Your life is upturned when a magical, sword wielding warrior crash lands in your apartment. Cue the absolute pandemonium.
<- Ch. 1 Table of Contents
Chapter 2: Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Nightmare
You are so not okay right now. Definitely traumatized. Very possibly on the brink of a mental breakdown.
You quicken your steps, the cold wind biting at your bare arms as you charge down the street. Where are you headed? You have no idea. The only thing on your mind at the time had been a continuous loop of RUN AWAY—RUN AWAY—RUN AWAY—
And so here you are. Cold, alone and running the fuck away.
You probably look like a crazy person right now: hair in a frazzled mess, torn clothes and dried blood stains all over you. You're not blind—you can see the alarmed stares you're attracting. The sidewalk for once is miraculously clear in front of you, parted like the Red Sea.
Well, whatever. You're not feeling particularly chatty right now either.
The world feels smaller, almost compressed. Like you're walking down a dark, narrow tunnel, and it's squeezing your lungs tighter and tighter. Your vision is starting to blur at the edges, shapes and colors melding together and swirling like paint.
Suddenly everything is too loud, blaring like alarms in your ears. The cars rushing by, the whistling wind, the chatter of pedestrians—it's unbearable. You stumble to the nearest door you can find, pushing it open and nearly falling through the entrance.
The chatter inside immediately quiets down.
You're in what looks to be a café. There are cute fairy lights hanging from the ceiling and a sign on the wall that reads Life Happens, Coffee Helps. A bell jingles innocently above you.
You stagger to the counter, skipping the line. Nobody really says anything to stop you. The barista takes one look at you and pales.
"Police," you gasp, trying to catch your breath. "Somebody, call the police."
****
Forty minutes later, you're wrapped in one of those large foil blankets like an aluminum burrito. Outside of your apartment complex, police swarm the area like ants.
After getting the details from you, they'd immediately rushed here to detain the offender. You may not be his only victim, after all. At least they let you sit a very generous distance away (AKA, across the street). You don't think your mental state could have handled seeing that psycho again.
"Ma'am," the officer calls you, making you flinch so hard you nearly tear your blanket. Your paranoia is at an all time high right now, worse than that time you pulled two all-nighters in a row with only red bull and a bag of Doritos to sustain yourself.
He sighs, shaking his head, and—well, there goes any peace of mind you might have had left. "He's gone, but we took blood samples and our detectives are currently observing the crime scene. It should be cleared for reentry soon enough."
"So—so what, I'm just supposed to go back to what I was doing?" Your voice trembles. How can you possibly function like this?
The officer presses his lips together. "Do you have anywhere else to stay tonight? A friend's or family's place? Maybe a hotel?"
You want to laugh in his face, or maybe cry. Your nearest family is a state away. The closest thing you have to a friend here is your coworker, who you're pretty sure lives with an abusive husband. And a hotel? Fucking hell, you can barely afford groceries.
The officer must see the desperation on your face because his expression softens a little. "Listen, there's a shop not too far from here, about two blocks down the hill. They have options for self defense. Just be responsible with it, and call us if anything happens."
You bite your lip, nodding tiredly. "Yeah, okay."
"Our department will continue to conduct a manhunt in the area based off of the description you gave us. I suggest you purchase a new mobile device so that we can contact you." He gives you one last nod before walking away.
You close your eyes, dropping your head in your hands. Breathing deeply, you let out a long, shuddering sigh.
"Well," you mutter. "Fuck."
****
You get no sleep that night.
Or the night after, really. On the third night, you finally collapse from utter exhaustion, but you're restlessly tossing and turning until the sun peaks treacherously through your curtains.
After an entire week of feeling half-alive, you've finally fucking had it. You come back to your apartment with a taser, pepper spray, a baseball bat and a pending background check for a firearm. You sleep with the taser next to you, and it's the first time all week that you're able to get in a blessed, uninterrupted eight hours.
After two weeks, your routine starts to reestablish itself. You buy yourself a cheap phone, get back into the flow of work, and DIY some repairs in your apartment with dollar store solutions and pure spite. Eventually, your tension releases. You stop looking over your shoulder every five minutes. You lay off the frantic internet searches.
And finally, finally, after two and a half painful weeks, you have some semblance of peace back in your life.
Which of course, predictably, is when everything goes to shit.
****
It's three in the morning.
The refrigerator hums. Your washing machine hiccups—pauses—and resumes washing. You're fast asleep, swaddled in your comforter like it could ward off evil spirits.
Or, well, you were fast asleep.
Now you're wide awake, eyes snapping open to the sound of your floorboards creaking. Your heart stops. You hold your breath.
You could be imagining it. You hope you're imagining it. Your building is old. Old buildings make weird noises, right? Or maybe it's just your neighbors having…fun. Wouldn't be the first time.
Creaaaak.
Panic starts to rise in your chest. Okay, that was definitely closer. Your trembling hand reaches slowly for your taser.
You've practiced for this. Watched like, a gazillion self-defense videos. Still, you don't feel anywhere near ready to face this yet.
The steps—undeniably human steps now—start walking towards your bedroom. Sweat beads at your forehead. You clutch the taser in a white-knuckled grip.
The bedroom door creaks open.
You nearly piss yourself.
Oh god, it's him. It's that fucking psycho from earlier. Standing in the shadows like the ghost of Christmas Future.
The moonlight peaks through your curtains, barely illuminating his figure. He's wearing the same ridiculous pink-and-white outfit as before, the one that looks like it was plucked straight from a martial arts movie set. It's even more tattered now—like he'd been dragged backwards through a forest, dunked in a lake, and then...glitter-bombed? His hair's a ghastly mess, sticking out in every direction, and his eyes—
His eyes dart to you. They look wild. Animalistic.
You've never not wanted to be somewhere more in your entire life.
He knows you're awake. There's no way he doesn't, you're rigid as a board. Taking a shaky breath, you try to steel yourself. "Don't come any—!"
In a flash, he's across the room, and your eyes blow wide open.
"...closer," you choke out.
Did he—did he just fucking teleport?
Something in your sanity snaps. Maybe it's the stress, or the compounded sleep deprivation, or the fact that Janine from work insulted your earrings today.
You growl, kicking up the blanket to obscure his vision. Then, you lunge with bared teeth, taser wielded like a weapon of mass destruction.
When the blanket drops, there's just air.
What the?
A hand grips the back of your shirt, yanking you back. You yelp, staring up at the glowing pink eyes currently narrowed at you. He looks murderous, but also slightly disappointed—like he couldn't believe you were this pathetic.
Great, now you're terrified and strangely offended.
"W-what the hell do you want from me?" You stammer, voice trembling.
You don't try to attack again. You're hopelessly outmatched. In fact, he could probably kill you before you even manage to fully process it. The feeling of having your life in his hands is gut-wrenchingly disturbing.
He looks unsure for a moment, throwing you off guard. Then he glares at you like you were the one intruding in his house.
You feel like you're about to pass out from the nerves.
He clenches his jaw, and then he speaks.
"Who..." he struggles, voice thick with a heavy accent. "Who...you?"
I saw the isekai reader and cannibal nutshell thing and a thought appeared. I LOVED IT✨
Imagine the isekai reader is practicing High Valyrian as they look at their phone while it still works okay. Imagine reader saying "Angās" forgetting Cannibal is beside them and then any poor unfortunate soul that happened to pass was burnt to crispies.
Reader, is practicing Valyrian: Angās *a bit wobbbly in pronounciation*
Cannibal, perking up from laying beside reader: *sees a unfortunate bands of thieves* *spits fire with no hesitation*
Band of thieves: *is dead dead burnt to crisp*
Cannibal: *proudly preening at their rider waiting for a praise*
Reader: I smell burnt chicken *sees dead crispy flesh*
Reader:.....
Reader: CANNIBAL NO-
Another absolute banger from an anon.
The yanderes are definitely all bombarding reader with questions like 'what is that glowing box?' 'are you from the past?' 'what do you mean another dimension?' 'how did you claim The Cannibal?'
And of course the obligatory question from Aegon II— 'Would you ever fuck on it?'
All the mean while The Cannibal is like 'No, good Cannibal!' Cannibal gets all happy. He flops on his belly and wants pets.
Yandere Aemond is like— "Mhm, I could teach you to ride this magnificent beast with Vhagar."
Cannibal gets extremely jealous when someone talks about reader being near another dragon. >:(
This dragon will dracarys something even if reader says something else completely different.
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
OLD VERSION (newer version is being rewritten)
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!
Summary: Reader accidentally hurts themselves when they trip over and Thranduil comes to save them
Word count: 1, 167
Walking through the forest of the woodland realm filled you with both joy and sadness. Parts of the forest were still lush and green, filled with life and happiness, but unfortunately most parts were taken over by a great poison, leaving the once beautiful lands to be dark and dangerous.
You weren’t sure why you were brought to Middle Earth, both Thranduil and Gandalf had their theories, but both you and Thranduil believe it might have to do with the poison taking over the lands. To better understand it, you decided to walk among it. Thranduil had agreed to let you do so, as long as you didn’t go too far and wander into the spiders.
He had spent over an hour drawing up different maps and explaining where you can and can’t go. Even though you were not of this world and not as wise as the race of elves, Thranduil still was very protective of you, so protective in fact that this was the first time he had let you venture here alone. Every other time you had walked these woods, it had been with either Legolas, Tauriel or 2 or more guards.
You suppose the reason for Thranduils care was because you were chosen to help heal his lands, and he wanted to keep you safe. It would be stupid to think it was any other reason, although you did sometimes fancy it could be.
Perhaps Thranduil wanted to take care of you for more reasons then just to help him. You try to ignore those ideas though. An elvish king having feelings for human of a different world just isn’t how things work, though it’s hard to ignore that it might be true.
Hard to ignore the way he looks at you when he thinks you can’t see, the way you’re able to make him laugh, the way he shuts down anyone who would try to talk poorly about you, mostly it was hard to ignore his touches. The way his hands felt on your hips when you first started learning to ride a horse, and he’d help you on and off. How his eyes seem to linger when brushing a piece of hair out of your face, or even the way he seemed to always offer his hand to help you stand or walk along uneven ground, even when you didn’t need it.
These thoughts of fancy seemed to cloud your head so blindingly, that you didn’t notice the change in terrain, or that there was a giant root coming out of the ground. Before you had time to catch yourself, you felt the earth thud against your chest and a throbbing pain in your ankle.
Gently twisting your body around, you assessed the damage of your ankle. Looking down you see it’s already starting to swell, but despite that, you try to walk on it. There was no patrol out at the moment and you were sure no one would hear you if you did call for help.
With the assistance of the large tree, you begin to stand from the ground. As soon as you put pressure on your ankle however, you realise how bad of a decision that was. A loud yelp leaves you as you once again fall to the ground.
Hitting the ground with your fist in defeat, you decide calling out would be your only option, you could crawl but you’re pretty sure that would just lead to you getting more hurt.
Turning onto your back, you close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm down and smell the lushness of the forest before you. If you were going to call for help, it had to be a good call, and you couldn’t do that if you were hysterical and unfocused.
Opening your eyes again, your calmness helps to push the growing pain aside as you begin to call for help.
“Someone! Help me! I’ve hurt my ankle and I can’t move! Help me!” You shout to the canopy of large trees above you. You’re not sure who will hear, but just hope your message is clear and loud enough.
Closing your eyes and beginning to breathe once again, you prepare yourself to make another call for aid. Luckily, however, as you open your eyes once again, you see none other then the king himself, kneeling beside you with a look of deep worry on his face.
“What trouble have you gotten into now?” He smirks down at you, but his eyes are still filled with worry.
“I tripped over and I’ve hurt my ankle.” You explain, trying not to sound pathetic.
“Ah, so that was the terrible howling I heard. And here I thought the spiders were being hurt, well an elf can dream.” He jokes with you, trying to calm the situation.
“One could only hope. Now I can wait here while you get help to lift me ba-.” Before you could finish your sentence, you felt Thranduils strong hands under your body as he began to lift you from the ground. There’s that touch of his again.
Looking into his face, you expect to see frustration or anger, but you see nothing but care as he stares back at you.
“I’m sorry if I’m too heavy.” You blurt out, not knowing what to say in this moment.
Thranduils rarely seen sweet smile shines onto his face as he looks ahead of him, beginning to take you back to his castle.
“Humans are always so funny. Elves are a lot stronger then the race of men, you feel no heavier then lifting a kitten.” His smile grows as he looks down at you.
Looking into his eyes and feeling his strong arms and hands so sweetly touching you, those thoughts of fancy seem to return with a vengeance.
“Does that mean you’ll feed me milk and scratch behind my ear?” You joke, trying to push your romantic thoughts from your head.
The silly question made Thranduil laugh in a way you’d never seen, it’s like his usual brooding self was washed away with sunlight and star shine.
“Perhaps I might just do that. Let you curl up by the fire and give you a ball of yarn.” He smiles down at you, as you now approach the doors to his kingdom.
Such a joke and such a smile does nothing to calm the feelings that grow in your heart, but you suppose you’ll just have to live with it.
Little do you know however, the image of you cuddled up to Thranduil by his fire as he takes care of you, fill his heart with a similar feeling. He too tries to push them away as he places you on a medical bed and elves begin to help you.
Stepping out of the room he tries to shake his own fancy from his head. How could such a bright and sweet person love an old and bitter elf as himself?
Y/N is your average horror blogger, but she just made the ultimate mistake. Tempting fate leads to her posting a "What horror movie would you go into for $10 million?" hypothetically of course.. After jokingly claiming she easily survive Friday the 13th because Jason is just a "misunderstood outdoorsman." She is instantly teleported to a desolate Camp Crystal Lake.
"Ten million dollars," you had typed, your fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard as the blue light of your monitor washed over your face. "If I had to pick one? Easy. Friday the 13th. I’d vibe at the lake, dodge a machete or two, and come out a multi-millionaire. Jason’s basically just a misunderstood outdoorsman anyway."
You hit Post, chuckled at your own wit, and reached for your iced coffee.
Your hand met thin air. Or rather, humid, pine-scented air that smelled distinctly of damp earth and old wood.
"Wait, what—"
The glow of your monitor was gone. In its place was the flickering amber light of a dying campfire. The hum of your PC had been replaced by the rhythmic, deafening chirp of crickets and the soft lap of water against a shoreline.
"No," you whispered, standing up and spinning in a circle. You weren't in your bedroom. You were standing in front of a weathered cabin with a sign hanging crookedly by one chain: CAMP CRYSTAL LAKE.
"IT WAS A JOKE!" you screamed into the void of the woods. "I WAS SHITPOSTING! TUMBLEDORE, TAKE ME BACK!"
Day Three: The Honeymoon Phase
The first forty-eight hours weren't actually that bad. You found a stash of canned peaches in the mess hall, the weather was gorgeous, and most importantly..there wasn't a hockey mask in sight.
"Maybe I’m in the first movie timeline," you muttered, skipping a stone across the glassy surface of the lake. "Maybe Pamela is already gone and Jason is just... chilling at the bottom of the lake. I can do this. I’ll just wait for the portal to open back up. Any second now."
You were actually starting to enjoy the peace and quiet. No emails, no doom-scrolling. Just nature.
The Night Everything Went Wrong
The storm rolled in on the third night with a violence that felt personal. Thunder shook the floorboards of the cabin, and the rain hammered against the roof like a thousand frantic fingers.
That’s when you heard it. Not the wind. Heavy footsteps.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
You scrambled under the nearest bunk bed, pressing your face into the dusty floor. Maybe he’s just passing through. Maybe he’s looking for a snack.
The door to the cabin didn't just open; it was deleted from its hinges. Through the gap between the floor and the bed frame, you saw them: huge, waterlogged boots caked in mud. A tattered pant leg. A hand, grey, hulking, and scarred, gripping the edge of the bed frame.
With a strength that defied physics, the entire bunk bed was tossed aside like a toy.
"Hi," you squeaked, looking up at the towering silhouette. The hockey mask gleamed in the lightning flashes, the dark voids of the eye holes staring down at you with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
You didn't wait for a formal introduction. You bolted.
You made it exactly ten feet before a hand the size of a dinner plate clamped onto your waist. You were hoisted into the air, the world spinning until your stomach hit a shoulder that felt like it was carved out of granite.
"HEY! HEY, WAIT!" You started thrashing, your fists drumming against his back. "I changed my mind! I want to live in The Purge! Or Casper! Put me down!"
Jason didn't even flinch. He simply adjusted his grip on your thighs, anchoring you firmly against him, and began the long trek back into the deep woods.
"Where are you taking me? Is this the part where I become a decorative hedge? Because I’m telling you now, I have terrible cardio and I’m a very picky eater!"
He stepped over a fallen log, his pace steady and relentless. The rain slicked his jacket, and you could hear the wet squelch of his boots, but he didn't make a sound. No heavy breathing, no grunts of effort. Just a silent, unstoppable force of nature.
"Put me down, you big oaf!" you yelled, kicking your legs. "I have rights! I have a blog! People will notice I’m gone! Well, mostly bots, but still!"
You looked back at the receding lights of the camp, realizing he wasn't heading for the lake or the main road. He was heading for the hills. Into the heart of the territory where no one ever went.
"Fine! Be that way! The silent treatment? Real mature, Jason. Real mature!"
You slumped over his shoulder, defeated for the moment. As the canopy of trees swallowed the last of the moonlight, you realized the ten million dollars probably wasn't coming, but Jason Voorhees certainly wasn't letting you go.
Imagine : You have just been kidnapped by Peter and his Lost Boys, but they’ve bit off more than they can chew with your modern attitude
“What is she yelling about now?” Peter asks while approaching his loitering boys, the distant yells of your voice infiltrating the main camp.
Devin looks to Peter and shrugs his shoulders, his confused expression mirroring Pans. “Something about… a message?” Devin repeats, unsure if he had even translated your words correctly. None of the boys were accustomed to the native tongue you spoke so fluently in.
“A message?” Peter echoes, his brow arching. “I shall find out what message it is that she has.”
Peter soon appears at the base of the tree, where two bamboo cages hang like trophies in the air. He tugs at a thick rope and begins lowering the cage downwards, ensuring it wouldn’t suddenly drop and harm the hostage inside: you.
He releases the rope and saunters over, a small whistle tune passing his lips as his shadow looms over your face.
You seem to perk up, but your momentary delight morphs into frustration. “About time!” You scoff loudly, waving your hand like a madwoman. In your hand you grip a device unknown to Peter, it’s metallic and sleek looking, otherworldly.
“I am told you have a message…” Peter starts slowly, deliberately drawing out his words to increase the fearful tension you should surely feel. But he is once again surprised as you do not react the way he desired.
“I want to send a message,” you correct, using your pointer finger to gesture to your phone. “There isn’t any signal here. What network does Neverland provide?”
Peter blinks rapidly. He understood almost every word you said individually, but all together they sounded far too much like gibberish. He knew, of course, that the other worlds had evolved over the years, but generally speaking he was able to make a connection with potential lost boys. You, on the other hand were something entirely new.
“Neverland does not support your modern lifestyle,” Peter explains flatly. He approaches the cage until he was leaning on the bars, his fingers wrapping around the bamboo until he swore it would snap between his fingers.
Bizarrely, you sigh and tuck your phone into your pocket before leaning as close as possible to Peter. “Count yourself lucky, magic-boy, or else I’d be calling the police immediately on your ass for kidnapping me.”
And it was with that strange threat that Peter realised how interesting you were as a hostage. Certainly more fascinating than the rest. In fact, you were such a curious being that Peter was debating whether or not he’d release you back to your world once he had gotten what he achieved.
Because who would lose a magnificent source of entertainment like you?
Imagine modern yn being transported to shows like "vikings", " house of the dragon", "game of thrones", "bridgertons", and "the great" and their phone still works and has a unlimited amout of battery. Would yn be considered a witch because of it? Yes. Would they be able to think of what to say so they don't die? Also yes. And after that yn would be found watching movies, shows, or videos, playing games, listening to and/or dancing to music,or maybe learn new languages on the phone. Yn also has fun alarms. Lets also give yn something to project or enlarge the screen of the phone for movie nights with the characters.
Edit: imagine this, in the middle of a political discussion strange music (like wap, call me maybe, or any song that makes them think "what the f") and they see yn dancing their but of to it. Some characters would join. Some characters would watch with joy, curiousness, or a "what the f" face. And finally, some characters would try to shut it down (rude), key would try.
