#the bard's tale challenge | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writingrock · 4 months ago

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the tale of two lovers [6]

pairing: barbarian! katsuki bakugou x reader (female) summary: a bard approaches a lone barbarian in search for a story to tell. Who could have known that the barbarian end up being such a romantic tale.

notes: fantasy au, fluff, strangers to lovers, slow burn, bakusquad, barbarian bakugou, violence, mentions of caves

word count: 8.4k

part list

part one: chapter list

a/n: i've been sooo busy this week but i'm so glad i had the weekend to write this chapter out!

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Bakugou’s voice sliced through the low buzz of the forest. He eyed you from the side as you tread lightly through the thicket.

You didn’t even look up from the map in your hands, the corners of your mouth curling into a derisive smirk. “Not at all, I’m just leading us into the middle of nowhere for fun,” you shot back, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “If you want to take over, be my guest. But I’d bet on the cartographer over the barbarian any day”

Bakugou grunted, his eyes sharpened in your direction but he said nothing more. You had a point, and as much as he hated to admit it, he knew better than to challenge your expertise on navigating these treacherous woods. He learnt from the past few weeks that you were better at navigating the Veil than he would ever be. The rest of the group followed you, trusting your sense of direction after being together for weeks.

The group presses on, the forest around you growing denser with each step. The air is thick with the scent of earth and leaves, and the sounds of distant, unseen creatures create a constant, eerie background noise. The trees loomed overhead, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance in the periphery of your vision. You keep an eye on the subtle changes in the environment, looking for signs that you’re nearing the heart of the forest. It’s been quite the journey. All the way from that pub in Leford to the midst of Niniel’s Veil. A part of you can’t believe that you all have reached this point.

Hours passed as you pressed on, the terrain becoming increasingly difficult to traverse. Twisted roots threatened to trip the unwary, and thick underbrush snagged at your clothes and gear. But you led the way as you always did. Occasionally pausing to consult your map or listen to the faint whispers of the forest around you. The group was thankful to have you by their side, more than you’d ever know.

Eventually, the light began to fade, and the group’s energy waned with it. Looks like it was time to set up camp. You searched around for a good campsite. Walking through the area with your eyes peeled for potential resting areas. Finally, you find a small clearing where the trees part enough to let in some moonlight. a good spot to make camp. When you finally suggested making camp for the night, there were no objections. The group quickly set up, grateful for a chance to rest. A small fire was lit that warmed the surroundings of your makeshift camp.

The conversation around the fire was subdued but relaxed, the group was talking lightheartedly about poor decisions they’ve made before. Kirishima laughed as he recounted the time Sero almost got his foot stuck in a bog, while Kaminari chimed in with a tale about a prank he’d tried to pull, only for it to backfire spectacularly. Even Bakugou, usually so stoic, chuckled at some of the memories, though he mostly stayed silent, watching the flames with the impassive expression he usually wore.

“It’s been a hell of a trip so far,” Kirishima says, stretching his arms above his head. A low grunt slipping past his lips as he loosens a muscle.“But I think we’re getting closer.”

“Yeah,” Mina agrees, yawning softly as she gazes at the fire. “Feels like we’ve been at this forever, but there’s definitely something different about this place. You can feel it in the air.”

“I’m eager to go home.” Sero says, stretching out and grinning. Rolling his shoulders as he feels his shoulders opening up. “But we’re making good progress, right?”

“Progress?” Kaminari quips, laying back on his pack. “I’m just glad we haven’t run into any more thorn wolves. Those things were a pain.”

Bakugou grunts in agreement, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the firelight. You can tell he’s still on edge, wary of potential dangers that could jump out in the darkness. Even in camp, he refuses to let his guard down. “We’re close,” you say, breaking your silence. “In a few days, we should reach the heart of the forest. That’s where we’ll find the artefact.”

At the mention of the artefact, the mood harboured an undercurrent of tension as everyone knew the real challenge was within grasp. The heart of the forest is elusive, and with it, the artefact they sought.

One by one, the group members retired for the night, the fire slowly dying down as they crawled into their bedrolls. Before long, the camp was quiet, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. The camp settles into the kind of stillness that only a deep forest can offer, the fire’s glow the only break in the darkness.

But sleep wouldn’t come to you. Time passing only seemed to amplify your restlessness. It’s not the first time, and you doubt it will be the last. There’s something about this forest that keeps your mind… busy. With a quiet sigh, you slipped out of your sleeping bag. You grab the habitual items and slip into your boots. Careful not to disturb the others, you moved away from the camp, the soft glow of the dwindling fire fading behind you as you wandered deeper into the forest. The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and moss. The shadows seemed less menacing now, more like old friends keeping you company as you wandered.

Niniel’s Veil reminds you of your father. Wherever he is.

You purse your lips at the thought, memories creeping up the edges of your mind. How long has it been since you last saw him? Ten years? Maybe more. The forest feels eerily familiar, stirring a sense of nostalgia that you can’t quite shake. The years have slipped by, but the memory of his voice, his presence, still lingers like a ghost. You lightly pinch yourself, trying to push the thoughts away as you walk through the woods. The familiar rustle of leaves underfoot and the soft whisper of the wind are usually comforting, but tonight, they only serve to amplify the gnawing sense of solitude.

You move through the woods, your footsteps light on the forest floor, but a sudden prickling at the back of your neck pulls you out of your reverie. There’s someone behind you. You can feel it, that unmistakable sense of being watched. The hairs on your arms stand on end as you subtly slide your hand to your dagger, fingers curling around the hilt. In one swift motion, you turn on your heel, the blade ready in your hand. You turn swiftly to confront your midnight stalker.

Your blade stops just short of pressing against a familiar throat. Deja Vu much?

Bakugou stands there with that same unreadable face he wore at supper. His arms crossed over his chest like he’s just casually taking a stroll in the middle of the night. As if he wasn’t following you in the darkness of the forest. Or even that he had every right to follow you. For someone who claims not to care, he certainly has a way of showing up whenever you least expect it.

“Glad to see you’ve upgraded.” He comments referring to the blade. You cringe slightly remembering the last time with the quill.

“Still stalking me?” you ask, your voice a low, teasing drawl as you press the dagger lightly against his neck. The cool blade against the warm skin of his neck. Your pen was once positioned there.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sly smirk. His stony expression melted away, unveiling the amusement lurking underneath. He was enjoying this more than he should. “You always pull a blade on your friends, or am I just special?”

You snort, but don’t lower the dagger just yet. “Friends, huh? Last I checked, you were just tolerating me.”

“Maybe you’re just that hard to ignore,” he shoots back with a twitch in his eyebrow.

“Careful, you almost sounded sincere for a second,” you retort, finally lowering the dagger but keeping it in hand. “So, what’s the excuse this time? Woke you up again?”

Bakugou gives you a flat look, his snarky smirk dropping. His crimson eyes bored into you as he studied you for a moment. A short moment passes and he nonchalantly replies to your question. “You were wandering off. Thought I’d make sure you weren’t getting yourself lost.”

You can’t help but audibly laugh at that. The edge of your lips tugging upwards as you teased him. “How considerate of you. I thought you trusted me to lead the way.”

“I trust you not to get us all killed,” he fires back, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s fighting off a smirk of his own. “But I know this forest messes with people’s heads. Even yours.”

“Worried about me, Bakugou?” you poked at him, stepping a bit closer.

His expression darkens, the usual intensity that seems to follow him everywhere. “I’m not worried. Just making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

He falls into step beside you, the silence between you charged with the same tension that always seems to hang in the air when the two of you are alone. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s become familiar— a dynamic you’ve both fallen into without really meaning to. It seems you both are going on a midnight stroll together. Not that it surprises you anymore, it seems the only time you both take time to understand each other is in the dead of the night. So when these nightly talks happen, you embrace them.

As you both walk, the forest gradually thins out, and the remnants of an ancient structure come into view— a ruined pagoda, half-collapsed and covered in creeping vines. Probably one of the few remaining ruins of that once powerful elvish kingdom. The sight of it makes you pause, the weight of the years heavy in the air around it. It’s a relic of a time long gone, much like the memories you’ve been trying to avoid.

Without a word, you make your way to the base of the pagoda and sit down on a stone that was once part of a grand foundation. Bakugou follows suit, dropping onto a nearby piece of rubble with a sigh, the tension of the day settling into his muscles.

The night is quiet around you, the sounds of the forest muted, as if even the creatures that dwell here know to respect the sanctity of this forgotten place. You glance at Bakugou, catching the way his eyes scan the surroundings, ever vigilant even in this moment of relative peace. For a moment, the two of you simply sit there in silence, the ruined pagoda a reminder of the past, of things lost and found. It’s a fragile peace, but it’s enough for now. Whatever lies ahead, you know this— neither of you is alone in facing it.

“You mind telling me the significance of that artefact?” you ask. The importance behind the artefact often creeped from the corners of your mind. Wondering what could be so important for a draconic prince to venture out finding them.

Bakugou’s gaze sharpens as he fixes his stare on you, weighing whether to answer. He’s not one to give up information easily, especially about something this important. But instead of a direct answer, he counters you, “You mind telling me what’s keeping you up?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by his quick deflection. It seemed you weren’t the only one with questions. Still, was it that surprising that he had questions about you? You were rather secretive. “Touché.”

Silence settles between you once more, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s a quiet pause, like the forest itself is holding its breath. The ruined pagoda around you is peaceful in its decay, the stones weathered but steadfast, wrapped in a blanket of moss and climbing vines. The air hums with a soft, otherworldly energy, the kind that only comes from places touched by ancient magic. Fireflies dance lazily in the air, their glow reflecting off the gentle ripples of a nearby stream. Somewhere in the distance, a lone night bird calls out, its song weaving through the trees like a lullaby.

You find yourself almost at ease in this place, this forgotten sanctuary deep in Niniel’s Veil. But the weight of the past still tugs at you, pulling you back to a time long ago.

“I mapped this forest with my father,” you begin, the words coming out quieter than you intended. You hadn’t planned on sharing this, but something about the weight of the ruined pagoda and Bakugou’s unexpected question that loosened the knot in your chest. “We spent years exploring every corner of it, documenting its secrets, its dangers. He taught me all that I knew and showed me the beauty of the Veil.”

Bakugou doesn’t interrupt, his attention focused entirely on you. To have him listen without any snark had strangely become second nature when the two of you were alone. A calmer side both of you wore when delicate conversations arose.

“He’s been gone for ten years now,” you continue, your voice steady despite the ache in your heart. “Took on an expedition to map out areas on another continent. A big one, from what little I know. But... I haven’t heard from him since. Not a single word. And being here, I can’t help but think of him. Wonder where he is, what he’s doing. If he’s even still alive.”

Bakugou’s expression softens slightly, though he tries to hide it. He shifts, leaning back against the cool stone of the pagoda, the hard lines of his face catching the flickering light of the fireflies. “Must’ve been a hell of a trip if he’s been gone that long.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your eyes distant as you stare into the darkness beyond the pagoda. “It’s meant to be the opportunity of a lifetime. But a part of me... part of me wonders if it was worth it. If he’s still out there, somewhere, lost in the maps he was always so obsessed with.”

Bakugou grunts softly, a sound that could be agreement or just acknowledgment. He doesn’t offer empty reassurances, doesn’t try to comfort you with false hope. Instead, he just sits there, his presence a solid, grounding force in the uncertainty that’s been gnawing at you for years.

After a moment, Bakugou’s voice cuts through the night, softer than usual. “You know, this artefact we’re after… it’s not just any old trinket. It’s part of something much bigger.” His eyes aimed down at the ground, focusing on the ground as he spoke. Perhaps finding it easier to speak with something dull and mundane to look at.

“It’s tied to my bloodline,” he continues. The timbre of his voice carries the weight of years of effort and loss. “A draconic artefact that’s been lost for centuries. It was once a symbol of immense power, something my ancestors wielded. The artefact has been broken into six pieces, and together, they unlock the planetarium— a place of ancient knowledge. It belonged to former kings, used for consulting on arcana and astral matters.”

He pauses, the dancing light of the fireflies casting a gentle glow on his face, revealing a glimpse of the resolve etched into his features. “During my grandfather’s reign, a traitorous enchanter within the kingdom shattered that legacy. Stole the artefact and scattered its pieces across the continent. My goal is simple: find all the pieces, reassemble them, and restore what was lost.”

You listen intently, feeling the gravity of his words. “And how many pieces have you found so far?”

Bakugou’s expression tightens slightly, but there’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “I’ve got two of the six. The first one was hidden deep within a volcano, guarded by a fire-breathing serpent. The second was buried beneath the icy ruins of an ancient temple, frozen in time. Each piece has been a challenge, a trial that tested my strength, resolve and wit. And each victory has only made me realise how much further I still have to go.”

He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for the road ahead. “The remaining four are still out there, scattered in lands both known and unknown. It’s a daunting task, but one I’m determined to see through. For my ancestors. For my legacy.”

You absorb his words, the enormity of his quest sinking in. It’s clear this isn’t just a mission for him; it’s a personal journey, bound by family, honour, and a deep-seated drive to restore what was taken. There was something raw in the way he spoke, a fierce determination that you hadn’t fully understood until now. Every step he took, every battle fought, was connected to this deeper purpose. You could see it in his eyes: the frustration, the unspoken weight he carried, the sense that failure wasn’t an option for him.

“You’ve come a long way,” you say quietly, your own sense of purpose aligning with his. “And you’re closer to finding them than ever.”

Bakugou nods, a rare moment of vulnerability showing through his body language and softened expression. “Yeah, I guess so. But there’s still a long way to go. And it’s not getting any easier.”

“I refuse to take my throne without finding all the relics,” Bakugou declared, his voice firm and unwavering, each word burned with defiance. His eyes flared with a fierce sense of purpose, a fire that spoke of his relentless ambition and the heavy weight of his unfulfilled duty. There was no room for compromise in his stance; every muscle in his body was tense, coiled with the resolve of someone who would not bend until his quest was complete.

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence, the fireflies swirling around you as the night deepens. The shared understanding of the stakes and the personal history behind the quest lingers in the air, binding your journeys together in a way you hadn’t expected. The ruined pagoda, surrounded by the peaceful hum of the enchanted forest, becomes a haven of sorts: a place where the weight of the past and the promise of the future can be briefly shared and understood. You pull out your sketchbook, the soft rustle of pages mixing with the ambient sounds of the forest. With a hum, you start sketching the scene around you— the crumbling beauty of the pagoda, the ethereal glow of the fireflies. Your quill moves fluidly across the paper, capturing the serene landscape.

After a while, your focus shifted to Bakugou. You began sketching him as he leaned casually against the ruined structure, his posture relaxed for once. His scimitar caught the moonlight, gleaming as he methodically sharpened the blade with an almost meditative concentration, the rhythmic scraping a quiet counterpoint to the forest’s night sounds. Bakugou always sharpened his weapons during these nightly encounters. Tending to them with such care and responsibility.

Unbeknownst to you, Bakugou’s attention drifted from the shadowy woods to your sketching. He leaned in slightly, wondering what the cartographer next to him was up to. He catches sight of the drawing taking shape on your page.

“What are you doing?” he grunted, raising a brow at your sketch. Bakugou peered down at the page as your quill scratched against the page.

You glanced up, a low hum leaving your lips as you focused on the drawing. “Just capturing the scenery. And you.”

Bakugou’s expression quickly shifted to a sardonic grin. You could tell that he was going to start some banter. “Oh, yeah? Well, I think I look better in person.”

You chuckled, keeping your attention to the sketch. “This is pretty realistic, actually. Maybe you’re not as good-looking as you think.”

He gave a short, dry laugh as he mused at your answer. “Is that so? I’ve seen decent drawings before, but this one… not exactly doing me justice.”

You shrugged, your playful tone unwavering. “Maybe I’m just capturing your essence— you know, that rugged warrior vibe.”

He snorted, the smirk never leaving his face. “Essence, huh? Is that what you call it when you can’t draw a good likeness?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you added a few finishing touches. “I’d call it an improvement. But if you want a portrait that really captures your dashing good looks, you’ll have to sit still a bit longer.”

Bakugou huffed with a reluctant smile he tried to hide. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to pose like some pretty boy.”

Bakugou remains silent as he watches you work. The quiet between you, filled with the soft sounds of the night and the buzz of the fireflies. No comments or insults, he’s simply observing you drag the quill over the paper. You continue sketching, letting him watch as long as he wants. The fireflies continue their waltz, illuminating your work, and the serenity of the ruined pagoda envelops you both.

As you finish the sketch, you set the feathered pen down and look at Bakugou with a satisfied nod. “There. Not too shabby, huh?”

Bakugou leans in to examine the sketch, his eyes scanning the details. He grunts with the tiniest hint of approval in his voice. “Yeah, yeah. Not bad. For a cartographer who thinks they’re an artist.”

You let out an amused laugh, giving him a smile at his little jab. “Glad to know I’m meeting your high standards.”

Bakugou smirks, a rare, unguarded smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just don’t expect me to start posing for you every night.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve had my fill of you.” You give him a short retort.

With that, he stands, brushing off the dust from his pants and stretching out. “Let’s head back. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

You tuck your sketchbook away and follow Bakugou as he strides back toward the camp, the cool night air brushing against your skin. The forest is calm, with its usual noises providing a soothing backdrop as you navigate the underbrush. As you near the camp, the flickering firelight becomes visible through the trees, like a lighthouse bringing weary sailors home. The others are already settled in, their slow, steady breathing a quiet reminder of the day’s exhaustion. You find your spot near the fire and slip into your sleeping bag with a tired sigh, the warmth of the flames chasing away the lingering chill.

Bakugou settles down close by, his silhouette outlined by the dancing firelight. He gives you a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment, before lying back against the ground. His usual brusqueness seems softened, worn down by the day’s trials and the conversation that unfolded parts of vulnerability from both sides.

“Get some sleep,” he says, trying to maintain the roughness in his inflection. Though he attempts to sound firm, a quiet gentleness slips through. “We’ve got work to do tomorrow.”

You nod, pulling your blanket up and closing your eyes. The gentle crackling of the fire and the rhythmic sounds of the forest lull you toward sleep. Bakugou’s presence, though not overtly comforting, adds a sense of security to the night. As you lie in your own spot, your mind is still buzzing from the unexpected connection with Bakugou. The night wraps around you as you settle into your bedroll, the fire’s warmth fading as you drift into a well-deserved rest. As you drift off, the echoes of your conversation and the warmth of the campfire provide a brief respite from the challenges that lie ahead.

The forest continues its quiet watch, the promise of tomorrow hanging in the air as you and Bakugou, along with the rest of the group, prepare for the challenges that lie ahead.

Back at the tavern, the bard and Bakugou are still by that table near the hearth, the crackling fire adding to the comfortable ambiance. The tavern’s hum of conversation and clinking mugs creates a backdrop of casual revelry, somehow making it easier for the hardened dragonborn to tell his tale. The bard, with a sly grin, opens his mouth to interrupt Bakugou with a curious question.

“So,” the bard begins, his tone light, being cautious of the barbarian’s temperament. “Do you ever think back to that night at the ruined pagoda? You know, when you and the cartographer were having that... tête-à-tête?”

Bakugou’s eyelids lowered subtly, his gaze focused on the flames as if searching for an answer in their swirling glow. He takes a slow sip from his mug, the firelight reflecting off its surface. “Why do you ask? You got some kind of angle here, or are you just nosy?”

The bard chuckled, shaking his head and holding up his hands in mock surrender. “No angle. Just curious. It seemed like that night... you both opened up a little more. I don’t know, it felt different from how you told it.”

Bakugou huffed, setting his mug down with a solid thunk that reverberated through the tavern. The fire cracked in the silence that followed, as though filling the space his words had yet to occupy. He glances at the bard with a stern expression for a moment before he looks back at the fire. “I think it was that night I realised she’s... different from what I initially assumed.”

The bard leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “Different, how?”

Bakugou’s voice lowered, taking on a contemplative mood. “I mentioned this before but I thought she’d be just another talker, someone to tell us which way to go and stay out of the real work. She’s proven herself... despite how stubborn she is, she does keep up with us. Knows what she’s doing in these cursed woods better than most of us would’ve figured out. But when she talked, there seemed to be more going on behind her words. Like she was hiding something, or maybe just... not ready to show it yet.”

The bard nodded thoughtfully, letting the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again. “You thought she was hiding something about the journey? Or something about herself?”

Bakugou frowned slightly, nose scrunched as he thought back to the past. Sitting back in that pagoda with you. Remembering back to his thoughts regarding you at the point in the journey. “I don’t know. At that point in time, probably both. She had this way of acting like she’s got it all together, like she’s already figured everything out. But when you’re around her long enough, you can see that there’s something else she’s not letting on.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s smart. Smarter than she lets on. But there was a distance. Like she was holding herself back from us, from... I don’t know, from fully trusting this group. Hell, I thought maybe that’s just how she is, keeping everyone at arm’s length.”

The bard strummed his lute idly, a quiet, thoughtful sound filling the space between them. “Sounds like you’ve got more respect for her than you’re letting on, too.”

Bakugou grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Respect’s not something I just hand out. It’s more than that, though. She’s a pain, sure, but she’s earned it at that point of the journey.”

The bard leaned back, tapping his lute lightly. “Did you never push her for details back then? Seemed like there was some unspoken stuff between you two.”

Bakugou shot him a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “I talked enough. And besides, she does eventually reveal more of herself… it just took time.”

The bard chuckled again, but there was something softer in his tone. “Maybe. But back then weren’t you cautious? I figured you’d press her for more details.”

Bakugou was quiet for a moment, the only sound between them the crackle of the fire. His fingers drummed lightly against the mug in his hand, his thoughts clearly weighing on him. “She had her reasons. We all do. I wasn’t there to pry into her life.” He pauses and continues, “Besides, she’s just part of the team. She just needed to get the job done.”

The bard tilted his head, raising an eyebrow at Bakugou’s attempt to dismiss it all. “Just part of the team, huh? Doesn’t sound like that’s the whole story.”

Bakugou’s grip on the mug tightened slightly, but he didn’t respond immediately. The bard waited, sensing there was more, but careful not to push too hard. After a long silence, Bakugou exhaled sharply. The barbarian grunts, not entirely disagreeing but unwilling to admit it. “Yeah, well, just… just shut up and listen okay? My patience is thin enough.”

“Alright, so what happened next?”

What happened next was a tale no one could have predicted. During one of your treks through the dense forest, the first sign of trouble came without warning: a trap so cleverly concealed that none of you had a chance to react. Not even you. The ground beneath your feet gave way in an instant, collapsing into a gaping void that swallowed the entire team in a heart-stopping plunge. As the earth groaned and split, panic erupted. Dirt and roots clawed at the air as you were pulled into the darkness, the ground crumbling beneath you like brittle paper.

Sero’s voice cut through the chaos, a sharp, panicked cry. “We’re falling! We’re falling!”

Kirishima’s attempts to keep calm came out ragged and strained, his voice barely audible over the rush of wind and debris. “Hold on to something! We need to—”

But there was no time. The earth gave way completely, and you were all swallowed by the chasm, the ground vanishing beneath your feet in a dizzying cascade of dust and stone. The fall felt endless, the cold rush of air whipping past as their screams echoed in the cavernous space. Everything blurred— screams, the clatter of rocks, the rush of wind— and then, slam. With a brutal, bone-jarring thump, you landed in a sprawling underground cave system. Dust billowed around you, the remnants of your descent settling like a suffocating shroud.

The silence that followed was thick with shock, only broken by the muffled groans and disoriented murmurs of your fellow companion as they slowly pieced together what had happened. From the voices alone, you could tell there was only one other person with you. Shit. Were you all really separated? Pain and confusion hung in the air, mingling with the dust.

You and Bakugou had landed together, thrown into a darker corner of the cavern. The impact rattled through your bones, leaving you gasping for breath, but the injuries were thankfully manageable. Nothing your healing hands couldn’t fix. Wincing, you pushed yourself up, taking in your surroundings with a wary eye. The stone walls loomed around you, jagged and ancient, illuminated only by faint clusters of bioluminescent fungi that cast an eerie, ghostly glow. The air was damp and cold, the silence almost suffocating, and for a moment, all you could do was catch your breath and take in the unsettling beauty of the cavern that had become your prison.

Bakugou rubbed his shoulder, wincing slightly as he glared at the uneven ground beneath his feet. “Well, this is just perfect. Exactly what we needed,” he muttered, his words drenched with sarcasm.

You shook your head, brushing the dirt and debris from your clothes. “Yeah, falling into a cave system wasn’t exactly on my to-do list. We need to find the others.”

“Karshoj, I thought you were an expert on these shitty woods!” Bakugou cursed, his voice smouldering with frustration as he kicked a nearby rock, sending it skittering across the ground. His fiery eyes locked onto you, anger practically radiating from him.

You grimaced, feeling the weight of his anger, but kept your cool. “I am an expert, Bakugou. But these traps are buried deep with ancient magic, and the Veil’s always shifting.”

He gives you a harsh scowl. Clearly peeved at the situation that they’re all in. “Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be the one catching this crap before it happens. Now look at us— stuck in this shitshow because you missed it.”

You clenched your fists, trying not to let his words sting too much. A part of you felt guilty, but you understood how treacherous these woods could be. From the start, you knew navigating the Veil was never going to be smooth sailing. “I didn’t miss it on purpose, okay? These traps are layered with old magic, designed to mess with your senses. I can’t catch everything before it happens.”

Bakugou snorted at you, glaring. What a weak excuse coming from you. “Yeah, well, tell that to the pit we just fell into. We’re waist-deep in this crap now, and I’d rather not spend the night here.”

You threw him a sharp look, your frustration meshed with guilt simmering under your skin. “You think I’m happy about this? I’m doing the best I can, Bakugou. These traps are ancient— I’m not a miracle worker.”

He huffed, running a hand through his hair, clearly agitated but not entirely unreasonable. In all fairness, this was the first mistake you’ve really made throughout this trip. He’s still pissed at the predicament they are in but knows that nothing good will come out from continuing to argue with you. “Fine. I get it, but we can’t afford to screw up like this again.”

You sighed, your shoulders sagging slightly. “I know. I’m trying, alright? But this place is meant to catch us off guard. We’ll get out of this, we just need to stay sharp.”

Bakugou’s glare eased into a glance, his eyes sharp and calculating. In his mind, already trying to analyse the cave and figure a way out. “Any idea where we are? Don’t suppose you mapped this out too?”

You gave him a wry smile, adjusting your pack. “Didn’t quite anticipate falling into a sinkhole today. But I can try to get us oriented.”

He nodded, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable. “I’ll check this side. You take the other. Yell if you find anything or hear the others.”

You met his gaze, steady and determined. “Got it. And try not to get yourself killed, alright? I’d rather not have to drag your ass out of here.”

Bakugou couldn’t help but grin at your words, his usual bravado creeping back. “I’ll be fine. You just worry about not falling into any more traps, genius.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle despite the grim situation. “Besides this one occasion, I’ve got a pretty good track record for avoiding those, unlike someone.”

He rolled his eyes but the faint hint of a smile lingered. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see if you can keep it up. Stay sharp.”

With that, you both turned and headed in opposite directions, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls as you began your search. The cavern was cool and damp, the musty scent of earth hanging heavy in the air, and every few moments the quiet was broken by the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance. Determined to find the others and escape this underground maze, you pressed on, guided only by the dim, ghostly glow of bioluminescent fungi that clung to the jagged walls.

But the deeper you ventured, the more disorienting the twisting passages became. Hours seemed to slip away as you combed through dead ends and winding corridors, your hope of reuniting with your team slowly fading. After what felt like an eternity of fruitless searching, you stumbled back into Bakugou, his expression as frustrated as your own.

He let out a deep, exasperated sigh. “Figures. This place is a damn maze.”

You let out a groan, feeling hopeless from the lack of result. This was going terribly. And to think they were getting closer to the heart of Niniel’s Veil. “Splitting up didn’t work. We’re better off sticking together. No sense in getting lost twice.”

Bakugou grunted his agreement. “Yeah, and maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll find some sign of the others. Or at least a way out of this hellhole.”

Side by side, you resumed your search, moving cautiously through the narrow tunnels. The darkness pressed in from all sides, suffocating and heavy, but you pushed forward, driven by the need to find your friends and escape this unexpected trap. The only sounds were your footsteps and the distant drip of water echoing through the cave. Every so often, you called out, your voices carrying through the cavern, hoping desperately that your scattered comrades would hear you and respond.

Despite the oppressive weight of the underground, you both moved with purpose, unwilling to let the labyrinthine passages of the cavern break your resolve. The sense of urgency drives you both forward, each of you focused on finding the others and ensuring everyone’s safety.

“I hope they aren’t hurt,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes scanning the dark cave walls, searching desperately for any sign of your missing companions.

Bakugou walked beside you, his footsteps echoing off the stone. He glanced your way, his facial features hardened. “They’ll be fine,” he said, his voice gruff yet reassuring. Hidden in his words, you could hear a whisper of worry. “They’re tougher than they look. Besides, we’ve been through worse.”

You wanted to trust those words, to let them ease your mind, but the worry gnawed at you. You were all in uncharted territory, a network of unmarked caves with no sense of direction or certainty. The unknown weighed heavily on you, and despite your best efforts, concern for the others crept back in. You had no idea what had become of them, and that thought alone was enough to keep your worry alive.

After what felt like endless hours of navigating through the caves, you paused to catch your breath, leaning against the cold, craggy wall. “You think we’re getting any closer to finding them?” you asked, your voice bewildered, tinged with both exhaustion and a slight teaspoon of hope.

Bakugou was silent for a moment, his usual bravado dimmed by the weight of the situation. There was contemplation on his face as he stared down the darkened tunnel ahead. “We’d better be. I’m not exactly thrilled about spending the night in this damn cave.”

You exchanged a determined look. Neither of you were going to give up. There was no room for doubt now. You both had to find everyone and get out, no matter what. Only the shared resolve that kept you both pushing forward through the exhaustion. With a nod, you continued the search, every step guided by the unspoken agreement that you wouldn’t stop until you were reunited with the rest of the team and until you found a way out of this cursed shithole of the cave system.

Despite your best efforts, every twist and turn in the labyrinthine cave only led to more darkness and mounting frustration. Hours of searching yielded no sign of your comrades, and with each misstep, the walls seemed to close in a little tighter. The cold began to seep into your bones, clawing at your resolve, while exhaustion made each step feel heavier than the last. Weary and defeated, you and Bakugou were finally forced to accept the inevitable: rest was unavoidable, whether you liked it or not. Will power could only do so much.

You found a small alcove where the ground was slightly less jagged, and the two of you settled down, backs against the frigid stony walls. The cold… the cold was a relentless adversary of its own. It seeped through every layer of clothing, gnawing at your skin and making it impossible to get comfortable. You started to shiver, your body trembling uncontrollably as the chill took hold, sinking deeper with every passing minute.

You glanced at Bakugou. For all his toughness, even he couldn’t mask the toll the chill was taking. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, this time to retain warmth. His breath misted in the icy air, and his usual straight face is decorated with discomfort.

You glanced around the cave, your eyes scanning the dim, shadowed corners for any sign of dry wood or leaves. But there was nothing—no fallen branches, no kindling, nothing remotely useful to start a fire. The biting air clung to your skin, chilling you to the bone. Frustration gnawed at you as you cursed under your breath, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to make a fire with nothing but cold, damp stone surrounding you.

“How the hell are we supposed to start a fire in this place?” you muttered, your breath forming a cloud in front of you as it hit the frigid air.

Bakugou sat across from you, his jaw clenched as he tried to brave the cold in his own stubborn way. He hadn’t said much since you’d taken shelter in the cavity of the caves, his usual sharp tongue silenced by the freezing temperatures. You peeked over at him, watching as he shifted uncomfortably, clearly just as irritated by the situation as you were.

“Tch,” Bakugou grumbled, cursing the damned gods and forest that put him in this situation. “This cave’s like the arctic tundras.”

You nodded, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself in a feeble attempt to ward off the freezing temperature. “There’s nothing dry here to burn. We might be stuck like this all night.”

Bakugou scowled, his hands tightening into fists. His head snapped harshly to you. “You saying we’re just gonna sit here and freeze?”

“Well, unless you’ve got some firewood stashed somewhere, I don’t see many options,” you replied, teeth chattering as you rubbed your hands together for warmth.

Bakugou shot you a glare, clearly not thrilled with the situation. He looked down at the ground as he let out a couple of curses. “We need heat.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, shivering as a gust of wind howled outside the cave, sending a draft through the small entrance. There’s a pause before a sudden idea hits you. But you don’t exactly like it.

“You know,” you ventured, voice strained. Were you really going to suggest this? And to Bakugou out of everyone? Yes, you were. “We could get closer for warmth. It’d help us get through the night without turning into ice.”

Bakugou turned to you, incredulity painted all over his face. Did he hear that correctly or did he need to get his ears checked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You shrugged, trying to keep your composure as another shiver wracked your frame. “I’m just saying— it’s freezing, and we’re stuck down here. It’s a practical solution.”

He glared at you, his stubbornness flaring like a dying ember. “Hah? I’m not cuddling with you, dumbass. I’ll manage on my own.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated at his word choice. You were not cuddling with this bone head. At most, you just wanted to sit next to him. But of course he jumps into the furthest thing and worsens the visual. “Do you have to call it cuddling? I just suggested we sit next to each other.” You let out a sigh as the cool air nipped at your skin, “It’s not like I’m thrilled about it either. But unless you’ve got a secret stash of blankets or firewood somewhere, we’re going to freeze.”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened, his pride flaring up like a flame refusing to be snuffed out. What you would give to have a stubborn flame instead of his pride right now. “Tch, I’ve dealt with worse. I’m not that desperate,” he grumbled, though his breath came out in visible puffs of mist, betraying just how much the cold was getting to him.

You rolled your eyes, hugging your knees closer to your chest in a futile attempt to conserve warmth.“Suit yourself. But if we freeze overnight, don’t say I didn’t offer.” You settled back against the wall, doing your best to ignore the biting cold. The silence stretched on, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing through the cave.

Bakugou grumbled something under his breath, too low to catch but clearly full of his usual disdain. Yet, as the cold tightened its grip, you saw the moment his resolve faltered. And before you knew it, Bakugou suddenly stood, his eyes narrowing with disbelief that he was actually considering this.

“Move over,” he barked, stepping toward the spot where you sat huddled on the cold stone floor.

You blinked, confused but too cold to argue as you scooted over. “What are you—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Bakugou crouched down beside you, his palms outstretched. With a grudging sigh, he scooted closer, just enough to share a fraction of his warmth without acknowledging it outright. A faint glow began to gather around his hands, and a moment later, a small flame sparked to life, hovering just above his palms. The warmth was immediate, the heat radiating outward and cutting through the chill in the air.

Your eyes widened in surprise. You hadn’t even thought about using Fireball for temporary heat. It wasn’t exactly a practical solution in most cases. After all, the spell would only last as long as the caster was awake and actively controlling it, meaning it couldn’t be sustained through the night. But right now, it would be enough. The warmth radiating from Bakugou’s hands was a welcome reprieve from the bitter cold that had seeped into your bones.

For now, it was better than nothing.

You glanced over at him, watching the way his fire flickered and danced in his palms, the light casting warm shadows across the cave walls. The heat was steady, intense enough to keep the cold at bay, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax, soaking in the warmth. The sight of the fire reminded you back when you taught him simple cantrips. When he revealed that he had a grasp on certain fire magic and threatened to throw a fireball— just like the one in his hand— at you. You both have definitely grown from when you first met. You didn’t mention it, but being close to Bakugou also provided some kind of warmth— though you weren’t sure if that was the fire or just the fact that you’re proud to have bridged an understanding with him. Something you thought couldn’t be accomplished from the moment you met him. It’s rough but you both have gotten far.

It was a strange kind of comfort. Bakugou wasn’t known for being soft or particularly comforting, but in moments like these and those nightly encounters, when his actions spoke louder than his sharp words, you could see a side of him that wasn’t just explosive anger or constant irritation.

You sat there, feeling the heat from the fire and from Bakugou’s body radiating beside you. The air was still cold, the cave draughty and dark, but the warmth between the two of you was enough to make it bearable. Even if he didn’t say anything, he wasn’t going to let the cold get to either of you tonight.

“If you tell anyone about this…” he growled, leaving the threat hanging.

You smiled softly, knowing you’d won this small battle. “Not a word,” you promised.

“Whatever,” he muttered, eyes fixed firmly ahead as if looking at you would make it worse. “But if you so much as breathe weird, I’m tossing you out.”

You give a nod to his words, hiding an amused smile. “Noted. Just try not to hog all the heat.”

Reluctantly, Bakugou inched closer, his body warmth a stark contrast to the glacial stone behind you. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than freezing. The two of you settled in, the proximity awkward at first, but slowly becoming more natural as exhaustion overpowered any discomfort.

“You better not fall asleep,” Bakugou mumbled, the intensity in his voice dulled this time from fatigue. “If you do, I’m not holding this all night.”

You smirked, glancing sideways at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on it. But I’ve gotta admit, this is... a pretty good idea.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered, eyes focused on the fire. “I don’t just blow things up. I know how to control it.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you teased lightly, feeling bold despite the situation.

Bakugou shot you a glare, but there was something almost playful in his eyes. He didn’t mind your jokes but he wouldn't let you know that. “I can extinguish this flame you know.”

You laughed warily, feeling the steady warmth from both the fire and Bakugou beside you. The bitter cold that had seemed so overwhelming earlier now felt distant, like a challenge you had already beaten. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The fire flickered softly, and the cold, while still present, no longer felt so suffocating.

“Well,” you said quietly, “at least if the fire goes out, I won’t freeze right away. Sitting next to you is like being next to a furnace.”

Bakugou huffed, though you caught the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “Just stay awake, idiot.”

The two of you eventually shifted closer, until your shoulders brushed against each other. It wasn’t much, but it was enough— a small concession neither of you would openly acknowledge. Neither of you was willing to close the distance any further, but the slight warmth from that small point of contact was more than enough. It was just enough to take the edge off the cold, and for now, that was all either of you needed.

The awkwardness between you eased as the shared warmth did its work, taking the edge off the biting cold. It still wasn’t comfortable, and it certainly wasn’t something either of you would talk about later. God forbid you bring this up later. But in the quiet of the cave, with the dark pressing in from all sides, the moment felt… strangely fine.

The crackling of Bakugou’s controlled flame filled the air as the two of you remained side by side. Sleep tugged at the edges of your mind, but you both stubbornly resisted. Neither of you wanted to be the first to let go of the moment, the quiet strength shared between you. Despite your shared resolve to stay alert, the weight of fatigue pulled at you, making it harder to keep your eyes open. Eventually, exhaustion began to win out.

“Just until morning,” Bakugou muttered, silently agreeing that you both ought to get some shut eye. The flame started to stutter as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Just until morning,” you echoed, thankful that you both reached the conclusion to get some sleep. You closed your eyes as you finally allowed sleep to take you.

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a/n: honestly a part of me was tempted to make him throw the fireball at the reader for fun. @chocogoldie @devils-adversary @l0kisbitch @miikii0 @onlyisaa @sleepisfortheweakpooh @helena-way07 @enzstr

border credits: @/enchanthings & @/adornedwithlight

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dragonstoners · 11 months ago

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𝖆𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖓 𝖆 𝖓𝖔𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓 | 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘

18+ | Minors DO NOT INTERACT | Ageless blogs will be blocked

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: aemond targaryen x reader

𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌: canon-typical misogyny, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, toxic relationships

𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: f!reader, noble!reader, obsessive!aemond, toxic!aemond

⁃ it starts off strange, naturally. aemond’s way of showing interest is like a game of cyvasse, where you don’t know you’re playing until you’re losing.

⁃ he begins by throwing words like daggers, seeing which ones will stick, as well as which ones will miss. “courtesy is often the cloak of deceit,” he says one day as you pass by, eyes sharp, challenging you to disagree. you’re left pondering his intentions, unsure if this is disdain or a warning. you're not even sure he knows your name, but he's got his eye on you, that much is clear.

⁃ all of his tests are subtle at first, almost imperceptible… at least to everyone else. during a meeting including your house, he undercuts your suggestions with a smirk, “is that the best wisdom we can muster?” making you doubt your voice, your place. yet, when others join in the critique, his dissent stops, a silent barrier against the tide.

⁃ he starts to frequent areas of the red keep you're known to visit, under the guise of random meanderings or pressing royal duties. his presence is always pronounced, a storm cloud in a serene sky, yet he never directly acknowledges you unless absolutely necessary. when he does speak to you, his words are a mix of backhanded compliments and critiques designed to unsettle, to pull your attention and push you away all at once.

⁃ he tests the waters with questions that cut close to bone, speaking in riddles of his kin and house, gauging your reaction below a veneer of idle curiosity. "and what do you say of the whispers about my brother?" he asks, his gaze sharp, searching, every one of your words and expressions a stone in the foundation of this game he’s you’re both playing.

⁃ he’s watching, always, from the corners of rooms, from across courtyards, his gaze a heavy thing. you start to feel it, the weight of his attention, in every place you go. “you seem to find yourself in my path quite often,” he remarks, a statement that makes it seem less like coincidence and more like an invisible thread pulling you into his orbit.

⁃ at a court event, a bard mishandles a tale of your house’s valour, rendering it comically rather than heroic. while others laugh, aemond's eyes find yours across the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. later, you hear the bard has been given a generous sum to leave king's landing — and the realization that aemond might have been defending your honour, in his own convoluted way, leaves you bewildered.

⁃ only next, he's once again all about putting you in the spotlight for the wrong reasons. during a dinner, he casually asks if you truly believe in the tales of old valyria, making your opinion sound naive in front of everyone. it's like he enjoys seeing you squirm, but when you catch his gaze, there’s something else there, maybe respect?

⁃ after a particularly sharp exchange, you wander the quieter halls of the red keep, mulling over aemond’s pointed remarks. “is loyalty not our greatest virtue?” had left his lips with a smirk. his words had a sting, intended for you in a room full of eyes and whispers. it wasn’t just the comment but the public questioning of your loyalty that left a bitter taste. it’s the solitude afterwards that weighs heavily, making you question where the line between loyalty and a noose truly lies.

⁃ then, when you're about ready to write him off as a typical targaryen prince, toying with you for amusement and not much different from his elder brother, small things begin to happen. a finely-made bone comb appears amongst your things, no note, nothing to indicate it’s origins. it's truly beautiful, haunting almost. none of your household maids know where it has come from. you do not think about it again, until your maid casually notes the comb is in fact made of dragon-bone whilst she brushes out your hair one evening, and your heart drops.

⁃ when news reaches you of a lord questioning your place at court behind your back, nothing comes of it. no confrontation, no public defence. however, the lord's aspirations wither as if touched by frost; his allies turn away, his influence ebbs, and he is left to the cold mercy of court politics. you never explicitly see aemond act, but the timing is enough for you to know he is responsible.

⁃ the cloak follows, materialising on a chilly evening, draped over your chair, with no explanation. the craftsmanship is impeccable, finer than anything you’ve ever owned. it’s the colours that give him away – shimmering greenish blue with bronze detailing adorning the hood, unmistakably the colours of vhagar, etched into your memory from watching in wonder as aemond took her to the skies above the keep. when he sees you wrapped in the cloak, his smirk is a tell. "gevie," he mumbles, almost begrudgingly, before he’s speaking with a nearby lord as if you do not exist. (later, you discover he had said beautiful in high valyrian, after hours upon hours of scouring language books in the library.)

⁃ when you confront him about it later, his only response is a cryptic, “it suits you,” his eye glinting with something like satisfaction. the ambiguity of the comb was one thing, but the cloak is a statement. he sees it, you wearing it, as an unspoken acceptance of his claim, a mark of his territory, even if only known to him, and now you.

⁃ but even with the dragon-bone comb brushing along your scalp and the cloak wrapping you in its warmth, aemond’s tests don’t cease. they become more direct, more challenging. he questions your judgments, pushes you to defend your beliefs, each instance a gauntlet thrown at your feet. “prove me wrong,” he dares, and every time you rise to the challenge, it feels like a victory and a defeat, all at once.

⁃ his kinder actions aside, he's still a storm, a dragon at heart, unpredictable and restless. one moment, he's pushing you away with a cutting remark about how easily charmed you are by shiny things, the next, he's singling out anyone who dares speak lowly of you, though he'd never admit it's defence.

⁃ at a small gathering in the courtyard, a long-standing court noble sidles up to you, their voice low and laced with mock concern. “he’s got his eye on you, hasn’t he?” the words linger, unsettling in their ambiguity and specificity. you pause, the realization that your identity is becoming entwined with aemond’s reputation unsettling you. aemond has never hinted at any interest directly, nor publicly, yet his actions speak volumes, and, you realise in that moment, it’s not solely obvious to you anymore. soon after the incident, you find out that same noble has suddenly, unexpectedly, and without formal reason, returned to the seat of their house.

⁃ his idea of openly flirting with you? challenging you to a horse race when he falls into stride with you during a royal hunting trip in the kingswood, under the guise of proving your recklessness. "i believed you too fragile, my lady," he teases, goading you into proving him wrong once again. his singular attention on you, which is no longer lost on the court, is both infuriating and exciting.

⁃ challenging aemond becomes an unexpected thrill, not only during a ride but over a map of disputed borders laid out in the council chamber. “might there be room for diplomacy?” you suggest, the words hanging boldly between you. his look is sharp, a mix of annoyance and something vaguely resembling admiration. it’s a small victory, asserting your voice amidst the power plays of court.

⁃ at a feast, when you catch him observing from across the room, there’s a moment where the world narrows to just the two of you. later, as he escorts you to the far-side of the keep to your quarters (with his kingsguard and your maid as chaperones) he openly negs you about your taste in music, literature, the arts, but always in a way that demands a response, a defense. it’s exhausting, exhilarating, maddening.

⁃ the tension between public perception and private truths comes to a head when a rumor reaches you about aemond defending your honour in your absence, against a council member nonetheless, stirring a complex mix of emotions. confronting him leads to a terse exchange, “i can defend myself” you start, watching his reaction closely. his reply is noncommittal, a shrug that does little to clarify his intentions, leaving you to question the nature of his interest. it’s this dance of half-truths and veiled motivations that keeps you wary, even as court intrigue pulls you deeper.

⁃ but within weeks, at a ball, his behaviour is so uncharacteristic of his typical self-seriousness that it has prince aegon downright gleeful in his amusement, and queen alicent looks as if she’s seen a ghost. aemond is seen drinking, whispering with others, occasionally even laughing. however, his eye never strays far from you, always positioning himself where he could get to you if he so pleased. he dances and flirts with a handful of ladies other than you, but each step seems a performance, deliberate and pointed. later, he privately comments on how predictable such events are, subtly relishing in your sulky expression and stiff responses.

⁃ jealousy becomes a tool after that, a sharpened blade wielded with precision, but only ever at you. he’s seen in the company of the most eligible ladies of the court, only to cast them aside with a cold indifference as you approach. "mere court games," he scoffs when you question it, but the message is clear, and the music, testing the lengths of your interest.

⁃ if your gaze lingers on another, noble or common-born, their fortune subtly wanes and they suddenly seem… less. aemond doesn't openly compete; still, pieces move, fall and retreat in a carefully woven net of doubts and second guesses, a whisper here, a look there, enough to make rivals for your affection run for cover without a word spoken against them.

⁃ more gifts arrive, still with no indication of their sender, but layered with meaning; a book on war strategy with passages underlined and notes in the margin, a brooch echoing both the targaryen and hightower sigil, as well as a sapphire necklace that you do not understand the connection of, yet – each gift a tangible tether to him. aemond does not react when he sees you with his gifts, except for looking vaguely pleased with himself, which is hardly out of the ordinary. however, his grandsire otto does a double-take as you pass him in the hall whilst wearing the sapphire one, and soon after queen alicent is personally inviting you to ladies luncheons and visits to the sept with her pious entourage, rarely accepting your attempts to decline.

⁃ suddenly, your opinions, your insights become valuable to aemond. "what would you do?" he asks at point blank, unexpectedly. he is not simply testing your loyalty or competence anymore, but also making you a co-conspirator in his plans, a shared counsel that blurs the line between advisor and confidante, drawing you deeper into his web.

⁃ there are also more guards being stationed in the spaces you regularly inhabit, silent sentinels who only seem to materialise with your presence. a guard, often enough a kingsguard, is seemingly always readily available to escort you to wherever you wish to go, whenever you wish to go. that in itself is a privilege few ladies are afforded, if not a confirmation that this newfound surveillance protection is aemond’s doing.

⁃ even if you pretend not to, you don’t miss the way select servants follow you from one of your duties to the next under the pretence of cleaning spotless floors. more concerning are the shadows and faint footsteps that you notice on occasion. a silent assertion of his presence in your life, protective yet possessive. it’s there in the corridors you walk, the gardens you frequent, a reminder of his reach, his interest, a silent witness to your virtue and a deterrent to your vices.

⁃ the isolation comes gradually. “they do not see you, not truly,” aemond whispers during a stolen moment, his surprisingly warm fingers grazing your cheek. these days, he casts doubt on the intentions of those around you, proudly and indiscriminately. it’s a not-so subtle tug away from the crowd, toward him, towards his house, towards the brewing civil war, and the frightening thing is, it works. he had spun a web, complex and suffocating, around you deftly, and you had not seen the delicate strands until it was too late; you find yourself seeking his company, his approval, even as you bristle at his methods.

⁃ so when he corners you under the cover of moonlight, asking, “what is it you want?” it feels like the culmination of a long, intricate dance. it’s a challenge, a confession, a turning point. his question isn’t just about desire; it’s about allegiance, about choosing sides in a game you never agreed to play. the gifts, the challenges, the protection, the whispers, the barbed words — all of it binds you to him in a way that’s impossible to ignore. and you realise, with a mix of dread and fascination, that you’re too entangled to simply walk away.

𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖘 © do not copy, repost or translate my works without my permission

thank you for reading – feedback and requests are welcome x

→ 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖆 𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 🕊️

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x f!reader #aemond targaryen x noble!reader

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thedemonofcat · 9 months ago

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I am interested in a comprehensive list of all the different names Jaskier is given in various translations. It would be fascinating to explore the meanings behind each name and any symbolism they might carry. I plan to group together languages that use the same name for him.

Jaskier: His name resonates universally, transcending languages and cultures. In Polish, French, Portuguese, Romanian, Bulgarian, Russian, and Spanish, Jaskier translates to Buttercup. These small yellow flowers symbolize joy and happiness, evoking images of carefree days and childlike wonder. They also represent youth and innocence, which aligns with theories about Jaskier's non-human origins. Another significant symbolism of buttercups is their friendship connection, fitting perfectly with Jaskier's close bond with Geralt. Historically, buttercups were used in folk medicine, symbolizing healing and protection, despite their toxicity and the need for careful handling.

Dandelion: Known from the English, Hungarian, Italian, Japanese, Belarusian, and Turkish translations. Perhaps the most familiar name, Dandelion, typically appears in two forms: small white, fluffy flowers that can be blown away by the wind and bright yellow blooms. Dandelions symbolize resilience, thriving in challenging conditions and growing almost anywhere, symbolizing perseverance, strength, and the ability to overcome obstacles. Historically used in medicine, dandelions are associated with healing and survival. They also symbolize a connection to nature and freedom, perfectly reflecting the bard’s character. Some Native American tribes view the dandelion as a sun symbol, representing warmth, growth, and the sustaining force of life. This connection to nature and resilience mirrors Jaskier’s character, who, despite facing many challenges, remains resilient and deeply connected to the natural world.

Marigold: Used in Czech and Serbian translations, this name is perhaps the most unusual since there is already a character named Marigold in the series. Nonetheless, marigolds symbolize brightness and positivity. With their vibrant yellow and orange hues, marigolds represent warmth, cheerfulness, and the light of life. This fits well with a bard’s role, as marigolds also symbolize creativity. In Mexican culture, marigolds are central to Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrations, symbolizing the connection between the living and the dead. In Indian culture, marigolds are used in religious rituals and weddings, symbolizing love, devotion, and the divine. They are often offered to gods and goddesses as a sign of reverence and respect.

Ranonkel: From Dutch, though translated to Ranunculus, which are buttercups. I'd like to discuss the story from Greek mythology that relates to Ranunculus, as it aligns with Jaskier's character. Ranunculus was a handsome and talented young man known for his beautiful singing voice, captivating everyone who heard him. However, he was also vain and self-centred, revelling in the admiration he received. One day, while performing in a meadow, Ranunculus encountered a group of wood nymphs (dryads). Enchanted by his voice and appearance, the nymphs stopped to listen. Despite their admiration, Ranunculus ignored them, focusing solely on his performance and delighting in his own voice. Pan, the god associated with rustic wilderness and nymphs, observed Ranunculus's vanity. To teach him a lesson, Pan intervened. He transformed Ranunculus into a delicate, beautiful flower that would forever bloom in meadows and fields—the Ranunculus flower. This mythological tale is an intriguing parallel to Jaskier's character and could potentially inspire a fanfiction story in the future.

Valvatti from Finnish. Valvatti, which, from what I can tell, translates to Sow Thistle, can symbolize resilience but can also symbolize unseen beauty. Despite being considered a weed, sow thistle produces small, yellow flowers that symbolize hidden beauty or overlooked potential. This can remind you to look beyond outward appearances and appreciate hidden qualities.

Rittersporn German. Otherwise known as Larkspurs, they can symbolize openness and lightness with their vibrant colours. They can also be used as symbols for thickness and are connected to strong bonds of love. Some cultures believe that larkspurs offer protection against negative energies or bad luck. Placing them in a garden or a bouquet is thought to bring positivity and ward off evil spirits.

Vėdrynas is From Lithuanian. Breaking from the flowers, Vedryans translates to Lark, which can be seen as the bringers of dawn and the start of a new day. Larks are symbols of songs and music, which goes great with a Bard. Larks are agile birds that soar high in the sky, symbolizing freedom, independence, and the ability to rise above challenges or limitations.

Blyskáč is from Czech. It translates to "sparkler" or "firecracker" in English. Once again, breaking from the typical flower names, blyskac can symbolize celebration. The firecrackers' brightness and sparkle evoke joy, optimism, and positivity. They are often associated with bringing good luck and warding off evil spirits in various cultural traditions. Firecrackers and sparklers burn brightly but quickly fade away. They symbolize the fleeting nature of moments and encourage living in the present and appreciating life's transient beauty.

These are all the names I could find. If I missed any or made any translation errors, please feel free to let me know.

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #joey batey #geralt of rivia #jaskier the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fic ideas #jaskier #gerskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #freya allan #headcanon #yennefer of vengerberg #the witcher season 3 #the witcher season three #anya chalotra

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colormepurplex2 · 1 month ago

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The Sirens' Song | Into The Deep

↳ Namjoon x Jimin x f.Reader ⤜ Strangers to Lovers, Merfolk/Sirens, Myth/Legend, Fantasy AU ⤜ Rating: MA🔞 ⤜ WC: 7,688 ⚠️Melancholy thoughts, crass language, shipwreck, mild fear, mentions of death, grief

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to story masterlist

In the moon’s glow, where darkness plays, The ocean breathes in rhythmic ways. Against obsidian rocks that are jagged and proud, The tempest whispers secrets, fierce yet loud. Each wave a tale of journeys long gone, Of the briny depth’s roar laced with siren’s song. She foams and crashes, wild and free, A dance of power like a haunting symphony. The salt-kissed air filled with misty spray, Birthing endless nights that will never give way. Watch her still, the tide, relentless; she seeks To carve the stone with her lashing peaks. From rocky cliffs, the sirens wail, Their haunting voices spin a tale. Of sailors lost in the tempest's grip, Drawn to the edge, where they are oft to slip. In Black Rock Bay, the legends doth swell, Of gold and gems that decorate a haunting hell. As storm clouds gather and shadows creep, The restless spirits never sleep. For in this bay where echoes cling, The tempest rages, and the sirens sing.

The song continues, the bard sitting by the fire supporting the mournful words with the harp settled across his lap. His gnarled fingers surprisingly spry on the delicate strings. The dower tune does nothing to bolster your dreary mood. Not even the tankard of sour ale clasped between your palms seems to be working. If anything, the song only proves to darken your heart further.

You’ve heard stories about Black Rock Bay, with the treacherous breaker waves constantly lashing at the jutting obsidian spires that are said to hide untold treasures if one can make it through the squall and ripping current. That is, if you don’t get swindled away into the black abyss enthralled by a siren’s song first.

Just last summer, Miguel, the man you had been sharing your bed with, stole away in the middle of the night with your ship and crew with a course chartered to Black Rock Bay. Fool’s you, you suppose, for letting a man get that close to you. It’s hard enough being a woman, harder still being a woman who is also the captain of a ship. It took you almost a decade to earn your sails and the loyalty of your crew—or so you thought, bunch of mutinous fish guts, the lot of them.

You hope Miguel is somewhere at the bottom of the bay, the sirens using his bones to pick their teeth. The last year has been challenging, trying to rebuild what you once had. But you have enough salt in your veins that it would take more than a stab in the back to see you give up. The hardest part has been gathering a new crew. As it is now, you have the bare minimum of bodies needed to man your new ship. And you’re not sure a few wouldn’t do the same as Miguel did for the right price.

After all, being a pirate comes with its fair share of dangers.

But…maybe… It sits like a lead weight in your belly, the idea of conquering Black Rock Bay out of spite. No one would ever dare to laugh or betray you then, no daggers in your back or sweet smiles slithering their way into your bed only to strike with venom while you’re least expecting it. You’d be a legend. There would be many songs written, stories told far and wide...

“‘Ey, Cap, we off with the sun?” The spritely voice of your best friend, and the only crew member who didn’t take off with Miguel, pipes up from beside you, breaking through your mental wallowing. She slides her petite frame onto the bench beside you, her elbow jostling yours and causing some of the now-luke-warm ale from your tankard to slosh onto your hand. “Oh, sorry,” she adds with a nervous chuckle. “Let me just…” She snatches a handkerchief that has seen better days from her coat pocket and dabs at your hand and the table.

“Ollie, leave it, it’s fine.”

She gives you a gap-toothed grin, her freckled cheeks coloring as she stuffs her soiled handkerchief back into her pocket. Olivia Ramsey has been your friend since you were both urchins on the street fighting over crusts of moldy bread.

You never knew your parents, only that your mother was a flavor that many were partial to, and she indulged for the right amount of coin. It’s supposed that you were begotten on her by one of those men—a pirate, most likely. Once you were old enough to pilfer your own meals, not quite ten, those proverbial apron strings everyone believes mothers possess were indefinitely sheered off at the source. All your memories of her are vague, a hazy figure shooing you away from a darkened doorway...a woman too busy earning her next coin to worry about the ill-gotten welp that she saw as more of a curse than a blessing.

Ollie came from a loving home. Or as loving as an ill-favored family can be. Her father had a gambling problem, and her mother had the spine of a jellyfish. When she was seven, she ended up being the payment of a gambling debt. Servitude to an upper household was her fate. At some point or another—the details are muddled to you as Ollie changes the story just about as many times as she’s told it—she escaped and tried to make her way back to her parents, only to find the house empty when she returned.

It wasn’t long after the two of you became struggling companions that you noticed she sometimes sought answers about her family. You followed her once when she slipped off in the middle of the night, right to the door of a gentlemen’s club. That’s when she discovered she could pass in men’s spaces, thought to be a boy sneaking about. The men would laugh at ‘him’ and be none the wiser to their spilled secrets being consumed by feminine ears.

You look her over now, automatically taking account of her constitution. Curls of her straw-colored hair peek out from under the knit cap pulled low on her head. It’s part of her ploy, continuing to dupe men and cleverly blend in in places where you would be turned away at the door.

“If we leave wi’the sun, there’s a chance we beat Fat Al through the breakers and can hit the reef first.”

You sigh, giving your friend a sidelong look before pushing away your ale and angling your body toward hers. As nice as it would be to put that sniveling pock-marked arse of a wannabe pirate Fat Al in his place…a new plan is formulating in your mind. Slumping slightly, you drape an arm over her shoulders and put your mouth close to her ear.

“I say we let Fat Al have the reef.” Your eyes flick to the bard still crooning about briny ocean air and hauntingly beautiful creatures harboring chests of riches. “There is another place I have set my sights on…”

🌊🌊🌊

Jimin

There is a storm brewing. Jimin can feel it in how the temperature changes in the currents. He’s long since grown used to the drastic changes when the cooler waters from deeper in the ocean surge up into the warmer surface waters. After all, his home has always been this bay, where storms often rage in the skies overhead.

What he isn’t used to is seeing the giant belly of a boat slicing through the water of his bay. More often, the boats that attempt to come to the island of Black Rock Bay come in on the eastern side of the isle where the shore looks smoother and more welcoming—though it is anything but, with its hidden reefs and jagged lava rock just below the surface of the ocean.

“What do you think?” Namjoon’s voice so close startles Jimin out of his vigilant assessment.

“Storms coming on too strong. The ship won’t make it into the bay before the breakers gain height. Most likely, it’ll end up in pieces scattered along the shore,” Jimin murmurs, the frilled gills along the sides of his neck opening and closing, emitting small streamers of bubbles with his words.

“Should we send out the runners and try to steer them clear?”

Jimin thinks on this for a second before shaking his head. “They won’t make it here in time, perhaps if we had asked them before the sun went down just in case this happened. Yoongi would do his best, but…no, my love, we just have to wait and see what grace Calypso may grant these poor souls.”

He knows that even if Yoongi could coax a few of the larger whales to the surface, they’d barely make a difference in causing the boat to change course. As it is, it would be unlikely for whoever’s manning the ship to even see the whales, considering how dark the sky is and how violent the sea is becoming. They’re more likely to accidentally clip one of the gentle beasts than see them.

Namjoon nods, implicitly accepting Jimin’s judgement without question. “We best go deeper; I can already feel the tug of the tide. You’ll be swept away if you linger this close to the surface.”

It’s just as Jimin expects. The sea is angry, thrashing heavy squalls against the shore. Gusts of wind rip through the air, with piercing screams to rival the ocean's own shrill cries. Even from this far down, Jimin can hear the cacophony causing the wood of the boat to groan and creak.

Namjoon’s arms tighten around Jimin. They both watch in horror as the wide berth of the ship rocks violently, getting tossed around like a child’s toy by the turmoil of the sea. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Namjoon murmurs in Jimin’s ear, the bubbles from his words getting lost in the swift currents moving around them.

They’re both watching from the relative safety of one of the many underwater passageways that zig-zag through the underbelly of the island of Black Rock Bay. Small windows look out into the open water, doubling as entrances to the tunnel systems.

It’s like watching a painting come to life, the edges of the window acting as the frame. The boat daring to chart through the bay must be manned by a demi-god, as they continue to battle and persist against the storm.

Jimin is in awe at the display of sheer will. Despite being tossed around with every crashing wave against its bulwark, it careens ever closer to the jagged rocks along the shore, but somehow, the boat rights itself every time and manages to dodge the deathly peaks.

“Whoever they are…if they can navigate through this storm without breaking their ship on the rocks, I’ll personally give them enough gold to fill their hold,” Jimin tells Namjoon as his eyes stay locked on the vessel overhead.

The rough stone lip of the window makes his fingers ache as he clenches them around it every time the ship comes close to one of the outcroppings of old lava rock hidden by the foaming, swirling sea.

“You think they’ll make it?”

Just as Jimin opens his mouth to respond to Namjoon, the first reverberating impact thunders through the bay. Just as the boat started to swing one way, the raucous waves sent it into a near tail-spin without enough time for correction.

Wood splinters, the ocean roaring its victory as it floods into the bilge of the ship, filling it with far more water than it could hold. Jimin sighs, his chest aching from knowing that this was the inevitable end. Even though he had spoken the truth, maybe this fate might have been avoided if he had kept his mouth shut.

Or better yet, maybe if he had agreed to let Yoongi call for the runners, the souls lost above wouldn’t have been swept away by the ravaging sea. Even a tiny chance would have been better than watching this catastrophe; no matter how fruitful the spoils might be from the wreckage. But it’s too late now.

The boat's keel ruptures as it runs along one of the bigger jagged points of bedrock, like a sharp knife through kelp. With that surrender of wood to rock, Jimin knows there is no hope for the ship; it’s been ripped open from stern to bow. They can only watch…wait, and maybe catch an unfortunate soul or two and try to help.

Just as the thought passes Jimin’s mind, Namjoon gasps. He thrusts a hand out over Jimin’s shoulder. “Do you see that?”

Jimin shakes his head, eyes frantically searching the dark, murky waters. Suddenly, he sees them, a flailing figure struggling through one of the rip currents. Jimin doesn’t think twice, using his grip on the window's ledge to propel himself forward. Namjoon is a second behind him, his powerful pearlescent tail hurtling him past Jimin.

“Go!” Jimin urges when Namjoon glances back at him. He can see the hesitation in Namjoon’s eyes, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving Jimin behind with the waters so turbulent. “Don’t worry about me!”

Namjoon gives him a resolute nod before renewing his efforts upward. Jimin watches, his own tail and muscles straining as he fights the currents, as Namjoon dodges through the debris field where they last saw the figure in the water.

For one harrowing second, Jimin loses sight of Namjoon around a large piece of ship wreckage. A relieved cry catches in Jimin’s throat as Namjoon reappears, his arms cradling a much smaller being.

“A woman,” Namjoon grunts when Jimin reaches him. “I didn’t see any others.”

Jimin uses his arms to push himself backward, trailing slowly after Namjoon, who doubles his efforts to drag the limp woman toward the opening to one of their open-air caves. It’s a short swim, but all the same, Jimin worries for the woman. There is no telling how long she’s been under or when the last time she had a breath of air was.

Worry eats away at the pit of Jimin’s stomach as he watches large swaths of sail and immense sheets of timber sink to litter the bottom of the bay. Something tells him if anyone else was aboard that ship, they’re lost to the sea. With one final sweep of his eyes over the wreckage, he turns and slips into the tunnel, following after Namjoon and the woman he is carrying in his arms with the hope they will be able to help her.

🌊🌊🌊

Chills seep into your body, burrowing all the way down to your bones. Everything aches. You feel like you just went on a two-week bender and fell into the ocean. Your clothes are sodden, and you feel the violent urge to sick up…maybe you had gone on a bender…

The urge becomes too much, and you heave onto your side, emptying briny water and bile from your belly. It burns on the way out, clogging your nose and making your eyes water as you retch onto the sand.

Clarity begins to ebb in, and the fact you’re lying in the sand with the moon and stars twinkling from above makes no sense because the last thing you remember is—Fuck!

You fling yourself up onto your backside, stirring a shower of wet sand into the air, and you have to clamp a hand over your mouth, the sudden movement of sitting up threatening to have you heaving once more.

Swallowing the bile bubbling up, you cough before shouting, “Ollie?!” Your voice is hoarse, the ocean water having stripped your throat raw. “Please, Ollie?!”

The sand shifts beneath your unsteady feet as you struggle to stand. You tilt wildly to the side, your balance off and everything around you showing double. Finally, the shore stops spinning, and you can take in everything around you.

Fat and heavy overhead, the moon illuminates stray bits of what you can only assume is your ship dotting the sand—about thirty feet from the shoreline, a thick jungle stretches in either direction as far as you can see. You wouldn’t have guessed the sky was full of turmoil just…hours ago? Well, you assume it’s only been hours, at least; it’s hard to be sure, but judging by the moon's position, you think you’re right.

You know you should have turned around as soon as the first streak of lightning lit up the horizon. But, with Ollie reassuring you, along with the bolstered attitude from the rest of the crew, you pressed forward, hands tight to the wheel as you steered the bow toward the distant shoreline.

It was with the intent of anchoring just outside the breaker point of the bay, where the reef and lava rock can be seen jutting from the waters. However, the winds were too strong, and the storm tossed the boat about and put you completely off course, right into the path of the old slag tunnels.

You remember how the ship shuddered, the piercing squeal of wood and iron giving in to the relentless power of the rock. Ollie’s alarmed face was the last thing you remember seeing before the whole boat rocked hard to the side, and you were ripped from the helm by the force and sent tumbling into the dark waters of the bay.

Suddenly, you hear voices coming from ahead of you—from the jungle. You stop and listen, holding your breath before exhaling in a rush. “Ollie!” you call, scrambling toward the tree line. “Ollie! Jameson! Red! Anyone?”

Darkness swallows you as you stumble ahead, arms wheeling to keep yourself upright. You shove against trees, using their rough, wet trunks for support as you propel yourself through the underbrush.

“Captain.”

The word shivers down your spine, seeming to come from all directions. You spin in a circle, wet greenery whipping you in the face. The deep emerald greens and rich browns of the jungle are barely perceptible, with the meager moonlight filtering through the dense overhead canopy.

“Ollie!” you scream, the name echoing around you ten-fold. “Where are you? Ollie, can you hear me!?”

“Captain of the shining sea.”

“Looking here, looking there; come to find me.”

“Ollie, this isn’t funny,” you croak. The silence that follows is deafening. Not even insect noise or the hum of wildlife greets you. “Please.” The word falls in a whisper from your trembling lips.

“Captain, Captain of the shining sea. Looking here, looking there; come to find me.”

The words repeat, only this time there is a distinct lilting quality that makes your blood run cold. Ollie isn’t a singer. More so, the entire crew would rather shove nails under their fingernails than belt any sea shanty.

Only one thing comes to mind: a singular possibility as to who—what—it could be.

Sirens. Luring you to your death, enticing the next meal that will fill their bellies.

Foolish, so foolish. And you want legendary songs written about you. You scoff to yourself. The only songs they’ll be writing about you will be the tragic or humorous kind. Everyone will have a good laugh after they toast your memory. No wonder everyone thinks women are bad luck aboard pirate ships. Here you are proving them right.

Turning on your toes, you do your best to hurry back the way you came. Only it’s impossible to tell which way is which in the dark. Everything looks the same. The words continue to haunt you, nipping at your heels no matter how far you manage to go.

“Captain, Captain of the shining sea…”

“Stop! Stop it! Leave me—”

The rest of your plea turns into a shriek as you hurtle down a steep incline. Pain races through your limbs as they smack into trees and bushes, your descent an uncontrollable plummet.

The ground rises to meet you, the stark reality of your situation flashing before your eyes right before your head meets the unforgiving surface of a rock, and everything goes black.

🌊🌊🌊

Namjoon

“Where did she go? She was right here! You said you’d look after her while I got the stew going.”

Jimin scowls at Namjoon, gesturing to the space where the human woman was just moments ago.

“Simmer down. I’ll go look for her. She can’t have gone far.” In fact, Namjoon is relatively sure he knows exactly where she went.

“No harm better come to her, Namjoon. I mean it!” Jimin’s sour attitude follows Namjoon as he shuffles out into the jungle. It would be better if the sun were out, but as it is, his vision is only mildly impacted by the dark of night. If he were able to assume his mer-form, he’d have no issues at all. Being on two legs only serves as a minor hindrance, mainly in things like hearing and sight.

It’s not like Namjoon intended for the female to wake up and immediately seek to escape. Granted, Namjoon’s knowledge of human females is nearly as limited as Jimin’s, but he at least thought she might wait around to listen to him. He had only stepped away for a second, seeking to put on some acceptable clothing and then bring her some fresh water to drink so it might help clear her head.

“Oh,” Namjoon startles. “What do we have here?” He crouches down next to the crumpled form of a woman. The clothing is similar enough, but the woman is not the same one he rescued from the wreckage.

“Namjoon!” a familiar voice calls a moment before the sound of crunching leaves and soft grunts enters the small clearing at the foot of the incline leading into the heart of the jungle.

“Hoseok? What are you—oh, you found her.”

“Put me down, ya fish-eyed freak! Put me…fuck! Captain, oh seven seas, Captain! Put me down, for salt's sake!”

The small woman Namjoon rescued from the wreckage tumbles from Hoseok’s arms. She scrambles forward on her hands and knees to kneel beside the prone woman at Namjoon’s feet.

“You shouldn’t have wandered off,” Namjoon begins, only to be cut off by the murderous glare thrown up at him.

“What did ya do to ‘er?! I swear to the goddess below, if ya so much as put your slimy hands on ‘er, I’ll gut ya like the fish ya are!”

Namjoon backs away, his very not slimy hands in the air before him. “I only just found her. She was already like that.”

Hoseok shuffles his feet, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It was probably the others. I heard them singing earlier. I was coming to get you when I stumbled upon this one,” he says, gesturing with his other hand at the small woman with freckled cheeks and short blond curls, “trying to climb the cliffs. Nearly went over back into the ocean.”

“You have to help ‘er,” the blond woman says, all the fiery ire gone from her voice. She gently brushes sand from the other woman’s cheeks and hair, her fingers coming away sticky with blood. “Please.”

Namjoon had no intention of not helping the woman from the start. But, to placate the small one, he nods his agreement. “I will do what I can. But I need to pick her up.”

The blond one gives him a lingering look, clearly judging his merit, before sliding back on her knees to provide Namjoon with the space he needs to kneel beside the prone woman.

“Be careful wi’ ‘er head.”

Namjoon’s lips purse into a frown, his brain trying desperately to place the woman’s accent. It’s a mixed jumble, consisting of influence seemingly from multiple places. When the woman waves a frantic hand in Namjoon’s face, he blinks, startling back to the task at hand. There will be plenty of time later to figure out where the humans have come from.

Doing just as instructed, with careful ease, Namjoon takes the unconscious woman into his arms, letting her head rest against his naked chest. The linen trousers he pulled on earlier only come to mid-calf, his feet bare of the shoes he knows humans are partial to. The short pants were the only thing he found in Jimin’s chest of human treasures that remotely fit. It’s been so long since either of them had the company of someone other than their own kind that it hadn’t dawned on Namjoon that greeting the young woman in nothing but his skin wouldn’t be proper.

“Hoseok,” Namjoon says, dismissing his inner thoughts about human propriety surrounding clothing, and nods toward the opening to the cave system where Jimin should be waiting.

Hoseok, who is one of Namjoon’s closest friends, trails his eyes over the blond woman before offering her his hand. “Would you like to come with her?”

With no outward hesitation other than the slight narrowing of her eyes, the small woman slides her hand into Hoseok’s, and he hauls her to her feet. “I’m Ollie, by the way,” she says, her shorter legs keeping pace with Hoseok’s with little issue. “And, you’re Hoseok?” Namjoon has never seen his friend nervous, but right now, he’s pretty confident that’s exactly the emotion coloring his friend’s cheeks. Hoseok nods. “Well, I have a lot o’ questions, Hoseok. Maybe ya can answer some as we walk.”

🌊🌊🌊

You’ve had your fair share of blackouts in your life. What with how sour ale can fill your belly and the enticing bet to drink someone under the table…you’d be remiss in saying you’ve never awoken a time or two in a strange place with only a small inkling of how you ended up there.

However, doing it twice in a row is something new. Your head aches. Differently than it had before when you awoke on the beach. This is a skull-deep pounding, something that only comes when you catch an errant fist in a fight or take a sail boom to the back of the head.

You want to empty your stomach for a whole different reason now. The sickly feeling swirls in your belly, your eyes fluttering open as you dry retch. “Fuck,” you whisper coarsely.

“Captain!”

The relief at hearing Ollie’s voice is second to the splitting pain that ricochets through your head at her volume. “Softer, Ollie.”

“Oh, right.” Her freckled cheeks plump around the sheepish smile she gives you. “Sorry ‘bout that, Cap. I’m jus’ so happy to see ya awake. Ya plum near ended my days, seein’ ya layin’ there on the ground wi’ your head split open like a melon.”

You tenderly probe at the lump forming over your right temple. It’s warm to the touch, the flesh swollen and aching. You can feel the rough humps of stitching crisscrossing over the edge of the lump. You wince as your fingers map across the seven sutures. “I must look a sight. Did you stitch me up?”

“Beautiful as always, Cap. Would take a wonder stronger than’a rock to change that. And I wish I could take credit for ‘at beautiful jab job, but it wasn’t me.”

Gods love this woman; she’s a treasure you don’t deserve. Your eyes focus enough that you can take her in wholly. She sports her own discolored lump on the side of her jaw, and dark circles rim the soft skin under her eyes. There is a split at the corner of her mouth, and her right arm, you realize, is secured in a burlap sling. You’re so overwhelmed with taking her in that you don’t even register that she said she wasn’t the one to stitch you up. “Oh, Ollie,” you whisper softly. “What did I do to you?”

She jerks upright, indignation written all over her face. “This wasn’t you, Cap. This was that surly sea we love so much. Ain’t nothin’ I’ve never had before.” It’s clear she believes that wholeheartedly with the stern look in her eyes. “Besides, ya ought not worry about me. How’s yar head?”

You sit up slowly, your vision narrowing slightly as your world rights itself. Blinking, you let your eyes slide over your surroundings, taking an account of what’s around you. A soft mat and scattered blankets create a nest of comfort under you.

The walls are smooth stone with tiny carved-out nitches that form shelves holding a mix of books, shells, and other small trinkets. There is a homey feel to the sea cave, with a few chests and other odd bits of furniture lining the walls. You’d almost think you were in a bizarrely themed boarding room if it weren’t for the giant opening in the floor some feet away, the soft lap of water nibbling at the hole's edge.

Lichen sticks to the ceiling, its soft blue and green glow giving enough light that your eyes aren’t straining as you continue your perusal. Aside from the large hole in the floor, a narrow doorway leads into darkness on the other side of the room.

“Where are we?” you ask, choosing to focus on finding answers of your own rather than the incessant pounding of your skull.

Ollie rocks back on her heels, wrapping her good arm around her knees. You notice she’s not wearing the same clothes she wore the last time you saw her on the boat. Ugh, the boat…you don’t even want to think about that right now. The faded green tunic and sandy-colored breeches dwarf her tiny frame, the neck of the top hanging off one of her shoulders. You glance down and see her petite toes, her shoes nowhere to be seen.

She wiggles her toes, giggling softly. “Hoseok says bare feet’re better for walkin’ the tunnels. Less likely to slip and split my own noggin’.” She emphasizes the words with a rap of her knuckles against the side of her blond curl-covered head.

“Hoseok?” you ask, your attention catching on that name. It’s familiar, almost like you heard it in a dream, but far too fuzzy for you to be sure.

“Oh, he’s—”

“He’s right here,” chirps a jovial, masculine voice from the passageway across the room. “Nice to see you awake. Think you could stomach some stew? Would do you well to get something in your body.”

Your eyes grow as wide as saucers at the nearly naked man shuffling into the cavernous space. In his hands is a wide wooden board covered in what looks like chunks of bread, sliced fruit, and a bowl of steaming stew. The smell of the luscious, smoky broth hits your nose as he draws closer, and your stomach gives an appreciative gurgle.

“I promise the food is safe ta’ eat,” Ollie whispers, slanting a hand against her mouth in your direction. “It’s smoked fish stew. I had some earlier and even asked after seconds.”

That captures your attention, your eyes swinging in her direction, an incredulous look overtaking your face. “Ollie—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Rule number one: don’t accept food from blokes ya don’t know. But, Cap, I was starvin’, and I knew ya’d be in need of some food when ya woke. So, really, I did it for ya, had to make sure they wasn’t tryin’ to poison ya.”

You take a moment to assess Ollie’s countenance, realizing that aside from the visible bruises from her toss into the ocean, she seems no worse for wear. Her pallor is rosey, a healthy flush beneath her freckles, and her eyes are bright and clear.

“Just some water,” you say, your gaze flicking towards this Hoseok character.

“But, Cap—”

“For now, Ol. Just to be sure my stomach doesn’t sick up from anything more hearty.”

You hate lying to her. Even though she seems to be of her right mind, she almost seems too eager…too trusting. Which is so far removed from the Olivia Ramsey you know, the one who would turn her nose up in suspicion at even the slightest hint of stink. And this has the ripe stench of three-day-old chum all over it.

“Water then.” Hoseok nods, though his lips kick down in a frown as he sets the tray laden with food beside the tangle of blankets and pillows you woke up on.

“Thank you,” you mutter as Ollie hands you a ceramic cup from the tray. The contents look clear enough and holds no distinct odor as you give it a tentative sniff before putting it to your lips.

The water is crisp and surprisingly cool, tasting faintly earthy like it came directly from a rocky stream. You gulp it down, your aching and raw throat rejoicing with the soothing relief.

Hoseok squats down beside Ollie, your eyes tracking his every movement. His pants are thin, the worn fabric hanging loosely from his frame. It’s clear they’re not new, perhaps aged even further from the constant wear from the briny ocean air. His chest is bare, emphasizing a slender frame with smooth, corded muscles. His trousers might be worse for wear, but his eyes are a clear, beautiful brown, complimenting the shag of black hair on his head…though, there is something off-putting about him…something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“I hope those stitches are okay. I tried not to tie them off too tightly, but it has been quite some time since I last performed such a task.”

Your lips twitch, brows furrowing ever so slightly. In all your years, you’ve had your fair share of stitches with everything from catgut wire to medical-grade thread. With just the brief inspection you gave your sutures, you can tell they’re on the better side. You’d maybe even go so far as to say they’re on par with a medical professional. Perhaps this Hoseok character is a sea-lost doctor washed up on shore once upon a time, the same as you and Ollie. “What is this place?” you ask him, your fingers flexing around the empty cup clasped in your hands.

“A sea cave—”

“No. I mean, what is this whole place? Where are we, exactly?” Your eyes flick away from him, darting across the walls as if you tried hard enough that you could see through the dark stone and figure it out yourself.

“I believe your kind calls this place Black Rock Bay. Though, that’s truly a misnomer, considering the rocks in the bay are more of a dark blue than black, but I can see how one might make that mistake.”

You blink at him, the cogs in your mind trying desperately to lock the details into place. Two things stand out above all the others—your kind and Black Rock Bay. So, clearly not a medical professional, and, wait—

“We truly made it?” you whisper, your lips suddenly feeling numb and your tongue thick like molasses.

“Just you n’me.” Ollie’s voice slices through the silence, landing you harshly back into the very stark reality of what happened. Your eyes meet hers for a brief moment, and she winces, an apology already forming on her cracked lips.

You shake your head, addressing her before she can take back her words. “There were no other survivors?”

The question was addressed to Hoseok, but another voice answers you. “None that we’ve found thus far, but we are still searching the shore and the wreckage.”

You’re better than the sound that rips from your throat. Maybe if you hadn’t taken a knock to the head, you’d have been able to hold your ground and have suppressed the surprise. As it is, the unintelligible squawk you emit echoes around the cavernous chamber as your eyes widen on the figure emerging from the lagoon pool on the other side of the room.

Pearlescent scales ripple along strong arms as hands brace against the lip of the lagoon. The shimmery teardrop shapes spread over an impeccably defined chest, blending into the creamy skin of a toned stomach and narrow hips before ending at the ridged blue and green band of a…tail? The long, flowing appendage slides over the stone as the figure pushes themselves completely out of the lagoon opening.

Water slicks off of them, the soft sloshing sending a gentle spray of misted salt water into the air. You watch in abject shock as the scales slowly recede with every drop of moisture that wicks away as the newcomer quickly brushes a length of fabric they grabbed from a nearby shelf over their body.

You want to reach out and finger the wet lengths of hair that swing with their every movement, like scattered moonlight on ocean waves. You’ve never seen hair quite so bright; it’s even lighter than the wheat-colored curls adorning Ollie’s head.

It’s a mesmerizing sight, watching the way the glittering scales disappear, melting away to reveal smooth and supple skin as if they never existed. Slender legs take shape; flexing toes and taut muscles speak of a delicate grace you’d never have associated with the male form before. And male it is…the very breath in your lungs stills as your eyes catch on the faint outline of a very prominent appendage before it’s covered by the now-damp cloth as he wraps it around his waist.

Brilliant mocha-colored eyes meet yours, the center of a controlled, measured look that gives absolutely nothing away. “Easy, Cap,” Ollie whispers a moment before you feel her hand grazing along your jaw.

You firmly snap your gaping mouth shut.

“I wish I had better news to share with you. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the storm you attempted to sail through was not a kind one. You’re fortunate to be alive, the both of you.”

“Holy Shining Seas,” Ollie mumbles, her fingers crossing over her chest in a sign meant to ward off evil. It’s an automatic gesture, one she does without thought, ingrained in her from a young age; well before she met the fates of the streets.

Your fingers itch to make their own sign. The few weeks you spent with Sister Agatha in the convent are ones sorely hard to forget, even at the best of times. You’ve never been religious, far from it. But those two weeks made you feel closer to hell than the deepest trench of the ocean ever could.

Clenching your fingers closed in the quilt beneath you, your mouth pops open instead. “Y-you…wait, you—is that? Was that—you, uh, your—your skin,” the last word comes out barely louder than a whisper.

Hoseok stands and crosses the room, snagging a pair of trousers from an open chest. He tosses them at the newcomer, firmly scolding him, “You know better than to skin shift in front of humans. Why didn’t you come in through the central lagoon?”

At that moment another voice filters through the room, coming from the same direction Hoseok had entered through. Your eyes flick away from the first unknown male to the empty doorway, a second before a tall, silver-haired man wearing pants far too short for him, and nothing else appears. In his hands is a worn red cap.

“I told Jimin it was a bad idea. But, you know how he is, a will stronger than the southern currents.”

The stranger with the calculating gaze—Jimin, it seems—rolls his eyes and huffs out an annoyed breath. “Would rather rip it out like an urchin barb, Namjoon, get it over with. Better that way in the long of it, considering our visitors will be here for quite some time.”

Namjoon. Jimin. Hoseok. Your eyes flick between the three strangers, noting the same sense you got from Hoseok earlier also radiates from the other two. As you watch them exchange heated words, the low timbre of their voices making their words hard to discern, Jimin tugs on the trousers Hoseok threw at him, and you realize what that odd feeling is. They’re…perfect. Too perfect, otherworldly.

It’s unnerving.

And now you’re sure you know why. As plain as the pearlescent scales and tail, the truth screams at you from the smooth skin of their foreheads to the perfectly straight, white teeth behind their rose-hued lips. No mere human could be so pristine. Clearly, the bewitching nature of a siren isn’t just exaggerated prose reserved for their voices.

“Is that Red’s cap?” Ollie asks, her voice low, meant only for your ears.

You force your eyes away from studying their faces to the crumpled lump clasped in Namjoon’s hands. It’s a detail your brain registered earlier but clearly was too muddled to fully comprehend.

“Where did you find that?” you ask, but you are only met with silence in response. The three males are still caught up in their soft bickering. You give Ollie a sidelong look, your face pinched in a frown before demanding louder, “Excuse me!”

Your barked words echo through the chamber, rebounding ten-fold and making even you wince at the sharp, biting sound.

“Where did you find that?” Ollie’s voice fills the sudden silence as she nods her head at the red cap in Namjoon’s grip.

Namjoon loosens his hold on the worn red fabric, the once vibrant carmine faded by the salt and sun to a tawny vermilion. An unmistakable blob of golden thread peeks out from one of the edges where Jory ‘Red’ Meander had haphazardly tried to stitch together a hole put there by a disgruntled card companion.

He had a penchant for gambling, not always with honest intentions, either. A scoundrel with a quick smile and charming hazel eyes. Despite being barely old enough to be let loose from his mother’s skirts, Jory joined your crew mere weeks before you got it in your head to chart a course for Black Rock Bay, demanding with a puffed-out chest that everyone refer to him as ‘Red’, like the color of his hat and the blood spilled at the end of his rapier, from here on out. Said it was a better-suited name for a future pirate mogul than Jory.

A few nights into your journey towards Black Roy Back, as you sat with Red in the crow’s nest watching the moon slip through the sky, he confessed that he actually chose the name Red because it reminded him of his mother with her fiery red hair and spit-fire attitude. But he figured that wouldn’t be a very pirate-like reason. He honestly had no business on your ship…but you were desperate for a full crew and, well—

“I-uh, I found it on the beach…I followed your footsteps back through the jungle.” Namjoon clears his throat before stepping close and offering the cap to you. “There was a man…a boy, really. His body—I’m sorry.”

You hesitantly take the hat. The soft fabric flops over the back of your hand, and a memory flashes through your mind. Red screaming at you, the stupid hat he refused to ever take off, sluicing the stinging water into his eyes, hauling you bodily through the turbulent water. Red forcing you above water, pleading with you to hold on…

Tears fill your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. Anger replaces the hurt pounding away in your chest. You will not fall apart now…not when…fuck. You furiously wipe at your eyes, sniffing back the burn welling in your nose. Red would laugh and waggle his brows at you if he knew you were getting choked up over him.

“Have you found others? Bodies, I mean.”

Jimin and Namjoon share a look, an exchange of words without making a sound.

Red. Jameson. McLaughlin. Straub. Okiro.

From the descriptions provided to you by Namjoon and Jimin, you mentally etch their names into your psyche. Men whose loyalty you once questioned are now forever lost to this world because of your petty grievances and selfish desires. And more yet to be confirmed…

You worry the edge of your thumbnail, fisting the red cap in your other hand over and over.

“Maybe ya should eat somethin’, Cap.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at Ollie right now, lest you might not be able to fight back the tears any longer. “I’m fine, Ol.”

“Some rest then,” Jimin says. “Hoseok, if you take Olivia to the storage room, you might be able to find her something a bit more fitting to wear in the alder chest, the one with the iron straps. You know which I mean?”

Hoseok makes an agreeable sound. You snap out of your stupor enough to realize Ollie stands up without so much as a mutterance of protest. In fact, she almost seemed eager as she took Hoseok’s hand, and he pulled her to her feet. There is a look on her face that you’ve never seen there before…it almost looks like longing. But that can’t be because that’s absolutely absurd. However, there she goes, giving you a girlish wave and mumbling, “Later, Cap. Get some rest, ‘k?”, as she allows Hoseok to lead her from the room.

“Wait, Ol—”

But just like that, Ollie walks out without so much as a backward glance before you can get the protest out of your mouth, her focus now solely on the male at her side. She has that same silly, infatuated look on her face.

And now you’re alone—alone with two strange males who are looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing they’ve ever come across. Perhaps you are…but most likely, they’re trying to come up with the best way to pick your bones clean.

You can feel the heat drain from your face, receding from the tips of your fingers and toes, turning into a wash of icy chills down your spine. You’ve heard enough songs about this…you know what happens next, yet you can’t get your body to do what you want it to. All you can do is stare, your eyes moving between the two males, your fingers holding a death grip on Red’s cap.

“Hungry?” Jimin asks, his eyes flicking to Namjoon.

Something is wrong…something is very wrong.

The taller male tilts his head to the side, eyes sliding up and down your seated form. “Yeah, Jimin, I’m hungry.”

You swallow hard, trying not to let the sudden wave of fear curdling in your belly show. Maybe Red should have just let the sea take you…

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to story masterlist

#bts fantasy #namjoon x reader #jimin x reader #namjoon x jimin #minimoni #bts sirens #pirate!reader #siren!namjoon #siren!jimin #namjoon smut #jimin smut #namjoon imagines #jimin imagines #bangtanwhq

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