the room, the slight click of your heels on the tile floor echoing through the otherwise empty lecture hall.

Wanda’s eyes followed you the whole way, and you saw the tightness in her jaw, the tension in her shoulders. She was trying so hard not to give in.

But you weren’t going to make it easy for her.

You stopped in front of her desk, standing just a little too close, waiting for her to meet your eyes.

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, her breath ragged, her gaze dark.

And then, slowly, she exhaled. "Miss Y/L/N," she said, her voice dangerously low. "Do you think you’re clever?"

You leaned forward slightly, matching her tone, matching her challenge. "I think you want me," you said, each word deliberate.

Wanda didn’t move, didn’t respond immediately. But you saw the way her chest rose and fell, saw the way her fingers curled against the desk.

Her eyes never left you as she spoke again, her voice like velvet. "You’re playing a dangerous game."

You swallowed, a rush of heat flooding your body. Maybe you were.

But you knew one thing for sure—if she wasn’t going to make a move, then you would.

And this game? It was only just beginning.

You leaned in just a fraction closer, your breath mingling with hers. "Are you going to punish me, Professor?" you whispered, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

For a split second, Wanda’s face was unreadable—her expression wavering between something dangerous and something far more personal.

"You’re asking for trouble," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She stood up, moving just a step closer, her presence almost suffocating now.

Your pulse raced as the space between you two became thinner, the tension unbearable. There was no going back now.

"You want this," you said, your voice breathless.

Wanda’s eyes darkened, her lips parting as if to say something—anything—but nothing came out. Instead, she took another step, her hand reaching up to trace the outline of your jaw.

Her touch was light, but it sent a jolt of heat straight through you. You tilted your head slightly, your lips just inches from hers.

For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the forbidden tension that had been building for weeks.

And then, Wanda's voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence: "Next time… don’t come so close."

You smiled, knowing full well that there would be a next time.

And next time, your miniskirt would lay in a crumpled heap on her bedroom floor.

[greece-greecia]

Harry: Do you want to have a date with me?

[girlsworldillusion]

Ocean's Tear

Aemond x Siren!Reader

Summary: At first it was just curiosity. There was something about the human that, for the first time in longer than you could remember, piqued your interest.

Captain Targaryen, they called him.

It seemed like just a silly curiosity. But you quickly realize that your little curiosity turns into something much worse.

Of all the terribly reckless things you could do, you had chosen one of the most dangerous and destructive:

Taking an interest in a human.

Rated: M +18

Warnings: interspecies relationships, mentions of blood and death, dark themes.

Word account: 9k

Author's note: This story was divided into two parts. I'll be posting the final act soon, if it gets a good reception. Happy reading!

At first it was just curiosity. 

There was something about the human that, for the first time in longer than you could remember, piqued your interest. 

That something could be many things, of course, and at first you thought it was just his unusual hair color, a singularity that made him stand out from the rest like a sore thumb. 

Despite having seen many different humans throughout your life, you didn't remember ever seeing one with hair like his. As far as you knew, only aged humans had hair that color. But the man you began to observe closely didn't seem aged. Quite the opposite. His tall, strong physique indicated that he was a very healthy adult man of, if your knowledge of the human race was anything to go by, thirty years old at most. And yet, the strands of his hair were as light as the pure white moon that shone above the ocean. 

But there was another singularity about the man. He always wore a damn leather eye patch on the left side of his face. When you first saw this, you laughed in derision at how stereotypical the human was being. What? A ship captain wearing an eyepatch? So predictable. All that was missing was a hook in his hand and a wooden leg to complete the standard pirate look. 

It should have been ridiculous, at the very least. Except it wasn't. 

It was actually embarrassing how fascinating you found the dark contrast of the leather with the silver strands that were always coming loose from his ponytail. 

Honestly, it was worrying how quickly you were becoming interested in this strange human. 

But, the days passed and, regardless of how peculiar those details about him were, that wasn't the only thing that made you pay so much attention to the man. 

The way he behaved was also different from the others. Unlike the loud and obnoxious humans you were used to encountering while sailing these seas, this man walked the deck with his head held high and an indifferent expression, a cigarette lazily held between his fingers, telling each of the crew members what to do in a firm and authoritative manner, although he never had to raise his voice at any time. 

Captain Targaryen, they called him. He was always calm, always in control, silent most of the time - as if he were directly responsible for inspiring and maintaining order around him. It was immediately clear to you why he was the captain of this ship. Just as it was also clear that this human was more fortunate than others you had seen. Not only did his posture and manner reveal his high-class upbringing, but also his ship which, despite keeping its simple dark tones and overall understated appearance, was much larger and much better preserved than those that normally visited this area of ​​the ocean.

You didn't know who this man was, but he certainly wasn't just anyone. 

Despite all this, he was still a human, and even though he had caught your attention for reasons that not even you could fully understand, you knew from the beginning that you shouldn't entertain such curiosity. Humans were cunning and treacherous little things, regardless of their appearance. And even if such a notion was irrelevant (it wasn't), he wouldn't last long anyway. Not here. If you had noticed the ship's approach and, especially, the presence of the various crew members inside it, your sisters had too. It was only a matter of time now. The days of not only this man, but everyone under his command, were numbered. 

You shouldn't entertain your curiosity. 

But, despite all your rules, tact, and minimal capacity for good judgment, you found yourself getting closer and closer to the human's vessel. 

Surprisingly, there was still some sense left in you, and you chose to do this always at night, when it would be easier to keep yourself hidden from unwanted eyes. 

That was the reason, of course. Not the fact that it was at night that the man came out on deck to take a breather, when his crew was already asleep. Every night, without exception, punctual as clockwork. 

Fuck. You are such an idiot. 

A pair of large eyes peer through the gentle rippling of the water. Submerged up to your nose, you keep cautiously away (though closer than you were last night, and the night before, and the night before that... - tsk, idiot, idiot). The length of your long tail sways below the surface, deceptively delicate fins rippling in anticipation, tense and restless. 

He lights a cigarette. 

Your sensitive nose wrinkles in response to the disgusting and very human habit, but you barely blink as you watch him raise the thing to his lips. He holds it there until the tip burns an abrasive shade of red, staring at the dark, endless horizon ahead, the ship beneath his feet rocking rhythmically with the waves lapping at its sides. He pulls his fingers away after a few seconds to breathe in a cloud of smoke, and you swear you can taste the toxic flavor of tobacco even from where you stand. The thought doesn’t bother you as much as it should. The chilly night wind blows a few loose strands in front of his face, the rest of his silver hair tied back in a messy bun. 

His posture during the day is always the same; confident and calm. He’s the picture of composure most of the time. But here, at night, smoking his disgusting cigarette in deep, silent contemplation, he almost always looks...sad. As if the burden weighs heavily on his shoulders and this is the only time he can leave small visible cracks in his normally impenetrable countenance. 

Lonely. He looks lonely. 

Maybe he's not so different from you after all. 

Your tail fin shakes a little harder, the fingers on your hands flexing agitatedly. What was with this human, anyway? Why were you wasting your time here, trying to understand his fragile and insignificant human feelings when the time for hunting had obviously not even begun? This kind of behavior was not common in your species. Of course, if any of your sisters showed up you could just say that you were observing your prey, getting to know its weak points better for when the time came to attack. 

But was that really what you were doing? 

The human rests his elbows and leans his body on the edge of the ship, once again bringing the cigarette to his lips. His strong forearms are exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his black shirt, showing off a pale ivory complexion, long and prominent veins along its length. He is like a carefully crafted statue, his body agile and tall, powerful and elegant. 

He tilts his face gently and blinks slowly and vaguely. You recognize that this is the worst moment to realize that from where you are standing you can't tell the exact shade of his eye - apparently his only good eye, in fact. The thought leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

You want to know what color his eye is.

"Gods, what am I doing?" You mutter sullenly as you sink gently, pushing your body closer to the ship with a flick of your tail. Despite your obvious and undeniable propensity for making reckless choices, your movements are carefully calculated, using the waves and the blind spots of the moonlight to cover any suspicious tracks. 

You are now as close to the human vessel as you have ever been - at least outside of a context other than exclusively for attack and feeding. If you swing your tail enough you might even touch the side of the ship, the human hovering a few feet above you. Your hands are strangely trembling beneath the surface, nervous and anxious, and you flex your fingers to contain your stupid reaction, feeling the sharp tips of your claws in contact with the soft palms. 

Your discretion is rewarded with the human's seemingly complete ignorance, who remains in the same position as before, still smoking and staring at the choppy waves, oblivious to your presence. You sigh softly, a sound of relief, letting your eyes travel over the sharp, clear lines of his masculine face. 

The night is dark, cloudy, with only the moonlight and a few lights from the human vessel itself illuminating the surroundings. But your eyes are capable, much more capable than a human's, made to see perfectly underwater and stalk your prey with skill, and you part your lips when you clearly realize that his eye is blue. As blue as the sea is near the coast, where the waves shine with a crystalline and mesmerizing prism, like ethereal stained glass. 

As bright as... 

The man exhales another mouthful of that intoxicating smoke into the humid night air, but you barely blink where you stand. Your fingers instinctively close around the stone attached to the necklace floating in front of your breasts. The blue gem is cold against your fingertips, but you know its power and magic burn like burning embers. 

You’re so distracted that you barely notice the significance of the human’s next move, your eyes only half noticing his hand rising to his face. You watch without really seeing as he removes the eye patch from his face, vaguely returning to the present as you think of the strange break in routine that this act has made - he had never removed the eye patch during the nights you had been watching. 

He would go out, smoke that horrible cigarette without any rush while looking out at the endless sea, throw the toxic stuff on the floor when he was done and extinguish the ember with a drag of his boot before entering the ship to sleep. Every night, religiously. 

Any thoughts of routine evaporate from your mind when the leather finally comes off his face, caught between the captain’s fingers as he lowers his hand. Your lips part and your eyes widen, your tail freezes below the surface for a few seconds. 

There is a stone where his eye should be. A blue stone. A stone you would recognize anywhere. Your own blue gem seems to warm between your fingers in response, glowing subtly as if sensing the presence of a twin stone.

“W-what...but - how?” You whisper, confused and alarmed. How could this human have something like this? Not even all sirens had such a stone. You yourself only managed to find yours a few years ago.

The Ocean's Tear, as the stone was known to your kin, was an extremely rare and nearly impossible to find relic, treasured by all sirens for its power to grant them specific ‘gifts’. The gifts vary from individual to individual, however. While some could heal themselves from any harm, some could hear the thoughts of others as if they were their own, others could persuade any living creature to do what they wanted. The possibilities go on and on.

You, after decades of tireless searching, had found your gem in a remote corner of the ocean, having gone through thirst, hunger and almost losing your own life when facing a relentless pod of hungry orcas that chased you at some point towards the end of the journey. It was an exhausting search and almost cost you more than you were willing to give, but it was all worth it when you finally touched your own 'ocean's tear'. You remember how the jewel warmed slightly and sparkled like countless bright diamond points between your trembling fingers, reacting instantly to your touch, as if it had also been waiting for this moment all its life - waiting for you all its life. 

You cried that day, for the first time.

Of course, after days and days of the gem hanging proudly around your neck and nothing different happening, you started to get suspicious. Days turned into months and months stretched into years and you didn't see any change in your body; no psychic gifts, no persuasive power over sea creatures or self-healing abilities. You were still just you, the same as always. 

It was frustrating and humiliating. 

But you couldn't stop wearing the jewel, after all it was still the 'ocean's tear'. Any siren who had it would automatically gain the silent respect of others. You were someone capable with this stone. With it, you were important. Someone wise and strong enough to seek and find the impossible. You were proud to show off your relic - even if it was useless in the end. 

The bad mood was constantly present with you since then. Disappointed, but strangely not surprised. Of course this would happen to you; of course you would swim tirelessly across the seven seas in search of the jewel of jewels and it simply wouldn't work for you. That's the kind of karma that haunts you. 

You had almost died to conquer the impossible only to find out that the impossible didn't want you. 

And now this human dares to flaunt the impossible as if it were something anyone could have? 

As if it were something that some random human who thinks he knows the ocean could claim for himself just because he has a ship and other stupid little humans to put inside it? 

The stone wouldn't do anything for him, you know. The gem only reacts to sirens, without exception. This human dared to steal something that belongs to your species, only for the artifact to be absolutely wasted in the end. In this human's hands the jewel was just a cold, shiny stone. Beautiful and exotic, no doubt, but useless. 

(But wasn't it also useless in your hands?)

You snarl at your own incriminating thought, narrowing your eyes to slits as you watch the human tilt his face - oblivious to the dangerous and highly emotional turmoil of a supposedly non-existent creature right next to him. The moonlight gloriously intensifies the smooth complexion of his handsome face, the aristocratic line of his nose, the long silver strands fluttering in the wind. His good eye and the damned stolen jewel, dark as the deep waters of the sea.

The instant thought that this human, selfish and cruel as he is, could be as deserving (or undeserving, in this case) as you of something as pure and sacred as the ocean's tear, is so offensive that it is physically nauseating. How could he have something that you have spent decades of your life searching for? Something that countless of your sisters would never even have the privilege of seeing, much less having for themselves? He does not deserve this.

Your teeth grind, the sharp canines piercing the inside of your mouth until you taste your own blood. 

He's the enemy. No matter how interesting and handsome you find him, the stone (an heirloom of your people, not his) that he sports embedded in his face is just more proof of how dirty and morally corrupt humans are - something that, admittedly, you have known all along. 

He's a thief. A sneaky usurper. 

Of all the terribly reckless things you could do, you had chosen one of the most dangerous and destructive. Take an interest in a human. And you know it. From the human race, only the worst is expected, really. You just hated that this human in question was so fascinating. 

"How did you get this?" 

Your own grumpy voice echoes in the silence of the night, scaring not only the human on the ship, but yourself as well. The sound is a bubbling rustle of words, hoarse around the edges and almost brittle from disuse, rarely having been used for conversational purposes. But it is audible enough to catch the human's attention. Your eyes widen, any animosity and anger instantly forgotten in the shock of your complete and utter lack of control. The man turns his head in the direction of your voice, quick as a whip, at exactly the same moment that you react and dive. 

"Idiot, idiot, idiot!" You repeat the mantra, swimming until you are at a safe depth. 

The question had simply slipped through your lips without you being able to stop it, but you knew how much you had screwed up. 

Looking up, distressed and uncertain, you see through the ripples of the water that the human is staring intently at the sea, his one eye sliding from one corner to the other - trying to find the source of the voice he heard. The darkness of the night is on your favor and you know he can't see anything but foam and the dark waves, no matter how hard he tries. You hope he quickly comes to the most logical conclusion for this situation; that he didn't hear what he thinks he heard. It was just his own mind playing tricks on him. Maybe he blames it on tiredness and sleep, or the lack of it. 

But as he stands there, brows furrowed and serious eye, stubbornly searching for something that even he himself wouldn't know what, something whispers to you that he won't just give up. 

"Hello?" He asks in a thick, drawling tone, tired you notice, once again leaning slightly on the side of the ship to better see the waters below. When no sound other than the waves of the sea is heard, he hums thoughtfully for a moment, almost imperceptibly softening his frown to something more neutral and calm. "It's okay. I know you're there. It's not the first time I feel like I'm being watched, to be honest." His voice is the same as you remember; steady, controlled, a low timbre that’s almost husky around the edges. You would be delighted by it, as you have been many times before, if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack, your cheeks darkening in embarrassment at the confirmation that he’d somehow felt your presence this whole time.

Gods, a human was embarrassing you. What had you come to?

"But this is the first time you've said anything. I have to say that you surprised me tonight, since I assumed we'd be playing this game for a while longer." He continues, a vaguely playful quirk in his drawl, adjusting his body so that he's leaning sideways on the deck and bringing what's left of his cigarette to lips again. Your heart pounds violently in your chest, your tail fin rattling restlessly with your anxiety. 

You don't know why you're still here. 

He puffs out his swirling cloud of smoke, looking completely at ease and at ease with the situation - although he's heard a mysterious, feminine voice ring out in the middle of the night, in one of the most dangerous parts of the entire ocean, in a place where he logically knows there no be any women. But he remains calm. Unlike you, who have everything but control over yourself at this moment. And, once again, you feel diminished by this human. 

He behaves in the opposite direction of what you're used to from human behavior. He confuses and intrigues you, awakening feelings you never imagined you had for someone of his kind. 

Here you were, undeniably afraid of being caught, but unable to simply swin away and leave him behind. All because some random human had made you interested in him. Turned you into a soft thing, fascinated by unusual hair colors and eye patches. Watching a lesser creature constantly, attentively and almost obsessively, like a damn stalker would - and not even in the sense you normally watch humans; in the context of predator and prey. With each passing day it became more evident that you were not planning to eat this human. 

It was just you, interested in him. 

For the first time in your long life, you don't know what you're doing. He messes with the natural order of things and you don't know what to do. 

The world has grown old. But not you, nor any of your many sisters. The world has grown old, but it has always been the same to you. There has always been an order to follow. You have been here for longer than you can remember, hidden beneath the waves while the men above came and went, building and destroying everything around them. You have watched them grow into selfish, greedy creatures, thirsting for a dominion over the world they are unable to maintain. Blind to the fact that there are other forms of life besides their own, men see themselves as better and more important, hunting and killing without scruple or consideration those they consider inferior to them. Without remorse. 

But it is here, in the far corners of the ocean, that they find retribution for their acts of greed. 

Men take everything. But here, shadowed by legends and tales, the sirens feed on men; on proud sailors roaming the vast blue sea, their noses in the air and their egos throbbing that nothing could harm them. 

You were the men's reckoning. That was all. This was the natural order of things. 

The time for the men on this ship, including their fascinating captain, was approaching, and there was absolutely nothing you could do to prevent such a fate. You shouldn’t entertain mixed feelings for him. You shouldn’t. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t do anything against an entire horde of sirens that would inevitably be here soon. Cultivating any feelings wouldn’t do him any good, much less you. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to show up yet. You’ve already given me the proof I needed to know that I’m not insane, and I appreciate that.” He continues his monologue above the surface, unfazed by the lack of response, a small, amused tug at the corner of his pink lips. Below the waters you almost snort, thinking that he definitely shouldn’t be grateful for that. Regardless of whether you decided to show up or not, he would still be considered, at the very least, ‘insane’ by anyone who heard this story later. 

His words, however, bring heat to your stomach, rising until it darkens your cheeks. 

The Captain Targaryen had graced you with fine words, admittedly, simple as they were, and perhaps there was some truth to them. He had always been different, after all; he lacked the common harshness and cruelty with which captains tended to lead their crews. He had a fair amount of coldness in his speech, true, and his humor was acidic and even dark at times. But he did not seem cruel. He commanded with a firm hand, yes, but also with respect. 

Perhaps, deep down, he meant well. 

But there was still that voice that screamed that his nature would inevitably betray him. He was human, after all. It was in his nature to be seduced by his own greed and ambition. You only wondered how long it would be before the tide turned and he showed his true colors.

But even knowing all this, you find yourself unable to stop yourself from making the next monumental mistake. 

The man sighs wearily one last time, betraying his indifferent facade, the cigarette clutched between his fingers falling to the floor of the deck, just waiting for the usual drag of the sole of his boot. He looks a little longer at the dark waves below, his neutral expression not wavering much, but there is that same glint that screams loneliness flickering discreetly in his blue gaze - the stolen stone singing to you from the other side. He would leave. 

Before you think, you are acting. 

In your seriously questionable logic, you know that nothing has really changed around you. But in your body powered purely by adrenaline and poor choices, you feel as if even the waves have calmed in response to your action. The world stands still as you push yourself to the surface with a rhythmic undulation of your tail, webbed fingers moving in unison. Even the wind seems to have died down; all you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears. Deep in your chest, something pulls, twists, hurts — sings — 

Your head slowly emerges from the water.  

It takes a few seconds for the Captain’s gaze to settle on you, and you could have used that time to try to make amends for your rash decision, but you choose not to move. And when he looks at you, his indifferent expression finally cracking to reveal a single wide eye and lips parted to gasp a startled sound and you finely sketch a reaction other than silent hysteria. A shy smile stretches your plush lips as you notices his expression, despite how seriously damaged your nerves are — perhaps irreparably. You did this, you broke that perfect calm of his. 

Despite your silent victory, your large, narrow-pupiled eyes stare back at him with apprehension, your heart racing in your chest and your breathing ragged. There’s a moment when neither of you make a move, both frozen in place, unsure of what the hell to do with the surreal scene unfolding right in front of you. 

It feels like an eternity in the void before you’re swallowing the uncomfortable lump that’s permanently lodged in your throat, daring to swim in hesitant jerks closer to the vessel. 

He watches you with unwavering focus, a little more composed, but still open-mouthed. His steps stagger slightly, but eventually he too makes his way toward the lower part of the ship, where you’re swimming. 

You stop when you reach the raised boarding platform, the human slowly approaching from the other side, never taking his eye off you, as if afraid to blink and you’ll disappear. He stops walking when you raise a hand, blinking in surprise at the elastic, almost transparent membrane between your spread fingers. 

Somehow he quickly understands what you want, shaking his head once to signal that he won’t go any further from that point. With that, you prop your elbows on the edge of the platform, lifting yourself just a few inches above the surface, the heavy strands slick on your head and saltwater running down your cheeks to drip from the tip of your chin, the bridge of your nose, and the arch of your lips. 

“I...fuck, what the hell was in that cigarette anyway?” He gasps and crouches awkwardly, looking away at the length of your long tail swaying beneath the waves, lush fins undulating languidly like a delicate wet veil in the wind. He takes in every last detail of you with absolute focus, leaving you as embarrassed as you're flattered — but mostly, hyper-aware of yourself. But you force yourself to relax, trying to imagine yourself through his gaze.

The countless shiny scales all over your tail range from an endless expanse of onyx to purple at some angles, gradually lightening to the side fins and the end of your tail, tinged with a striking shade of translucent lilac. The purple scales were also dotted softly all over your body; rising in a perfect gradient from the sides of your waist until disappearing into the soft cream of your skin, on the undersides and sides of your forearms and elbows, delicately covering the soft, discreet mounds of your breasts and marking the entire line of your spine. 

There is a discreet dusting on the tops of your cheeks, a subtle kaleidoscope of purple and soft pink that transforms into small, bright freckles as your emotions rise - as they are right now. Your full, pink lips hide almost normal teeth, except for the dangerously sharp canines and incisors. Long, thick eyelashes over a pair of large, expressive eyes with slitted pupils like a cat's. Your hair waves around the shoulders, floating beneath the surface of the water in a slow dance, partially hiding the three small lines that mark the gills on either side of your neck. Your hands, though small and seemingly delicate, are adorned with long, sharp claws, as dark as the darkest part of the ocean, the thin translucent membrane between your fingers much stronger than it looks. 

It's unnerving how insecure he makes you with his prolonged silence, just looking at every inch of you with his bright eye and parted lips. 

You know you're beautiful. If there's any truth to the many tales about your species, it's the undeniably seductive appeal of your appearance. Deadly beauty, the tales say. It's your greatest hunting trick, after all. But under the weight of that watchful gaze, you find yourself unable to escape the clutches of insecurity. What if he didn't find your colors appealing? It's true that your scales aren't as vibrant and colorful as some of your sisters. Your tones are more muted and simple compared to the bright and open ones of your distant relatives. Maybe he found you...too dark? 

And why is this human's opinion so important to you? 

You huff and straighten up until your shoulders are completely out of the water, the sapphire pendant floating in front of your chest. Your expression takes on notes of embarrassed annoyance, the small freckles on your cheeks and the bridge of your nose shimmering subtly. The human drinks in your reaction attentively, not understanding what they mean, but undeniably fascinated by them. 

"You're...holy shit...this is a dream, right? It can't be real. You can't be real." He mutters lazily, voice slurred and thick, wide hands flexing at his sides in two tense fists, the night wind mussing the moon-like strands of his hair. "I knew there was something out there all along, but this...you..." he shakes his head in denial before continuing, "nothing as completely perfect as you can be real."

Oh. The dusting of color on your cheeks deepens and you look away, uncomfortable with the stupid shiver in your belly at the human’s words. Why did he have to be so rudely blunt? You blink the salty sea water out of your eyes a few times before looking back up at him from beneath your lashes, feigning an indifference you don’t feel. Rude, definitely. But, gods, such a handsome rude. His sharp features are as delicate in some ways as they are rough in others. A man, undeniably. The lights from the ship illuminate his striking features, highlighting skin as smooth and pale as the sand on the clearest beach.

Except for one detail.

The flickering yellow of the artificial lights only intensifies the depth of a grotesque scar across that false eye. Your eyes narrow slightly, following the rough, jagged line of the cut that runs from the middle of his forehead down his cheekbone, ending just inches above the corner of his lip. A raw, deep cut, a wound that certainly caused him a lot of pain - perhaps it still does. A scar like that indicates a trauma that cannot be easily overcome after all. 

Did he get it while he was behind the ocean's tear? 

The thought inevitably brings you back to what was the trigger for this whole colossal mistake, making you quickly focus on the blue stone in his left eye while trying to ignore the discomfort of seeing such a comprehensive wound on this human. 

"How..." You rasp, pushing the hoarseness out of your normally melodic timbre, even though your tongue feels uncomfortable inside your mouth and your throat scratches from being used after so much time in silence. The man looks at you with disturbing focus, however, his gaze lazy and bright, his lips slightly parted, as if he were listening to the most enchanting and pure sound of all. "How did you get that?" You point a finger at the stone when you manage to say the words, direct and honest, leaving no room for confusion. 

He blinks once. 

"Uh, this?" He extends two fingers to the stone in question, tapping its cool surface twice, a slight tug of amusement on his lips. “I found this a while back when diving near a reef. Shinier than anything I've ever seen.” He sounds almost proud as he drawls, though he shrugs at the end — as if the accomplishment isn’t all that big of a deal after all. 

Your fascination with the human is eclipsed by the blinding wave of irritation and humiliation that rushes through your veins at the sudden words. What the hell does he mean, ‘found this a while back’? As if the fucking ocean's tear is something a stupid human could just stumble upon by accident? Near a reef, of all places! As if something so inexplicably valuable could be so easily discoverable?

Fuck, as if you didn't literally almost die because of that!

What were the gods doing to you, anyway? What kind of cruel joke was this? How much more would you have to be humiliated by this human before you finally snapped and killed him?

“Liar.” You hiss slowly through your dangerous teeth, refusing to believe this lame version of the story. Your eyes narrow and your nose furrows a fraction, along with your eyebrows. Beneath the surface of the water your tail jerks restlessly, creating a visible ripple in the waves around you. The human, to your silent satisfaction, seems to have some sense after all and notices that something has changed in you. His posture, once reverent and curious, is now more alert and cautious, though he doesn’t pull away immediately. His shoulders roll slowly beneath the shirt and his jaw tenses once before he extends his open hands to you in what should be a reassuring gesture.

"Hey, it's okay..." His voice is lower now, almost a whisper, and it's embarrassing how his calm tone has an effect on you, making you almost instantly relax your fingers clenched into tight fists that you barely noticed you were holding. He remains crouched for a few seconds, but shrugs his shoulders and arches his back a little, as if he wanted to make himself smaller for you. Less threatening. You almost burst out laughing at the sheer silliness of it. 

This human wouldn't be a threat to you even if he were at his full height - which you admittedly agree is well above any human you've ever met. Even watching from afar all these nights, it was clear to you that his size surpassed yours in almost every way. Your upper half, of course. He was wide and tall where you were seemingly delicate and fragile. Except for your tail. At its full length you would be much taller than him. 

Yes, you may seem delicate overall, but that is just another deceptive hunting device, a feminine appeal that screams fragility and seduction, luring your prey until it is too late for them. 

You are anything but weak, and no matter what, he is still human. His strength, as great as it may be, would still be nothing compared to yours. One move, right now, and he would be dead. If you really wanted this, it would be over before he even realized what had happened. 

You could wrap your fingers around his ankle and pull him into the dark waters; it would take just the right amount of pressure and speed and he would hit his head on the deck as he fell, probably dying instantly from the blow. But even if he survived that, his end would come quickly beneath the cruel waves of the ocean. Whether from the inevitable loss of oxygen, or the absurd pressure as you pulled him under, or even from the deadly claws you would sink into the fragile flesh of his human body. Or even your fangs, long and sharp as needles as they slice into the pale softness of his throat, draining the life out of him as he gurgle and choke on blood and salt water. 

There were at least ten ways you could kill this human right here and now, and you wouldn’t even have to think about it. It would be natural, you’ve done it before. If you wanted to, he’d already be dead. 

But… 

You don’t want to. 

And that’s why you don’t laugh at his attempt to calm you down. You don’t laugh because it’s not funny. There’s no humor in the feeling of mourning in your chest for that instinctive, natural part that seems to have laid down and died inside you. There’s no hunger, no thirst, no desire to make him pay for humanity’s selfish, cruel acts. There’s no predator and prey tonight. 

You blink away the sting of tears wanting to form, tense expression softening to something almost melancholic, fins flicking slowly beneath the water. By the seas, you wouldn't cry in front of this human. It would be the height of your humiliation.

"What I said is true, I swear." He continues his soothing murmur, slowly lowering his palms, looking straight into your eyes with such interest and focus that you feel as if it were just the two of you in the world. What a foolish thought. "I actually found the stone by accident. It was just a dive like any other, nothing special. And then it was there. So bright that even hidden under the sand I could see it perfectly." He smiles a little at the memory, reciting the facts calmly and carefully, obviously wanting to avoid angering you again. "It doesn't shine like it used to though, now it looks more like a dead flame or something. I don't think it belongs in the world outside the sea." A tired sigh escapes his lips at the end, his expression almost disappointed - even though he's trying for a reassuring smile. 

You snort. 

"Of course it isn't. But that's what you humans do, after all. Always taking what doesn't belong to you." You recite the words in a disapproving tone that doesn’t carry as much hate as it should. Not for him, at least. 

He looks at you with parted lips and furrowed eyebrows, forearms resting on his knees as he thinks about what you just said. 

“Yes. I suppose so.” He murmurs after what feels like a lifetime, exhaling through his nose. 

There’s silence between the two of you after that, nothing but the waves crashing against the hull of the ship as he stands contemplatively looking at you, as if searching for answers in your face. He’s not embarrassed by it, nor does he even try to hide his obvious interest in you. It’s unsettling, to say the least, to have this human’s attention so completely on you. Flattering too, but you don’t think much of it. 

You definitely don’t want to be the first one to look away, but you’re getting restless with the intense eye contact and the silence, your sharp nails rhythmically drumming on the metal of the plataform. The shiny dust on your cheeks and nose becomes more and more evident, and perhaps the Captain is finally connecting the dots because a small smile stretches his lips - a genuine smile this time, something light and sweet, but undeniably provocative. 

"It's doesn't react to you!" You say abruptly, spitting out the first thing that came to mind just to break the tension of the silence between the two of you. But your tone is too shrill and loud not to be seen as suspicious, increasing the color and intensity of the shiny dots on your cheeks and shoulders. The captain raises his eyebrow in amused question, indicating that he hadn't understood. You sigh, swallowing your own embarrassment. 

"The stone. It's a special jewel... very sensitive, intelligent even, you could say. It's extremely reactive, just not to everyone." He listens to you attentively and with a sharp gaze, almost making you stumble over your own words a few times. "It doesn't shine like it used to because you're human and the stone know it. The ocean's tear, as it's called, only reacts to...uh, well...sea creatures." You find yourself irritatingly unable to explicitly say what you are, even though it's more than obvious by now. Some kind of throbbing self-consciousness takes hold of your mind, the very real realization that he can and probably will come to the inevitable conclusion that you and he are creatures from different worlds tightens your vocal cords and stops you from continuing. 

Good heavens, as if the disparity between the two of you wasn't already obvious enough. Why would you suddenly be worried about it?

“Creatures like you, I suppose.” He contemplates, ruining your earlier subtlety with his irritating honesty. A small, sullen pout forms on your lower lip at that, more glittering dust of color staining your cheeks. 

This was getting beyond ridiculous. 

“Here.” You sigh grudgingly, breaking eye contact to pull the blue pendant from your long necklace between your thumb and forefinger. The stone is, as you said, reactive and immediately comes to life under your touch, singing and vibrating in the most beautiful shade of blue; prisms ​​of diamonds and sapphires, resplendent and pure. The Captain Targaryen has the decency to look positively delighted to see this — as he should — and you smile softly at his reaction, finding great satisfaction in his rosy cheeks and bright gaze. 

And then he’s standing to walk towards you, but stops short when you narrow your eyes and tense. 

"It's okay. It's okay. I just want to..." he points to the stone, and you look at it. Then at him. And at the stone. And back at him. "I just want to get a closer look. But it's okay, I don't want to make you uncomfortable." 

You're already uncomfortable, you want to scream. You've been uncomfortable for weeks now. He's seen you, talked to you, heard more words from you than you've said to any other human - more words than you've said to any species in a long time, including your own. None of it made you comfortable. And yet, here you were. It would be a stupid, reckless mistake, no doubt about it. But you've been nothing but stupid and reckless these past few days. It couldn't get any worse. 

(Yes, it could.) 

"It's okay." You mumble, relaxing the muscles in your body and softening your expression into what you hope is something more friendly, more inviting. "You can come closer." 

"Yeah?" He asks and you just nod once, not wanting to repeat yourself. 

It takes him a few seconds to continue, but eventually moves. The tops of his boots are quickly soaked as he lowers onto the platform, the salty water lapping in small waves at his ankles. Something in your stomach feels alive, you notice with apprehension as you hold his gaze, fluttering and growing colder with each step he takes towards you. A sort of instinct growing and taking over you, taking over the strings of your body as if you were just watching everything from the outside, without control. 

Your arms seek better support on the deck and you push yourself up, sitting as best you can on the floor, your back against the edge of the vessel, most of your tail still floating under the water. It's an instinctive reaction, really, and you barely realize what you're doing before it's done. It's not comfortable, you realize immediately, but what's done is done and the human's dumbfounded look is worth the awkward position. 

"I..." he begins uncertainly, crouching back down on his knees, this time right next to you, taking your permission to come closer very seriously. 

His gaze inevitably drops to where your breasts are exposed, his chest rising and falling faster the longer he keeps his attention there. It's not an offensive behavior, although it still makes you self-conscious in a funny way. It's not his fault, really. They're just there, in front of him - without any of the fabric coverings that humans are used to wearing. It would be impossible not to notice. And, well, they're different. You know they're not the conventional breasts he's used to seeing, most likely. Unlike human breasts, your soft mounds are dotted with flexible, delicate scales in a prism of lavender and purple, with no nipples in sight. But they're still breasts, and he's still a man. So he stares, until he realizes he's still staring. His pale cheeks grow pinker and he quickly looks up at your face as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. 

A shy, yet somewhat mischievous smile stretches your lips despite your nerves.

"Fuck, this is insane." He scratches the back of his neck as he half laughs, half gasps, and for the first time, you find yourself agreeing wholeheartedly with this human. This is insane. 

His reaction makes you relax a little, and soon you're holding the stone between your humiliatingly trembling fingers again and holding it out to him, as far as the necklace around your neck allow. He's closer to you than he's ever been, so close that you can smell the ghost of artificial mint tobacco on his breath. It's horrible. It's perfect. 

The wind is more urgent now, whistling and howling and foaming water hitting the sides of the ship harder - as if the elements themselves are trying to warn you of the dangers of this approach. 

You don't listen. 

"It's...perfect." The captain whispers as he holds the stone, his long fingers inevitably brushing yours during the exchange, sending an electrifying, heated sensation through your entire body. He lowers his head to get a better look at the stone that gradually fades as it is held by his human hand, the vibrant and ethereal glow of blue fading to a darker shade. "Look at this, I guess I'm nothing special, hm?" He says this smiling, the stone still clutched in his fingers raised between your bodies, your faces close to each other. When he looks up at yours you are already looking at him, blinking with your large and expressive eyes. 

Your own fingers raise, hesitant and curious, to the stone in his eye. You are slow with it, giving both him time to stop you if he wants to and yourself, but in the end neither of you reacts. The human just looks at your fingers before slowly shifting to your eyes once more, the night wind pushing a strands of silver between your faces until they touch your cheeks in a strangely intimate caress. When the tip of your two fingers touches the cool surface of the jewel it reacts immediately, drawing a sigh from both of you. The gem shines, warms under your touch, singing in vibrant and lively tones. 

"I can feel -" The man murmurs almost breathlessly, blue eye wide open, dark pupil dilating like an endless black hole, searching your gaze as if you held all the answers he needs. 

"What can you feel?" Your voice is no better than his, just as small and low. Your trembling fingers still on the jewel, feeling its vibration, listening reverently to the secret and silent song that it could only sing for you. The pure brightness reflects on your face, illuminating your features with a soft blue shade, enchanting the man in front of you as if you were an angelic image. A mythical and unattainable creature. A siren, in fact. 

"I can feel...you." He confides with a reverent look, your own jewel still firmly gripped in his fingers, although inert and dark. The disparity should be frightening -; under your touch the gems shine and come to life, in his they wither and fall asleep. It should be just another indisputable proof in the already very high pile of evidence of how unnatural any involvement between you two would be. 

But the collision is inevitable like the approaching storm. 

He moves, leaning his body to kneel on the floor, soaking the fabric of his pants with the cold waves that partially cover this part of the deck. His tall, broad-shouldered body shadows yours, naturally trapping you against the side of the ship. Simultaneously you both release the grip your had on the jewels, as if you felt something had changed in the air. The pulsing muscle in your chest seems more intense and faster than ever as you looks at that stupid human, so close and so bold. 

"What's your name?" He asks quietly, watching you so closely that you can barely focus on what was said, the question coming to you like an afterthought or a bruise that you only notice hours after it happened.

A name? Gods, how long has it been since you were called by your own name? How many decades has it been since someone cared enough to ask? 

You whisper your name to him, confiding a part of yourself that was rarely spoken to anyone. 

"..." he murmurs back, your own name sounding like the sunset over the ocean as it leaves his lips, beautiful and peaceful, yet breathtaking. You blink slowly, feeling as if inverse forces are at work in this moment. Feeling as if he has the gift of enchantment, unlike you. What is happening? "I am -" 

"Captain Targaryen," you are quick to add, already accustomed to hearing his crew repeat his designation. 

"Well, yes, that is usually what I am called..." he laughs softly, tilting his head an inch closer to you, meeting your gaze over the bridge of his nose. "But it is not my name." 

Oh. Yes, of course. You know it. 

He touches a damp strand of your hair, curious and gentle before letting the pad of his finger trace over the delicate curve of your nose, the outline of your eyebrows. 

“Aemond,” the captain murmurs, and then presses the pad of his thumb against your lip, gently. You shiver, exhaling shakily at the touch. “My name is Aemond.” 

Aemond. 

The name rolls off your tongue and you repeat it, sweet as molasses, petal lips sliding against his thumb as you do so. He swallows with an almost mesmerizing movement of his Adam’s apple, heated gaze following the way his thumb presses against the soft fur of your bottom lip once more before he lets go of the touch. It’s almost disappointing to miss, but soon you realize he’s touching the bright freckles high on your cheeks and nose, one at a time, and then further to scratch along the shadows of color in your skin. 

He’s close, almost sharing the same breath with you, so intensely interested in you that your heart catches in a slow burst of heat — of desire. An old feeling, hidden and locked away beneath layers of loneliness. 

The gills on the sides of your neck itch and your throat starts to tighten from being out of the water for so long, a warning that you need to get back in soon. You know that. 

You won’t. 

Heart in your throat, you let him smooth your cheek with soft touches, thumb tracing the entire length of the curve of your jaw until it caresses the shape of your ear. His gaze is heavy on yours, mesmerized and fascinated, even though you haven’t used any of your gifts of enchantment. Not this time. Never with him. 

“Beautiful.” He sings you an honest compliment and is so gentle, careful, hesitant even, as he pulls your face to his, and you feel the whisper of a nose slowly sliding against yours before thunder is heard in the distance. The sound isn't loud or clear enough to alert the human, but your sensitive ears are able to hear it perfectly and it's enough to snap you out of whatever spell you were trapped in. 

He blinks rapidly with his one functional eye, the stone beside him now darkened to its previous shade of navy blue as you freeze and turn away from him, returning to the water with an abrupt and unkind movement. You keep your head above the surface however, staring at the heavy clouds forming more and more in the vastness above, feigning indifference to everything that has happened while your heart still thunders in your chest. 

"A storm is coming." Is all you say, praying to any divine being that may exist that your expression is as serene and calm as you are trying to pretend. 

The Captain - Aemond - is standing in the same position, looking at you with that stupid face, so confused and hesitant, as if trying to figure out what he had done wrong. 

"Uh... I don't -"

He tried to reach out, tried to touch your hand as it floated above the waves, but you jerked away from him, sending him a narrowed, warning look, sharp fangs bared in a loud hiss.

“Don’t touch me.” You say, and your voice is venomous to him, for the first time. It hurts you to see the surprise on his face, the silent beginning of that realization that you could be a dangerous thing after all. You are.

It hurts, but you welcome the feeling. It is all your fault. If you hadn’t been so reckless, none of this would have happened. This human would meet his inevitable death at the claws of one of his sisters without the knowledge that you existed. Without you having experienced being in his presence, feeling his touch on your skin, having his attention entirely on you. It would be easier, for both of you.

Aemond Targaryen was every rule of survival that you ignored. 

It was like one of those Greek tragedies that humans talked about so much. 

The storm is approaching quickly and with it the end of this Captain and his sailors. The horde of sirens was aware of their presence, as it had been for days, just waiting for nature to intervene to create the perfect scenario for the attack. It would be reported later as a shipwreck, an unfortunate accident at sea that could easily be dismissed without suspicion. There was nothing you could do to stop it, even if you wanted to. And gods help you, you want to. 

But you can’t save him. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

You stare at the dark cloud formation above once more, taking a deep breath to control the frightening wave of emotions that threatens to break your nerves. 

“Why not?” he asks, sensing the warning in your voice, and you shake your head slightly, eyes filling with tears — tears you haven’t shed since you earned your Ocean's Tear. He calls your name and you still don’t respond. “Y/n, tell me why I shouldn’t be here.” 

He presses, a little harder now, a little more concerned, and you should respond. You should warn him about the dangers that lurk in the depths of the ocean and the bloody future predestined for him and his sailors. He deserved that much at least, right? But then again, what good would that do? What good would there be in knowing about a tragedy he can't avoid?

"I'm so sorry." You sigh without looking at him, shoulders shaking with emotions that seem too big for your body to handle. "I'm really sorry..." your voice breaks and a tear runs down your cheek as you look up at him, the sparkling freckles on your cheeks highlighted and your brows furrowed in anguish.

"...What?" He's confused, of course, not understanding the whirlwind of events that followed your contact on the ship. He senses your anguish, your reluctance to tell him what needs to be said. And, gods, he looks so beautiful like this. Icy breeze blowing his silver locks in front of his face, his eye bright and his skin pale as moonlight. "Why are you crying? Please talk to me."

You slowly approach the edge of the deck again, where he's kneeling, still waiting for you. Your chest is tight and your hands are shaking, but you think you’ll tell him. You think you’ll tell him what you know will happen, even if you’re both powerless to fight the forces of fate. He looks at you, his calm and captain’s confidence taking over again, reassuring you. Your lips part to start to speak, but the sound of approaching footsteps sends a chill down both of your spines. 

You hesitate for a second, staring at him with wide eyes. Aemond is also alert, allowing himself to look at you one more time before saying:

“Go, now! He can’t know about you!” He’s right. No human could know about you and still be alive. But here you were, staring at one you didn’t intend to kill. “Wait-” He keeps his voice low as he watches you prepare to go, though his tone is urgent. His gaze is pleading, not wanting to leave you but knowing he has to. “Come back tomorrow, please.” 

You coo, a sad sound, wanting to tell him there wouldn’t be a tomorrow. Not for him, at least. But instead, you wrap your smaller hand around his, careful of your claws, leaving a gentle grip on his knuckles as you look up at him with teary eyes. 

“Take care, Captain Targaryen.” That’s all you say before you dive into the dark expanse of the ocean, never looking back. You couldn’t. Not when you felt so helpless. The jewel hanging from your neck protests and burns your skin so much that it even tears a grunt of pain from your lips, but you don't stop swimming, powerful fins pushing you as deep into the ocean as you can go. Silently you curse the stupid thing for not giving any sign of life in all these years, but choosing this moment to show that it was there.  

The final act of this tale of tragedy was herep and your human would meet his bitter end at the merciless claws of one of his sisters.

You can't save him.

You can't... 

You... 

You can? 

(And why did you think of him as 'your human' now?)

[hoax1918]

Kindergarten teacher Joe and single dad Nicky🐻

P.s long time to see

[slvx0]

College au klance!!

[artgremlinart]

rhaenicent perfect little wives 👭💗

[journen]

Olympian Pole Vaulter Ghost au! 🤣 Was totally inspired by this tweet I saw on Twitter lol. And definitely Soap is in the stands watching his bf compete.... 🥺

[smoosie]

HEX TOKEN (Arcane x Sleep Token) - Act 1

+ Bonus page (the kiss~) on Tiktok & Insta

(See previous post for more infos on this Jayvik modern AU)

-> Updates will be tagged #Hex Token

[meganegatari]

read part two here! series masterlist here!

currently thinking about how modern!ellie would be such a like “hallway crush” type…OKAY WAIT i have an idea, picture this: it's the first day of classes, and you're on your way to your university's astrophysics lecture hall and see her, walking briskly to her destination, with big black headphones (listening to divorced dad rock, of course) seemingly in her own world, not even aware of how cool she is in the moment. she passes you, walking only a little faster than you are, but it gives you time to check her out a bit. she's wearing some dark wash jeans and a flannel with a chunky jacket over top, her beat up bag slung over one shoulder(because shes just too kewl for skewl), and her signature worn black converse. as you follow her into the hall, (not being creepy, you're just on the same path. oh, seems like you're classmates too…oop!), she enters first, then holds the door for you as you file in behind her, looking back, meeting your eyes, and giving you a small nod as a greeting. (one of those that guys do, like when they tilt their chin up for a split-second as a bro greeting, UGH THE ENGLISH EXPLANATIONS ARE ESCAPING ME i do not know the ways of the men but yall have seen that nod thing they do, right?) that would happen in a fraction of a moment and you'd go to smile back at this beautiful stranger, but by the time you collect yourself she's already looking forward again. oh and then the two of you would part ways and sit on opposite sides of the room, however she'd still be on your mind…and whenever you cast glances her way, she'd seem interested in what the professor is talking about, but you'd then realize you're staring and bring your eyes back to your own laptop....

☆: hi, i have SO many ideas for drabbles and stuff but they rarely translate onto paper how I imagine them to go, but I'm sure that comes with time and practice, but for now take this silly idea I jotted down as it crossed my mind...I need her so bad, wish she was real 😔 (half hoping a situation like this happens to me LMAO...but crushes are too much stress....) BUTTTTT this drabble thingy got them creative juices flowing, and now im highly tempted to make a series or more parts to hallway crush ellie ...I say that every time but this idea's bouncing around in my skull and won't leave so who knows...

[sepherinaspoppies]

Only If For A Night

ꕥ series masterlist & taglist ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ masterlist ✧₊⁺AO3

⟢summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.

⟢pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader

⟢warnings for this part: Mentions of dead bodies, Harrenhal visions, light gore, Ser Crispy Coleslaw, Aemond being jealous and horny.

⟢wc: 7,872

⟢gif credit: @peachysunrize but she deleted her acc so im sorry!

Chapter 3: Me and the Devil

She was doing her best not to lose her mind. She’s never been stuck in a situationship like this before. Or hardly knew anyone that had been. Stuff like this only occurred in…books. In which she was now in the middle of. 

She had so many questions yet no answers. 

She knew she had to come up with some sort of well thought out plan. But if she was being honest, she barely even had a pl. As Phoebe Buffay once said on an early episode of Friends. 

One thing was for sure, she was in the Riverlands. Harrenhal. Westeros. If she had her history correct, and she did, the year is currently 130 AC.

Rhaenyra Targaryen had just taken over the city of King’s Landing with the help of the Rogue Prince at her side. 

She recalls how this news caused Aemond to go on a seize of murderous rampage, killing the entirety of House Strong. The very same pile of dead bodies she saw in the outer yard, those were them. 

As much as she tried, she couldn’t get that horrifying image out of her head. Not now and perhaps not even the days to come. With every blink of her eyes, she saw them; bloody, decaying, eyes wide of what they felt before death: fear. 

Don’t throw up, don’t throw up. 

Not that there was much in her stomach to.

Shortly after Aemond had severed the guard’s head, she had literally thrown up just inches away from his feet.

He did not say much, only bringing a small green handkerchief from his pocket and wiped remnants away from her lips. Instead of being angry or disgusted, Aemond’s face exhibited only concern. 

Because of that she was escorted inside Harren’s castle with haste by Aemond’s orders. With the very little time she had, she tried to go against this but her words were swiftly overlooked and ignored.

She was brought into a medium sized room at the highest tower of Harrenhal. The room wasn’t much to look at. High stoned black walls with no decorations or personality. A canopy bed with multiple pillows and furs laid near the window with two nightstands on each side, holding lit candelabras. 

Facing the canopy was a vanity table with nothing but dried flowers and a dusted mirror that she couldn’t make out her reflection. It was obvious that no one had occupied this room in a very long time. The cobwebs, near all four corners of the ceiling, confirmed it. 

To the left of the vanity was a beige folding screen and behind it was a large white bathtub that she had been thrown in immediately upon arriving in the room by two older women.

After she had been bathed and dressed, a third woman delivered a hot cup of peppermint tea to ease the nausea. However, after they left she made sure to discard the cup, choosing not to drink anything, harboring feelings of distrust when she previously drank a cup of tea. 

The sound of the door being opened caused her to sit rigidly on the chair, thinking it was a particular one eyed prince entering the room. Instead, the knots in her stomach loosened as an elderly man made his way inside, offering her a simple smile before he set a leather bag he’d been holding on a nearby table. 

Her mouth opened, wondering who he was but as she assessed his gray robes and the several decorated chains hanging from his neck, he’d have to be a maester. 

Something close to a doctor in her world. 

“You have not touched the tea, my lady.” His voice was barely audible, gentle as he pointed out. “Are you allergic to peppermint?”  

“No,” she shook her head, her eyes landing on the medical supplies being brought to the rounded table. She recognized some of them such as the suturing kit, scale, gauze, scissors and a scalpel.

Her abuelo, Vidalio, had a collection of identical vintage medical supplies in his office that often as a kid she’d glance at in complete fascination. 

“Are you not partial to peppermint?” The maester questioned. 

“I’m not partial to drinking something that I did not see being made,” she added. After drinking that tea Alyssandra had given her, there was no way she’d risk doing that again. “Besides, peppermint is most known to target headaches. If you were to mix ginger and chamomile, then you have an accurate tea to treat nausea.”   

The maester lifted a bush eyebrow, cocking his head to side taking her suggestion into consideration. “Very well. I’ll bring a cup of boiling water—” He tried saying, only for her to sprint directly in front of him. 

“—there’s no need. I am well; as you can see.” She feigned a recovered smile.  

“I still am in need of boiling water to brew milk of the poppy, my lady.” 

It was her turn to gaze at him in wonder. “What for?” She inquired. She knew what milk of the poppy was. An opium made from the poppy flower to aid in severe pain and to anesthetize a person out cold in a deep sleep. 

It was also the same pearly liquid she read in A Game of Thrones that Grand Maester Pycelle used to treat Ned Stark after an altercation he had with Jaime Lannister, which gave the Warden of the North, strange dreams. ‘Poppy dreams’ otherwise known as hallucinations. 

As helpful as it was, it was also very addictive. Equivalent to morphine and fentanyl. As an intern at St. David’s Hospital, she’d seen how bad opioids took a toll on people. 

So it was safe enough to say she wasn’t going to be easily convinced to take it.  

The older man pointed at the swollen cut on her lower lip, where that asshole of a guard had slapped her hours ago. “The wound on your lip; I have to stitch it. I will use milk of the poppy to ease the discomfort when inserting the needle into your lip.” 

“I already said I’m fine.” She answers more firmly. She glanced at the multitudinous array of small amber jars on the table that contained different kinds of fine powders, liquids, dried herbs, seeds, and strange looking roots. 

She was able to make out a little bit of everything. Though, nothing of the sort would be needed for something so minor. Rubbing alcohol and perhaps a topical antibiotic ointment were as good as any. 

“Tis’ not what the prince thinks, my lady.” The maester abruptly murmurs out, fearfully looking at the door. If the prince were to walk into the room, seeing his guest not being properly treated as he demanded, he too would suffer the same unmerciful fate as his lord. 

“It’s a superficial cut! You can tell the prince, I don’t need tea or stitches.” What she needed was to get out of here and go home. 

“A topical amoxicillin ointment should be enough. Though, I don’t think it exists here.” In fact no modern medicine could be found here. This era was if not the same as medieval times, where people die everyday of infection or contamination due to the lack of antibiotics, antivirals, and vaccines. 

She felt lucky that all of her vaccines were up to date. 

Except maybe for her yearly flu shot. Fuck!

The maester tilted his head in surprise, “Are you a healer?” He asked, intrigued that she too knew medicinal practices. Most witches did not, if he believed the rumors around the castle.

She crouched down, eyeing the herbs that caught her attention.   

“Something like that. I know enough to know that I don’t need stitches. It’s just a little bit of swelling that will go down in a day or two if I ice it.” Though, she wasn’t sure how the maester would get ice in the Riverlands. If this was the North, ice wouldn’t be a problem. 

The maester, befuddled, nodded. Knowing that his endeavors to treat her lip were pointless, he slid her a small amber salve of bread mold.

She gave him a ‘what the hell is that?’ kind of look, in which he explained it was an ointment to prevent infections.

After a few series of questions, she realized that this bread mold was as close as what she was going to get to penicillin. 

A look of relief and ease plastered on the maester’s face as she delicately dabbed some of the salve on her wound. She was equivocal if the salve was meant to have a bitter taste or smell, but she kept her thoughts to herself as she wanted this visit to speed up. 

“What’s your name?” She asked while watching the man place his medical supplies in his bag with uttermost care. 

“They call me Maester Nywen.” He revealed. 

She pronounced his name repeatedly in her head, trying to remember if he was mentioned in Fire & Blood. Though, there was no record of him at all.

“I’m—” 

“I know who you are, my lady.” Nywen interjected. Everyone knew her name, including the walls of Haren’s castle. It was said she possessed otherworldly abilities unknown to men. 

In his many years serving House Strong, Nywen never came across her path. Never saw her in the flesh. Just tales and rumors. Some that he believed; such as her being his lord’s favorite out of his true born sons and daughters. Some that Nywen didn’t quite believe; like the rumor of her bathing in maiden’s blood to remain forever youthful. 

Looking at her now, her complexion differed from what he pictured. 

To her befuddlement, she had no idea how Nywen knew her name. She didn’t remember mentioning it to anyone, including the old ladies. 

This was all some weird mystery that was making her feel dizzy and unsettled. She only now wished she had some Ibuprofen or an Advil pill to dull the pain in her head. 

“If this is all, I must take my leave. Good day, my lady.” 

“Wait! I’ll go with you,” she called out, and the older man came to a halt before he exited the door. 

A look of sympathy came on Nywen’s face. “Apologies, my lady, but the prince ordered for you to remain here.” 

“Wait, what?!” She followed a close second after him, perplexed. Nywen gave her one last look of remorse, “I am sorry, my lady. You won’t be kept in here for long. The prince has some matters to attend to before he calls for you. Should you come in need of anything, ring the bell.” 

“Nywen!” She called out, but it was too late as the door was suddenly closed right in her face. The sound of a lock confirmed her fears.

She was alone again.

She wondered how abuela Selena was doing. The older woman, who’d been more like a second mother to her, had come across her mind a lot more now.

Had she known she was missing?

Of course she did; she was probably seriously panicking right now and sent out a search party to look for her. 

The pueblo was small, and it wouldn’t have taken her family long to figure out she wasn’t there or in any surrounding pueblos. She knew that wouldn’t hinder them from continuing their search for her. Her family were strong and brazen fighters and would stop at nothing to keep the family safe. 

She also wondered if her mother knew. Though, she already knew the answer to that. Her very overprotective mother, who calls every hour of each day, must have flown from the states the second she did not answer the phone. A heavy argument most likely would’ve happened between her mother and her abuela, Selena, for not keeping a close eye on her. 

Even if the fault had not been her abuela’s, she feared that her disappearance became a fresh new layer of conflict added on top of the decades long strife between her mother and Selena. 

She did not wish for that. For years, she’d attempted to push them together to communicate and get past whatever tension they had between them. She prayed that things would not escalate further between them in her absence. 

She could just imagine seeing them after all of this was over. 

But to pinpoint when? 

Now, that was going to be challenging. 

She was so high up in Harren’s castle that she wished she were some type of bird. A raven, perhaps. With great big and wide wings to fly to carry her away. 

Fly, a voice whispered next to her. 

Startled, she snapped her head up to the side in the direction of the voice. “What?” She asked with a shaky voice. 

You have wings. Use them. 

She glanced behind her shoulders, feeling for soft feathers but was met with bare skin and no wings.

“Liar.” She asserted back. And the voice responded something in return, though it was barely audible.

However, something in the room had shifted. It became darker, colder, and overall strange. The dark hairs on her arms stood when the flames of the candles blew out one by one by themselves while the hinges of the door creaked open. 

A thin curtain of light appeared at the end of the hall and her body seemed to sense some type of energy vibrating around the room, pulling her to leave now that the door was unlocked.

A part of her debated whether or not to take the risk and leave as this was exactly how people died in scary movies, by following strange energies. Another part of her said fuck it, sensing the energy as not evil or not good either. 

She let out a frightened gasp as the door shut completely from behind and the vibrating energy increased tenfold. The longer she walked throughout the corridor, she began to realize that the buzzing was actually a low humming sound echoing down the hall.

A song. 

Arrorró, mi niño 

Arrorró, mi Sol 

Arrorró pedazo

De mi corazón

Abuelo Vidalio would sing that exact song as a lullaby when she had trouble sleeping as a child. Which happened to be all of the time since she experienced very vivid dreams about strange people and creatures she did not recognize. Vidalio, with his soothing voice, would be there to sing the bad dreams away. 

Este niño lindo

Que nació de noche

Quiere que lo lleven

A pasear en coche

Could it be him? 

With trembling hands, she takes a peek through the slim opening. A large and nicely furnished room is set directly in front of her. It sort of reminded her of Vidalio’s private studio near the outskirts of her family’s home. Vidalio had a love for old vintage things like outdated medical books, scrolls, medical supplies, herb vials, maps, and furniture. 

Some of those things decorated the inside room. 

In the center, a man sat on a wooden rocking chair with his back towards her. She glanced at the carvings on the top rail of the chair; a three headed dragon, wolf, lion, some sort of sea creature, fish, falcon, stag, and a rose. 

Instantly, she knew who the rocking chair belonged to. 

“Abuelo?” She asks aporetically. Although she missed him terribly, she secretly hoped it wouldn’t be him. Since he, himself, had been dead for years. And it wasn’t like she didn’t believe in ghosts; she did. 

The humming impetuously ends before it begins, and so does the back and forth movement of the rocking chair. 

Purple eyes stare directly at hers like he’d been waiting a while for her to come in. “El niño no se puede dormir,” Vidalio addresses her in complete distress. (the boy can’t fall asleep)

His appearance made her halt on her tracks, he looked and dressed differently than what he normally looked like. She remembered him older, tanner, his light blonde hair styled directly away from his face, with more modern fitted clothes. 

Here he was younger with milky white skin that was untouched from the harsh Mexican sun; his hair slightly long and silver. And more importantly, his clothes were strange and old fashioned, almost aristocratic. 

The only way she knew for certain this was her abuelo, was by a polaroid her abuela took of Vidalio when he was young, were they both briefly lived in Cancun. 

How was it possible that he was here, in Harrenhal?

In Westeros?

How could it be?

Her lack of response causes Vidalio to continue humming the lullaby as he sways something tight on his arms. 

A boy, no more than eight, laid lifeless across Vidalio’s arms. Small cuts and bruises painted across the young boy’s small and delicate face and body. All while fresh blood dripped from the side of his chest, pooling down onto the floor.

He was bleeding out.

Yet, the boy was already dead. 

What was more harrowing of it all, were the boy’s eyes. They were a rich and dark violet color, wide, blinking and staring right at her.

Through her.

It was the only thing about him that was alive. 

Este niño lindo

Ya quiere dormir

Háganle la cuna

De rosa y jazmín

“We need to take him to a hospital,” she frantically suggested. Maybe the boy wasn’t completely deceased. Maybe all he needed was proper medical attention like a blood transfusion and a few stitches. 

“It’s too late.” Her abuelo pointed out. “All he needs now is the comfort of his mother.” Vidalio gives the boy one last hug before he stretches the body in her direction. 

“What?!” She exclaims, feeling the air in her lungs rapidly leaving her body. 

Surely, he didn’t mean the little boy was hers…

This didn’t seem possible. A mother is able to recognize the face of their own child. She’d hear on multiple occasions from mothers, at the hospital she interns in, how a sort of natural maternal instinct and intuition set in the moment they became mothers. 

She’d know if she had a child, but that boy was not hers. 

Or was it? 

“I- I need to go. This isn’t real. This-this isn’t true. You aren’t real. You are dead.” She says between ragged breaths, feeling a panic attack brewing in. 

She took a few steps back, only to be met with a cold hard chest. An older man, perhaps in his late sixties, with long silver-white hair and dark eyes, smiled warmly at her. Beside him, were six other men and a singular woman. 

She noticed that the two older men wore more modern clothes, while the others wore some sort of old fashioned clothes similar to Vidalio’s, embroidered by the same red design. 

“I’m sorry,” she let out an apology to the older man. The man, though, remained unfazed. He simply continued to look at her with tears in his eyes before he replied with a strangled voice. “Mama.” 

“No. Oh, no, no.” She shook her head, placing some distance between them. All of them. As if that would help them disappear. 

Yea she needed to get the fuck out right now. 

She eyed the door and ran towards the opening, leaving behind people that did not exist. For a moment, she believed she heard something but dismissed it as quickly as lightning. 

She saw people along her path but whether they were real or not she did not know or care for. Her goal was to leave. Leave this place, sapphire or not. 

Halfway into her sprint, she got the feeling she was being followed. So she ran into a solitary hallway and opened the first door she saw.

“You’re early.” 

She drew in a sharp breath as she came across the last person she wished to see right now, none other than Aemond Targaryen. 

The prince’s lone eye was practically sparkling when looking at her after being hours apart. She had been away for too long for his taste. 

Aemond would have preferred for her to come after everything– the wine, dinner, and dessert– were perfectly set up on the table as he had planned. 

Yet, she was here now. 

With the light blue with silver gown he specifically picked out. The colors itself reminded Aemond of House Arryn, a traitorous house that sided with the whore that was his half-sister. Though, the colors were at least better than that of House Strong. 

Aemond almost had the two women killed for even considering such bletcherous colors for his one and only to wear. 

Blind luck was bestowed upon them when another woman quickly brought an unused gown from her daughter’s armoire. Which was the one his love was currently wearing. 

She looked mesmerizing. Goddess like. The very Maiden in the flesh. 

“Are you alright?” Aemond asked as he noticed her out of breath appearance. 

Before she had a chance to say anything, a tall and dark haired knight came in; presumably after her as he was out of breath too. 

Aemond looked between Ser Criston and his one and only, and concluded that he’d been chasing her for some time. 

“Tis’ alright, Cole. No grave offense has occurred,” Aemond affirmed with a court nod. 

She blinked, assessing the man who was one of few to cause the civil war, Dance of the Dragons, between Aegon and Rhaenyra. 

He appeared just as he was described in the books.

Charming.

Though, she did not expect him to be quite so… short. 

Whilst Aemond stood exceptionally tall, Ser Coleslaw seemed no taller than five foot and eight inches. Perhaps that is one of many reasons he was such a misogynistic dick who couldn’t handle rejection. 

If she did the math correctly by the current year, he must’ve been in his late forties. Yet he had this youthful look about him that one wouldn’t have guessed he was reaching his fifties. 

Not that he would live to see his fifties. 

Days later he would die south of the Gods Eye.  

“Holy shit, you’re Criston Cole?!” She exclaimed not with fascination but with distaste lacing her tone. 

The Kingmaker placed a hand on the pommel of his sword, glaring at her with such vigilance. “I am. Have we met before?” 

“Not really–”

“Leave us, Cole.” Aemond snapped unexpectedly, causing her body to jolt at the intensity of his voice. 

Criston shifted his focus to the prince regent. “I think it would be wise if I stay, my prince. Wouldn’t want anything… unseemly to happen.” 

Oh. 

Oh.

At that, she took a few steps away from Aemond, placing as much distance between them as possible. 

The mere thought of her and Aemond together made her feel uneasy and very unsettling. He was a prince. Royalty. 

While she was the opposite of what he was. A simple commoner. 

Aemond kept himself from frowning at the space his love placed between. He clearly did not intend to take her today, as much as he desired to. 

His incessant desire and appetite would be sated the moment they were joined as one. 

Which would be soon, if everything went according to plan. 

“Leave us. It is a command,” Aemond said, tone much demanding and darker. 

Criston clenched his jaw in anger before he turned to leave. Just as he was about to shut the door he gave her one last look. 

There was no kindness in his cold green eyes. Rather he looked at her like the dirt beneath his boot that quickly needed to be swept away. 

“Do you always captivate this much trouble, my lady?” Aemond asks, just seconds after the door closes. 

She is only able to let out a hum as she feels all the words in her throat shrivel and dry up. 

Aemond’s white linen shirt hung loosely and unbuttoned against his chest; His pants were halfway unlaced. 

Aemond looked down at her silently, waiting for an answer from her. Yet she stood there gawking at the man in front of her, with his toned-pale chest on display, light silver trail of hair below his navel, leading to–

She apologizes quickly before rapidly turning around to grant him some privacy. 

Doing so caused Aemond to curl his lip into a smirk. She didn’t need to be sorry about her curious glances. Aemond thought to himself. Very soon, she’ll be well acquainted with his body; as well as he with hers too. 

Though, that day could not be any sooner. Much to his dismay, Aemond had to settle on that memory when she wore such sheer chemise. The same clothing he kept to himself after she was dressed, and used to pleasure himself with just moments ago.

“What makes you think that?” She added, her voice stammering a bit but she masks it with a cough. 

“You outran three of my guards, for starters, and managed to harm one of them. You also fled from your chamber without so much as a word,” Aemond breathed. “Will you hand me my doublet, please?” 

Her hands reached for the black leather doublet in front of the armchair, handing it back to Aemond with hands over her eyes. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have run and let them have their way with me?” Anger, panic, fear and disbelief brewing deep in her stomach

“Seven Hells, no. That is not what I am implying,” Aemond expresses. “I am elated that you managed to defend yourself and run. But if your reason for fleeing was because you harbor any fear that it will happen again, I can assure you it will not.” 

She stilled for a moment, the hair follicles at the back of her head rose when she felt Aemond’s presence so close behind her. “As long as you are here, you’re under my protection. I will never let anyone or anything harm you. I promise you this.” 

The very gruesome image of Aemond beheading the guard that assaulted her, deemed his promise held true. 

Nevertheless, she was taken aback by the comment and the surface of her face felt warm. “Um thanks,” she nervously chuckled. It was the only thing she could say at such earnest promise. 

“You can turn around now, if you wish.” 

And she did. He looked well put together, dressed in all black from head to toe. The dark shade truly suited Aemond, giving him the illusion of a gothic prince.

In such proximity, she could smell something amidst smoke, fire, and ash emitting from his clothes.

Possibly from his dragon, Vhagar. 

Vhagar.

Being the bookworm that she was, she wondered what the oldest and largest she-dragon looked like. Or where she was currently nesting at. 

However, her nerdishness had to be set aside. 

For now, atleast. 

“Are you famished, my lady? The servants are to bring us dinner shortly, but if you’re hungry now I could ask them to speed it along.” Aemond asked across the room, his hand on the handle of the door. 

She was about to refuse his polite offer, unfortunately for her the mention of dinner provoked her stomach to growl so loud that even Aemond heard it. 

Damned traitor. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Aemond said, his lips curling into a witty grin. She held up her hand in a way to prevent him from arranging dinner, she didn’t have time for. “That won’t be necessary–”

“The ferocious noise inside your belly says otherwise,” he quips as he instructs a nearby servant for some food. “I am starved from killing Strongs all morning and afternoon. I crave something more fulfilling besides shellfish and mediocre soups.” 

It was all Aemond ate at the capital after the Pretender ordered the blockade. At first, the small council had spent a remarkable amount on enough meat, poultry, grains, fruits, and vegetables for his family and guests. Subsequently, in a moon or so everything had run out. Fish, oysters, shrimp, and different kinds of soups were served.

Aemond did not mind, in the beginning, but after a while his appetite longed for his regular and satiated meals. He nearly took one of Vhagar’s goats for himself. Aemond knew he couldn’t as Vhagar needed her strength for upcoming battles and decided to let that foolish idea go. 

A few minutes went by when an array of servants arrived inside the room, carrying hot plates of food. She recognized two of the servants. Both of whom helped her bathe and dress earlier. 

One, she noticed, struggled to keep a ceramic bowl steady. Instantly, she took the bowl from her trembling hands. “The bowl is very hot, my lady. You must be careful!” The old woman warned as she tried to pry the plate off her hands. 

Although she was touched by her worriment, she couldn’t help but to chuckle. “It’s alright. I’ve been accustomed to touching hotter things, and this is not nearly as hot as you think.” At a young age, she more than often would help her mama make homemade tortillas de harina and would flip them by hand in the comal while scorching hot. On the weekend’s she’d help out at her uncle Belen’s restaurant. Often serving customers hot plates of food straight from the stove. (flour tortillas, griddle)

So heat never really bothered her. 

She placed the large bowl in the center of the table, adjacent to the other plates and pitchers. Then she proceeded to help the servants set the table. 

All while doing so she couldn’t help but feel Aemond’s eye on her the entire time as she moved. He stood silent near one of the windows, patiently waiting until everyone that wasn’t her, to leave.

“Will that be all, my prince?” A kitchen servant asked, her eyes struggling to keep eye contact. Aemond waved the woman away, disinterestedly. Something about that irked her to her core, and it reminded her of the countless entitled customers who treated servers beneath them. 

“Thank you,” she smiled at the servants before they took their leave. They returned the smile and she couldn’t help but to think if they’ve ever been thanked before and she was content that she did. 

“Shall we dine?” Aemond gestured to the overly-filled table. 

She nodded, her stomach doing flips for food. Before she had the chance to pull out a chair, Aemond beat her straight to it with a smug smile carved into his lips. 

“In truth, I’m glad that you came now. I was to summon you for another hour while you had your rest but to my surprise the maester informed me that you refused treatment.” Aemond spoke from behind.

She sucked in a breath, shoulders tensing as the tips of Aemond’s fingers softly grazed around the exposed skin behind her neck. A spot where she felt insecure and anxious from anyone viewing. 

Even the two older women, who bathed her, halted their scrubbing when they came across the two deep vertical scars on each of her shoulder blades. A part of her was relieved that they did not say anything and continued their scrubbing, but the overthinker in her worried if they were secretly judging behind her back. 

Aemond pressed his lips together tightly, replacing a frown as she wiggled herself away from his touch. 

“Stitches are required for deep or gaping wounds, and surgical incisions. I did not necessitate it since this is a superficial cut. It will heal in a day or two if I clean it properly to prevent infection. Nywen agreed as well as I did and supplied me with a topical antibiotic.” 

She watched as Aemond slid into a seat directly across from her, digesting in her words. 

“Nywen?” Aemond arched his brow. 

“The maester.” 

Aemond hummed, content by her answer. “You speak as if you’re a maester yourself.” 

“I’m a nurse,” She shared proudly, though ignoring the fact she has not taken her NCLEX yet. Meaning she was not actually licensed. 

Aemond appeared to be taken back by her response and redirected his eye to her very glorious and plump pair of breasts.

Would she allow him the pleasure to drink from her chest as well?

The one eyed prince could only wish. 

Aemond could practically hear his one and only loudly moan and cry for him as he drank every last drop from her breasts, providing her with not only relief but also pleasure. 

The thought alone made his cock stir underneath his breeches.  

“Not a wet nurse!” She exclaimed, as she crossed her arms over her chest, attempting to cover her boobs. 

That, however, proved to be fruitless as the action alone caused her boobs to thrust upwards, revealing more for his eye to see. The violet in Aemond’s lone eye darkened and she swore she almost heard him… moan. 

“Forgive me, my lady. I didn't mean to cause offense,” Aemond softened his voice as he discreetly adjusted his hardness beneath the dining table, stifling a hiss at the throbbing sensation. 

“I never met a woman who practices conventional medical treatment; especially a young woman. Just old men. But seeing as to the maester being gone–”

Hearing that caused her head to snap up. “–Gone?” 

“Yes, he left shortly after he was done treating you. I bid his freedom in exchange for his services and you were his last patient.” Aemond briefly told as he grabbed a slice of some type of roasted meat onto his plate.

“Well, that’s good to hear. At least he is free to see his family now,” she exhaled a breath she didn’t know she held. 

Aemond hummed in agreement, choosing to spare the grisly details of him beheading the maester for treason against the crown. 

In a way, the maester did get to finally visit his family, along with his liege. 

“With him gone, perhaps you’d want to take his place?” Aemond offered coolly. 

It wasn’t like she would stay here long enough to help heal his people. She had a deadline to meet and follow, and the One Eyed Prince sure as hell wasn’t going to get in her way. So she chose to give him a little inconsequential lie. 

“Perhaps,” she shrugged as she began to assess the food upon the table. 

And boy, were there many to choose from. There was a variety of cooked meats, sauteed vegetables, hot stews, breads, cheeses, and fruits. 

It reminded her of an all-you-could-eat buffet. 

She ended up selecting the same type of roasted meat as Aemond, paired with a small slice of bread and a goblet half full of a golden liquid she believed was some sort of juice. 

By the way he was staring at her, she almost wanted to tell Aemond to take a picture to make it last longer but saying such a thing would be indecipherable to Aemond.

Rather it was better to say “paint a portrait.”

Now, however, was not the time to be comical. 

Aemond began shifting to a new topic of conversation when she took the first bite of what he said was ‘roasted duck’. Instantly, she scrunched her face at the off- putting taste. 

She always preferred her meat to be cooked well done and generously seasoned with garlic, salt, pepper, with a hint of rosemary and chili peppers for spice. 

Though this meat itself felt uncooked in the center, bland and not seasoned correctly. 

But what else could she expect from Westeros? 

Aemond watched from where he sat, disheartened by her dischuffed reaction, “Is the duck not to your liking?” 

No. She wanted to reply but she had a feeling that if she denied him, Aemond would try to convince her to take another dish.

“It’s good, thank you.” She lied after she forcefully swallowed the meat, smiling as she reached for her goblet to wash down the horrible aftertaste that lingered in her mouth. 

Aemond was not in the slightest convinced that it was or the wine judging from her disapproving reaction. “Here, have some Dornish red. It is what I’m drinking, much better than the shit from Lannisport you drank.” 

With hesitance, she took the cup. His fingers brushed with her own with a gentle caress that shocked her and almost pulled away from, if not for the goblet being nearly full. 

She examined the dark red wine carefully before sampling it. There was a sweetness blended with some sourness that had her wondering if she had it before. It wasn’t a bad taste but it was definitely strong. 

“Better?” Aemond queried, sitting straighter. 

“Well you’re definitely right about the other one tasting like shit.” She laughed as she drank more Dornish red. 

She's had some questionable alcohol before, but Lannisport wine definitely takes the cake. It was like drinking straight raw honey and cinnamon. 

Aemond joined in with her laughter. “Dornish red can be quite strong and can surely get a person drunk if they have not eaten. Mayhaps I can have the cooks prepare something you prefer eating. What would you like?” 

There were many foods she craved right now. 

Back home, her abuela was preparing the masa for the tamales that took hours to make just for the entire family. (dough)

Her cousins Sara and Valeria, planned to bring a very spicy pozole and mole from their side of the family. 

Tio Belen and tia Alicia were bringing their infamous chocoflan and caramel empanadas for dessert.

Those meals alone were what she wanted more than anything. 

Sadly, there were zero chances that Westeros had any of that.

Especially during a war. 

“I’m alright, thank you. I’ll stick to eating this, it’s not so bad now with the wine,” she reassured. Last thing she wanted was to waste food. Something she despised. 

Her answer, however, wasn’t what Aemond hoped for but he settled on it for now. 

“I do, myself, wish to know how exactly a lady such as yourself came to be wandering about in the woods, dressed in nothing but her shift.” Aemond implored, tilting his head to the side. 

Uh oh.

“The remaining guards confessed that you were wearing your shift when they found you. Prompting them to believe you were some mislead whore. It still doesn’t justify their actions against you and for that I sincerely apologize. But, I’d like to hear your side of the tale if you do not mind.” 

It all had been some unusual mystery, how she— the woman he had been expecting for ten years— came running onto his arms out of the blue.

Your life awaits

Was all Helaena said before he left to take back Harrenhal. 

The pounding of her heart increased tenfold. She knew she had to stick to the truth as much as humanly possible, only altering the details that had to be kept secret. 

She wouldn’t deny a part of her wondered if there was even a chance of coming clean to Aemond. 

Without proof, maybe he’d think she was ludicrous. 

If someone from Westeros came to the modern world, and extemporaneously said they’d been transported from a fictional universe, she without a doubt thought they were on some sort of crack. 

She clears her throat, blinking rapidly in search of the right words to say. “Earlier I was sent to pick out some flowers for my family. Along the way, a woman came across my path and robbed me of not only my gown and shoes but my belongings as well. I tried chasing after her but after several minutes my feet became tired and I was lost around the woods with nothing to go by.” 

“Your guards found me moments later. They insinuated that I was a whore, and I tried to tell them I wasn’t. That’s when things got violent and I was only trying to defend myself.” She explained transparently. 

Aemond redirected his gaze towards the cut on her lower lip, then to her hand noticing some bruising. He recalled how the first guard had a stain of dried blood on his nose right before he killed him.

“Again, I must say how truly sorry I am for the dishonorable actions of my men. And I applaud you for your braveness, my lady.” Aemond said as he raised his goblet before taking a sip.

“Oh, this?” She asked, gesturing to the hand that was bruised. “This is nothing.” 

Aemond let out a chortle. “It’s not nothing. You certainly broke his nose and damaged his foot by the looks of it. Who taught you to hit like that?” 

“My uncle, Aimon.” She answers. Though unsure if she should reveal details about her family. “Most of us, my cousins and I, are girls. He said it was important that we, as women, learn how to be self resilient and defend ourselves. He taught us with a practice dummy, at first. Then with some padded gloves. ” 

Aemond raised his brows, shocked by the notion that a man would allow their nieces to physically fight. His own father never bothered to teach his sister how to train in combat, not that Helaena would’ve wanted to or his mother allowed it. The Dowager Queen detested violence. 

It was only ever him that learned to train in combat. 

Not by his father, too sickly and yet too worried about Rhaenyra. Only Ser Criston Cole who shared the passion of the sword with him. 

“Your uncle seems progressive,” Aemond stated, watching as a sad smile set on her face. “Yea he is.” The reminder of Aimon made her reflect on how much she missed her family right now.

Especially since Aimon was coming home for Dia De Los Muertos, after being stationed in Mexico City for ten years. Alicia and her were the only ones that knew of Aimon’s surprise visit to abuela Selena. 

Though, perhaps now the only surprise her abuela was going to get was her disappearance. 

“Have I said something to upset you?” Aemond questioned. 

Her attention went back to the one eyed prince, who looked at her with concern. “No, no you haven’t. I just… nevermind.” She shook her head as she fiddled with the edges of her goblet.

Aemond leaned forward in his seat, desperately wanting to know what she had to say. “What is it? You can tell me—”

Just as his hand was about to reach hers, a knock interrupted them both. “Prince Aemond, the dessert you requested is almost done. Shall I have it straight delivered to your chambers?” A kitchen maid inquired from the other end of the door. 

Aemond made a sound of complete annoyance, causing her to give him a major side eye. “Yes, do so.” 

His reply caused her to be taken aback. Did that mean she had to stay longer with him?

She hoped not as there wasn’t enough time for dessert or any of his pleasantries. No matter how hard Aemond procures her to stay. There was a deadline she had to follow and a family and home to go back to. 

She knew that by now, her family already contacted the authorities; the police and even the fucking FBI. They’d even call the SWAT team if it were possible. 

Maybe she was being a bit too… dramatic. But was she?

There wasn’t anything her family wouldn’t do for her, including searching all of Mexico just to get her back. 

Sadly, she was nowhere near Mexico. 

Rather she was stuck in a world that up until hours ago, was purely fictional. A work of fiction that she received as a gift. 

Her first mistake of coming into this strange world was not thoroughly checking the cottage properly. Perhaps there, she could find some clues and answers that could help identify where this sapphire might be. 

So, now was as good a time as any to leave. More hours later and she’d permanently risk staying here forever, just as Alyssandra warned. 

As much as she wanted to explore and live through  every bit of Westeros, she already missed her home, her family, the food, internet, and comfortable clothes that weren’t medieval dresses. 

“Would you care for some more Dornish red as we wait for dessert to be served?” Aemond eventually asked, breaking her out of her stupor. 

Go.

“Actually, I can’t,” she nervously chuckled as she stacked her plates and swept leftover crumbs with a napkin. Even universes away she still had the decency to pick up after herself. 

Aemond felt his heart drop.

“It’s getting late and I must go. I’ve been gone for hours and my family is probably wondering where I am.” It was not entirely a lie. Her one way ticket out of here was to play her cards right by telling the truth.

“But the dessert—” The one eyed prince tried to explain but was interrupted. 

“— can wait or I’ll take it on a to-go box. Do you guys have one of those here?” She knew not but it was worth a try.

Aemond gave her a look of utmost bewilderment. “A what?” A box for a piece of dessert? 

She waved him off before she stood up, “it doesn’t matter. Thank you for letting me stay and for everything else you’ve done. I’m grateful, really. But I seriously have to go.” 

Aemond found himself standing as well and before either of them knew it, Aemond spun her around so that her back was pressed on rough stone and his chest just inches away from her glorious plump breasts. 

“You can’t leave,” Aemond said with a loud growl. 

She swallowed, her eyes widening in total disbelief. “What?” In a frail voice she asked. 

Aemond had to be gentle with his next choice of words. Last thing he wanted was to scare her off, like how he currently was doing so. 

The prince softened the darkness in his eye. “Well,” he sighed, “you’ve said so yourself, it is getting late and I don’t think it is wise for a lady to wander by herself in the woods again. Especially at night and with a mugger on the loose.” 

“I’ve caused you enough trouble as it is if I stay.” She stated, distancing herself away from Aemond. 

Though the one eyed prince was quick to act as his hand barricaded her point of exit. “You caused me no trouble, I swear this to you. Please stay a little while longer. I’ll send a raven to your family that you reside here with me.” Aemond begged, feigning a demeanor of woefulness. 

Although she did slightly feel bad, the deep voice in her head told her to stick to her guts; which was leaving. 

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head as she was quick to duck underneath Aemond’s arm towards the door. She felt the light graze of Aemond’s hand reaching for her but she pulled away before he could touch her, causing him to frown. 

Aemond yearned to have more time with her; to know every single part of her that made her so intriguing to him. She had haunted his dreams every night for far too long to let her go now. Considering how he had not yet voiced his affections to her. Aemond presumed, now was not the right time to declare his devotion. Time is what he needed. 

“Alys, wait!” Aemond called out. 

And she was sure as hell did wait.

A/N: sooooo I haven't updated this story for 8 months and for that I'm sorry guys 😩

but for those who are wondering: I live in an abusive household. so that should say enough.

and yes I am trying to get out, but I am currently unemployed.

the next chapter won't take 8 months I promise, but I am writing some smutty one shots for valentines day so I won't update this story until march!

also, if anyone can guess who Vidalio is, I will post a sneak peek of chapter 4!