#should i embroider some blood/gore onto his face??

[uwukas]

I sewed some guts onto this chococat so my herbie would have a rufus :3

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 3- The Ends Beginning

Summary: You and Geralt travel to Blaviken in search of more coin, though you’re wary of getting into trouble. Unsurprisingly you do in fact, get into trouble.

Warnings: long chapter, ya know gore and such, Geralt just being a babe and reader dealing with the shit she gets into for this man

Masterlist

You looked up to the dreary sunless sky, not a single speck of blue to give you a hopeful sign that the world is not as unhappy as the swamp you're currently standing in. Your surroundings disgustingly emit the gnarly stench of shit and death, seeping into your nostrils against your will as you stand idly by the waters grimy edge with your silver weapon unsheathed in your right hand.

Roach patiently keeps her distance by the leafless trees as she waits for her master who's currently under the water fighting a very pissed off kikimora. Geralt insisted that he would be the one to get into harms way and lure the ugly fucker out from it's hiding place. You, not wanting to get your clothes wet, agreed to his proclamation.

Although right now, with no visible signs of life from beneath the murky waters, you're wondering if letting him handle it all alone was the best course of action. Soon your worrisome thoughts evade you once Geralt and the screaming kikimora burst forth from the inky pond. He's lifted out of the air with a grunt as the beast plunges him back down into the depths. You shake your head and turn to Roach who takes a single step back.

Rolling your eyes you let out a sigh, "Fine. I'll help him." You exclaim to the mare with a wave of your large dagger, she simple snorts in reply.

As you approach the water you can hear the guttural muffled sounds from the battle beneath the surface. You had not anticipated on getting soaked today and you're not about to now. With a swift jump you launch yourself over the submerged kikimora and with the power only gifted by your vampirian mother, you float above the beast.

Begrudgingly you reach your hand down into a couple inches of murky water, grasping the creature by its slimy neck, once your fingers have clawed into its flesh do you then pull up. The bastard screeching in pain as it breaks the surface, greeted by a quick slice to one of its protruding arms that hastily reaches for your body. You let go and glide back over to the bank as Geralt emerges from the water to curtly stab the monster through its mouth, the beast instantly going limp.

He turns a pale face to you, his eyes an obsidian shade of pure shining black as he breaths heavily from the messy battle fought only moments ago. Sloshing through the swamp water, he makes his way onto the shore to stand next to your smirking face.

"Yeah you really had that under control, I could tell from the way you were slowly getting turned into a drowner." You can't see it but you can practically feel his eye roll.

"And you didn't want to get a little wet." He mutters between heavy breaths while you flick water off of your hand.

You smile, sticking your dagger back into its leather sheath, "The only way I'm getting a little wet is by watching you stand naked in front of me as you sensually clean your sword." He laughs at your sarcastic remark, an odd but pleasant contrast to the dull bubbling of the swamp.

He then walks back into the water to cut a large piece off of the dead kikimora, hopefully it's enough to pay for some new clothes for your smelly Witcher. Once the beast is set and tied do you wait for him to mount Roach before he lets a hand out for you to take. Pulling you up into his lap, he slings his arms around your sides to better hold onto the leather reigns.

The ride to the gloomy village of Blaviken is a short one, but nonetheless enjoyable as you lean yourself into his warm body. Finally do you reach the wooden gates where Roach continues her trek into the town. As Geralt does, you keep your hood up, doing your best to hide behind your disheveled hair. No one bothers to look at you and Geralt when Roach comes to a stop, the two of you getting down, Geralt tying her up before you both head into the closest tavern for something to drink on this dreary morning.

As expected, you can feel the distrustful gazes from the tavern goers as they watch you and Geralt walk up to the bar. Ignoring their wary eyes, you take a seat as the lady bartender asks what you'd like to drink, seemingly uncaring or oblivious to the strangeness of you two. Geralt sets some coin onto the table getting straight down to business, as per usual.

"Point us to the alderman's house." He abruptly asks, she kindly answers him while pointing in the direction of the desired residence before she's cut off by a greasy slightly heavy looking man who shoos her away. He quickly steps behind the bar, glancing warily between the two of you.

"We don't want your kind here, Witcher." He states, only the tiniest bit of fear flashing through his grey eyes, but that's gone quickly as he glares over at you, "Or yours, daughter of demons." Spits the bearded man at you this time. Apparently your kinds reputation precedes you still, no matter, he is of little concern at the moment.

"The alderman, tell me where he is and we'll be on our way." Asks Geralt once again, nothing sinister lacing his words, although you're becoming irritated knowing that a group is forming behind you. And right on cue does a smiling bulldog of a man appear before you, snapping at Geralt about how he doesn't give the orders around here, adding in another insult to perhaps feel more superior. Geralt simply hums in response, turning his head to you in a silent plead for you to behave.

You begrudgingly listen and keep your head down as the bearded man orders you two to leave or face a rope around your necks. Geralt stands up and yet again is taunted and challenged by this snarky little man, who then promptly insults the both of you before calling to his men to stand ready. Oh can nothing ever be easy?

Suddenly a woman's voice speaks out among the crowd like a spark in the darkness, you quickly turn your cloaked head to face this mystery woman. Her short brunette hair is messy as her dark eyes scan over the three of you, curiosity in her calculated gaze. She wears an all red top, two black leather gauntlets embroidered in gold protect her lower forearms, and a single golden broach sits pinned above her left breast. She snaps at the bearded man to stay quiet as her eyes find your shadowed ones.

She gifts a mutual nod of respect before politely apologizing for her men's rudeness as she then askes them to leave, to your surprise, the bulldog-like man listens and they all leave without another word. For the next however long, she kindly buys you both a drink as she wonders of your whereabouts and the agreeable need for Geralt and some new clothes. When suddenly a random girl appears asking about the kikimora, Geralt turns to you and with a nod to Renfri, the both of you are off.

You lead the way to Roach as Geralt silently follows, the girl rambling on about nothing interesting but her own personal troubles and little adventures. Until her eyes light up once they find the bloody leg of the dead kikimora hidden under a bag atop Roach's back. To yours and Geralt's disappointment she claims that her father, the alderman, will have no use for the swamp beast. But as you both turn to leave she announces that instead you should speak to Master Irion, the village wizard, insisting he will pay for ingredients for elixers. With an annoyed roll of your eyes do you turn to follow the girl, Geralt smiling at your irritated face. Now you're going to meet a fucking wizard, just what you wanted.

The alderman's daughter leads you and Geralt down a gravely dirt road as Geralt holds onto Roach's leather reigns, the three of you walking past vendors and fresh produce stalls, "Have you ever killed a succubus? A striga? Werewolf? She-wolf?" Pries the smiling girl as she walks in between you and Geralt.

"That's not a thing." He replies bluntly.

"Okay then...a dhampir?" She questions, glancing at you for a split second.

You kick a small rock that lays in your path before answering, "You're more insightful then you look." She smiles sweetly at you, giving you a knowing glance, so she's aware of what you are, interesting.

"Well, I think all that monster killing makes you two heroes." She cheerfully boasts as her attention falls upon Geralt, "My mother says you're the offspring of foul sorcery, a diabolic creation, a filthy degenerate born of Hell." She exclaims before turning to look at you, "She thinks even less of your kind, told me you're a rarity or maybe the only one, a princess of darkness...heir to the black throne, or maybe it was the blood throne? Can't remember....you two ever been to Hell? I've never even left Blaviken. Because my mothers never left Blaviken and if it's good enough for Libushe, then it's good enough for Marilka. That's my name. Marilka, like milk." She says while turning her curious gaze over to Geralt, then back to you, "What's your guys' names?"

"Geralt."

Marilka's face shifts from satisfaction for learning of your Witchers name, back to curiosity in a split second, "Like garroter? Nice...where are you from Geralt?" She wonders.

"Rivia."

Marilka nods in understanding as she focuses her attention back to you, "What's your name?"

"Y/N....of Alkatraz." You tell her, giving her the name of your homeland so she won't ask you another question, cause lets be honest this kid doesn't need to know anything else about you. It may give her nightmares.

"I don't know where either of those places are, but I could learn, if you two'd let me." She inquires, hopeful that she may get something out of her questioning.

"No." Replies Geralt to her utter disappointment.

"Because I'm a girl and girls can't become Witchers. Which is probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard." She sasses, earning a smile from both yours and Geralt's dirty faces. "I want more...I have to be more, because I don't know what to do in Blaviken for the rest of my life, except go to the boring old market."

"And kill rats." Replies Geralt with a tiny amused grin as he shares a glance with you.

"And dogs." You add, causing Marilka to laugh as a large smile appears onto her young beaming face.

——

"Here we are." She announces once the three of you make it to the looming tower of grey stone, the house of the wizard. Geralt gives Marilka the reigns to Roach as you walk closer under the brick archway where giant wooden doors await. Even before Geralt is able to reach for the doors do you touch his arm, a wary expression clear on your face, you can see the way that the doors shimmer with magic. Something unseen to the eyes of men, or even a Witcher for that matter.

"An illusion." You explain, not wanting to go any further but also not wanting to miss out on what alluring mystery lays hidden behind the enchanted doors.

"I can hold your hand." He teases.

"You can kiss my arse."

"I can do that too." Whispers Geralt while you let out a breathy laugh.

Letting go of his arm, you both enter at the same time to a bright vibrant wall of enticing rainbows that dances across your vision as your gaze adjusts to the view. Your scarlet eyes going wide, first in awe of the spirited beauty of the gardens before a shocked laugh escapes your mouth once you see the naked women tending to the trees. Oh.

You turn to find Geralt seemingly quite disinterested and looking rather cleaner then he once was, his white hair much snowier then a moment ago, his black cloak gone from his shoulders, as well as your own. The both of you look upon a great floating tree in the center of the sun kissed courtyard, your ears suddenly pricking to the sound of closely approaching footsteps to your right. You snap your head over to the sight of a richly dressed man holding a wooden staff.

"Greetings. I am Stregobor....Master Stregobor. Sorcerer." Announces the greying bearded man who holds an oaken staff with a white crystal encircled at the top by the bending wood holding it prisoner. Why does he look oddly familiar?

"We have a kikimora for Master Irion." Mutters Geralt bluntly, Stregobor flashing a tiny grin in curiosity for the random presence of yourself and Geralt.

"Yes, well, forgive the confusion. Irion created this tower, but he's been dead 200 years. So, in order to honor him, I've taken his name as my...personal sobriquet." Explains Stregobor, Geralt simply hums in reply as you put a hand on your hip. Wizards and their deceitful tricks.

Scoffing, you glance around your current setting, "He create this illusion, too?" You ask with a raise of your eyebrow, the wizard turns with an unabashed smile to look at his pleasurable surroundings.

"No, his is, uh...this is my own creation. Helps pass time more delightfully." Answers Stregobor with a telling half grin upon his aging face, Geralt watches the irritation grow onto your clean dirt-less face as you shake your head.

Crossing your arms over your chest you eye up the old wizard, "Because you're in hiding, Stregobor." His demeanor immediately changes at your blunt reply, he didn't anticipate you'd figure him out so quickly. Why else would a renowned mage flee to this horseshit of a town and change his name to the long dead wizard?

He ever-so-slightly turns his head to the side, eyeing you distrustfully, "How very clever of you...princess, of night." States the annoyed wizard who hands you a glare, Geralt smirks as he watches this small tension filled interaction between the two of you. In all honesty, you're not surprised that this wizard knows who you are. You've been around for quite some time on this Continent, and anyways, you are the only dhampir known to exist who also happens to be a princess to the true Vampire Queen of the Northern Kingdoms.

With a curt turn of his body does Stregobor retain his once lost, now more welcoming demeanor as he nods for yourself and your Witcher to follow. He leads you two down an open hallway, where naked ladies and fruit filled trees remain on either side minding their business. They aren't real after all.

"Not often do we see the likeness of you two here in Blaviken." Admits the wizard, his fancy robes swishing as he walks.

"Not many of our likeness left." Replies Geralt as you walk down the stone hallway by his side, your eyes still wandering over the strange beauty of this pleasant illusion in contrast to the gloominess of Blaviken.

"Hm. Well Witcher I'd offer you my condolences, but...I seem to remember that Witchers don't feel...anything." You keep your eyes ahead of you, he doesn't know you and Geralt are most definitely a thing, "I'm grateful destiny brought you two to me."

"Marilka brought us to you." Inquires Geralt as he averts his golden eyes from the bareness of the magical women, a grim expression lingering onto your features the longer you stay in this dreadful palace of lies. Suddenly Stregobor walks in front of the both of you, stopping you from walking any further.

"Oh, Marilka. Marilka works for me. Now and then. On matters of great importance." Reveals Stregobor as he glances between you and Geralt, of course the little shit was a simple messenger, you should have known a wizard would want to see the only Witcher and dhampir within a two-hundred mile radius who happen to be in town.

Geralt lets out an annoyed sigh as you lean against a white marble pillar, "A reclusive sorcerer who uses an alias and hires a young girl to procure him a Witcher and one of the only known dhampirs. You don't want our monster. You want us to kill yours." Declares Geralt calmly as the old wizard stands with a satisfied smirk upon his face. Your head tilts as you cross your arms over your chest, giving Stregobor a judgmental look.

"Very clever. Indeed." Muses the wizard with a knowing squint of his blue eyes.

"What kind?" You wonder, intrigued with this new information that could possibly result in much needed coin.

Stregobor goes quiet for a second as his voice goes hushed, "The worst kind." His look turns wary, as you notice the concealed fear that flashes across his face, "The human kind." He moves in closer, like if he speaks too loud this human will hear his treachery and slay him on the spot, "Its name is Renfri." He whispers before abruptly turning and walking down the short stone steps to the gardens. You turn to give Geralt a quizzical look, he simply hums with a small shrug, so instead you decide to follow Stregobor to find the reasoning behind his assumptions about Renfri.

She doesn't appear to look like the worst kind of human. Now you've personally seen the worst kinds of humans in your travels, this all intrigues you so.

"Destiny has many faces, Witcher. Mine for example, is beautiful on the outside, but...hideous on the inside." Explains Stregobor as he holds a perfectly red apple in his right hand while Geralt leans his muscular arm against a stone fountain while you stand next to him. "She has stretched her bloody talons towards me." He claims, not a hint of falseness lacing his words, but you're not convinced of his rambling quite yet.

Fumbling with the leather gauntlets on your forearms do you look up at him, "Wizards are all the same. You talk nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces." You growl, "Don't waste our time." Stregobor ceases the illusion of the red apple in his hand, giving you a humored half smile, knowing he's been seen through for his vagueness.

"Have you ever heard of the....Curse of the Black Sun?" Starts the wizard as his eyes dart between you and Geralt, who's not particularly keen on learning about more mysterious history that this strange old man may have possibly been involved in.

"Yes. Although I'm assuming you'd like to tell it." You sass, the wizard ignores your remark as he turns back to Geralt, explaining further.

"First full eclipse in 1,200 years. It marked the imminent return of Lilit, demon goddess of the night sent to exterminate the human race. According to the wise mage Eltibald, Lilit's path was to be prepared by 60 women wearing gold crowns who'd fill the river valleys with blood." You watch as Geralt hums in response to the wizards superstitious nonsense.

"Doesn't rhyme. All good predictions rhyme." Replies Geralt unimpressed.

"I studied the girls born around the Black Sun, and I found horrendous internal mutations among them. I tried to cure them, locked them in towers for safekeeping, but the girls always died." Your face twists in disgust at the atrocious proclamations Stregobor is freely giving you. No shit they died, who wants to be locked away?

"Internal mutations?" Pries Geralt.

"They were autopsied, of course, to confirm my suspicions. But eliminating these women was the lesser evil. They could have drowned entire kingdoms in blood." He states confidently, sure of his actions, "If you'd been alive during Falks's Rebellion, seen what I saw..."

"Innocent women are dead." Mutters Geralt, anger low in his gravely voice as you stare daggers in Stregobor's direction, what was this mans deal with hurting these poor women, how did he know if these princess' would have actually have done what was supposedly said?

"But not Renfri, the dark eyed one." You add, the wizard looks away knowing he's been caught for his interior motives, "She's after you, can't imagine why." You jab with a smirk as he walks around the fountain.

"Daughter of King Fredefalk of Creyden. I delivered the princess myself in the middle of the afternoon in pitch black." He says while keeping his gaze onto something nearby as he remembers his past dealings.

"Under the Black Sun, so....she's cursed." Muses Geralt as he throws his arms to his sides, not believing in this ridiculous story one bit, Stregobor whips around, an offended look upon his face.

"Do you consider me a fool, Witcher?" He snaps.

"Very much." His blue eyes glare at you with malice as you smile a sweet fangy grin back at him before continuing his explanation, still agitated that he's not getting any help from either of you.

"Do you think I did not conduct research? Renfri was acutely affected. Her stepmother, Aridea, told me she tortured a canary, strangled two puppies, even gouged out her maid's eye with a comb."

"She would have fit right in with my family then." You whisper with a light chuckle, he simply ignores you, a small smile flashing onto Geralt's face.

"I admit what happened next was not ideal, but...with the lives of Adrea's own children on the line, we had to act. So I dispatched someone to follow Renfri into the woods. We found him in the brush, Renfri's antique brooch jammed into his ear. After that, I organized a manhunt to find the princess, but...eh...she was gone." He rambles with a dismissive wave of his hands as he turns away from you both once again, remembering aged memories, "Two years. Until she reappeared, robbing and murdering merchants on the roads of Mahakam. Impaled them on sticks at first, but soon, she picked up sword skills. And now no man can defy her, it's said." Inquires Stregobor with a troubled look in Geralt's direction.

"You're not a man. You're a magician." States Geralt, implying that Stregobor should be able to handle this shit himself, considering he's an actual wizard and all.

"She's resistant to magic." Reveals Stregobor dismally.

Your face turns to a mix of confusion and curiosity, "That's impossible in humans." You add, never had you heard of something like this before.

"Not...mutated ones. She's chased me for years, bent on revenge. And now she attacked me here, just as you two have arrived." Declares the wizard in a hushed voice as he glances from you to Geralt, "Destiny." He whispers dramatically, "Kill her. I'll pay whoever lands the fatal blow, anything."

Geralt lets out a sigh, "We kill monsters."

"The kikimora kills because it's hungry. Renfri kills for pleasure. She is a monster. She is the last of Lilit's women. And she possess the power to destroy us all." Insists Stregobor as he leans in closer to Geralt who does not look pleased.

"If she's the last, this demon goddess cannot return considering you killed them all."

The old wizard gives you a look, "I did what was necessary for the survival of the human race, she is after me. I would rather keep my life and keep her from murdering anyone else just because she can. She has the power to bring forth unspeakable calamity."

"I don't believe anyone has that power." You reply, gifting this nutcase a less then friendly expression as you turn to leave without another word.

"You will sorely regret this." Calls out Stregobor.

"Will we?" Speaks your Witcher before turning and walking over to the small staircase leading away from the gardens. You leave Geralt on the steps, not caring for him and this wizards small exchange of words dealing with choosing between the lesser evils. You walk down the short sunny stone hallway, past more naked women and plant life as you make your way for the enchanted doors.

Enough with this mess.

——

After the events of earlier, consisting of an info dump of unneeded disturbing knowledge thrust upon you and Geralt by a rightfully paranoid old wizard, you and your silver haired man made sure to find a place in the nearby forest to camp for the night away from the village, and it's watchful residents. He grinds up some type of healing herb as you pet Roach, feeding her a well deserved carrot that you stole from the market.

Suddenly your nose catches the scent of Stregobor's worst fears, you turn in the direction of the approaching woman, a protective hand still on the mane of Roach. Renfri silently nods to you as you glance down to where Geralt is crouched, wordlessly implying for her to leave you alone and to discuss her intentions with the Witcher instead. Renfri accepts your soundless order without a word, turning she walks towards Geralt where she squats down just the same.

While petting Roach, you can't help but eavesdrop on their conversation. Renfri explains in dreadful first hand detail of what Stregobor's men really did to her in the woods before letting her live, those sick bastards. She then explains her reasoning that led her to where she is now, on her bloody war path of revenge and that now she wants you two to kill Stregobor in place of herself. Exclaiming it's the lesser evil, something you've heard too much of today which has you wondering what destiny has in store.

Geralt brushes her off as he stands up and walks over to you and Roach, Renfri following.

"I could have become so many things." She says longingly, a small smile upon her lips, "Queen Calanthe of Cintra, she just won her first battle at Hochebuz. But here I am, trying to convince you I'm not.."

"A monster." You interrupt as her gaze locks onto you.

"How am I to know?" She asks, "When I cut my finger I bleed...That's human right? When I overeat, my stomach aches. When I'm happy, I laugh. When I'm upset, I swear. And when I hate someone for stealing my whole life away from me, I kill him."

Geralt hums in thought as you purse your lips together at her truthful words before walking a couple feet away from them, her dark eyes flicker from you to Geralt, "People call you a monster too."

"A mutant." He corrects.

She smiles knowingly as her gaze settles onto your face, "You're more monster then the two of us. What if they come after you? Attack you? Why not kill them?"

"Because then I am what they say I am." You share a glance with Geralt, "We both are."

"If I tell you, Witcher..." Eyes set over to you, "..fellow princess, that I can neither forgive Stregobor nor renounce my revenge, it that it? I admit I'm a monster?"

"Yes." You add before taking a step closer to Renfri, "Or you can leave Blaviken and finally live. You choose, princess."

Geralt leads Roach up the small hill as you walk past Renfri to follow, she stands there a moment in defeat before turning her head to face your retreating forms, "What if that's not my final choice? What if I want more? What if I deserve it?"

Geralt halts as you pause your movement to face Renfri, "Then what? Kill him and be done with it? You deserve your wrath, but he deserves lasting fear for his own crimes. Maybe that old fuck was right and the daughters born under the Black Sun would bring chaos to this world...however that time is long done with. Lilit isn't coming, and you can choose to be free."

"He deserves death."

"He does, but if you kill him. You will always be hunted for this." You explain truthfully, "Renfri, you could leave this all behind and know he will always fear you for the rest of your days, is that not enough? Must you murder and be prosecuted for it too? Never free, never to travel in peace again? Is that what you want?"

Her scowl begins to slowly turn into a deep frown at your insightful words of wisdom. She knows you're right but cannot stop how her heart and soul feels towards everything she's ever set her mind to in regards to this wizard. She glares at the ground while you turn to travel elsewhere at last, the both of you leaving Renfri by the stream to deal with her own conflicted thoughts.

——

"Are you talking to Roach again about your monster slaying?" You quip as a smirk dances across your face. He looks up at you from petting Roach to shake his head with an embarrassed smile as he promptly walks over to sit upon a log and continue his grinding of that healing herb from earlier.

He glances up at you as you approach him, "Oh how I've missed your witty mouth." Muses Geralt with a half smile as you take off your cloak and go to sit down next to him.

"I just went to take a piss, calm your thoughts." He chuckles in amusement as your eyes find his hand, watching intently a he focuses his attention onto the boring task, "What hurts now?"

"Nothing. This is for when I actually get injured." You click your tongue in reply, an appealing idea popping into your mind while you silently move your hand, letting your fingers lightly touch his thigh.

Biting your lip you try and watch for a sign, "Why don't you use those strong hands of yours for something less, tedious." He immediately halts his actions, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips as he slowly turns his head to you. Raising an eyebrow at your more sensual implications.

"If the lady insists." He mutters, setting the bowl onto the leafy forest floor as he leans in closer to you, your lips making heated contact.

Under the cover of darkness, with only the small burning of the dwindling firelight do you make love to your Witcher until the moon sits high into the night sky. He feels amazing and works as a much needed distraction from the tiresome events of the day, you being the same for him.

You wake up with a start as Geralt mumbles Renfri's name, waking himself up in the process from whatever strange dream he must have been having. Suddenly your eyes go wide in realization, Renfri had claimed she would leave Blaviken in the morning, but you think otherwise.

"The market."

——

You and Geralt walk through the dreary village, no cloaks or thick leather armor adorning either one of your bodies except for your gauntlets and the thicker laced material around your torso. He carries his silver sword in his right hand, holding the blade upwards as to conceal it better from anyone directly in front of him. You walk steadily by his side, your dagger sheathed at your hip, you haven't come here to shed blood. But you know better then to assume otherwise, your suspicions further coming to light when your crimson eyes lock onto the balding bulldog looking man from yesterday in the tavern. One of Renfri's men, he looks ready to fight, with a smirk upon his smug face and a strange weapon clutched in his right hand, more of Renfri's men gathering behind him.

He spits at your feet, "She knew you two'd come." Assures the man, stopping a small distance away from you and Geralt, about five more of her followers spread about behind him.

"Where's Renfri?" Grumbles Geralt calmly, not particularly fond of what may follow.

"She's at the tower with your little friend, Marilka." The bald one sneers, a grim smile still holding onto his lips. A dark haired man in dirty faded green clothing with soot smeared about his lean face steps forward, standing next to the bald one.

"She gave us a message to pass on to you both. You have to choose the lesser evil." Challenges the dark haired man. The lesser evil, hmm.

A slightly fatter man steps forth, "It's an ultimatum." He insists while pulling out his sword from its sheath, "Get it?"

Half of them are giving you nasty smirks as they bare their own weapons, sure of themselves in how things are about to turn out for them, they have no idea just how fucked they truly are. Though you'd rather not begin this insignificant battle considering they're just men who have been blinded and manipulated by a rightfully furious princess. Why can't they just all fuck off to the woods and maybe fall down a hill?

They move in place, all ready to do some damage when another one spits at the ground. "Fuck." Mutters Geralt as he shares a dismal glance with you. No sooner does this happen do your ears prick at the familiar sound of a crossbow trigger being pressed, thus launching an arrow that slices through the air with a distinctive sing.

Time slows and you watch as a sharp arrow follows its masters path straight for Geralt's chest, in an instant he cuts it down from its path with a swift ploy of his sword. The arrow falls to the muddy ground, forgotten as soon as another man charges him, yelling out a battle cry as he ignores you, heading directly for Geralt with a quick swing of his sword. A man with an axe catches your gaze, rage in his grey eyes as he gives you an ugly smile before making a heated dash in your direction.

He swings his axe up in preparation for the death blow he's about to give, in the precious seconds that he takes to keep his arms up, you take this opportunity to unsheathe your dagger and drive it straight through his vulnerable skull. Pulling it out he instantly falls to the ground with a hard thud, blood spurting everywhere; another man throws his sword at you while admitting his own battle cry.

You skillfully duck under his powerful swing, bringing your dagger up to slice open his torso in the process, his screams filling the morning air as his insides fall out of him, you don't look back to watch as he falls, dying in the mud. You race past the crossbowman who's still frantically loading in another bolt, Geralt taking care of the dark haired man in the background.

Four more of Renfri's men charge at you, swords in one hand and shields in the other. A large man screams at you as he throws his heavy sword towards your shoulder, you quickly manifest yourself into a pack of screeching black bats. Flying yourself past the surprised man and his other friends before shifting back into your original form. They turn towards you in frightful bewildered confusion, completely taken aback by your unexpected display of abilities. In this time you quickly jab your dagger through the throat of the last man closest to you. Blood spurts out of his fresh wound as you take a step back, suddenly the other three are thrust backwards by the force of Geralt's magic. One of them quickly recovers and launches himself in your direction, leaving his two other companions to die at the hands of the Witcher.

He smartly keeps his shield in front of him for protection as he swings his sword at you. You turn to your right and jump up onto the wooden wall of someone's house as the man slashes at you, missing his target. You jump down behind him and in one swift motion pull his head back, slitting a deep cut into his throat. He falls to the ground, choking on his own blood as he bleeds out into the dirty streets of the market. In an instant Geralt is at your side when you hear the terrified shrieks of Marilka, who's trapped in the deadly clutches of Renfri, a silver blade pressed against her neck.

You stay where you are as Geralt slowly approaches Renfri, he keeps his sword lowered to the ground as she watches wide eyed and fuming.

"You chose." She whispers, shocked at how fast everything went to shit, her plans now ruined.

"Let the girl go." He pleads, Renfri looks down at Marilka in disgust, blade still closely pressed against her neck.

She scoffs, "I will kill her. I will kill everyone here until Stregobor comes down." She hisses, venom practically dripping off of her tongue.

"Leave Blaviken." Inquires Geralt as he pinches his fingers together, ready to use destructive magic on her, "It's not to late."

"Magic doesn't work on me." Fumes Renfri as Marilka whimpers beneath her arms, "Silver does, though." She adds softly, a look of pure hate upon her dirt smudged features.

"Silver is for monsters."

Renfri suddenly shoves Marilka to the side as she throws her blade upon her left arm, the fight of a lioness coursing through her veins.

"If we cross swords..." States Geralt cautiously as he begins to back up.

"I won't be able to stop." Breaths Renfri while advancing forward towards Geralt.

You watch as she skillfully lays into him, blocking his swings as he does the same with each of her deadly hits. He suddenly gains the upper hand and pins her against a wall, a second later she stabs him in the abdomen with her hidden dagger. He pulls back as she slashes at him once again, rage fueling her motives, they dance in the marketplace. The clashing of silver on silver and their heavy breathing is all that you can hear besides the beating of their hearts as blood pumps through them, adrenaline coursing throughout their systems.

You want to stop her, but this is their fight. Honor among warriors keeps you to the sidelines, this would be unfair of you to join him.

Without warning she slashes Geralt's muscular thigh, sending him to the ground with a grunt from the quick pain, in an instant she's thrusting her dagger towards his throat. But before she has a chance to lay anymore life threatening damage you swiftly block her small blade with your own weapon. Time to intervene apparently. Her face glares at you as she pulls back, your body hastily stepping in front of Geralt as he tries to gather himself, his leg throbbing in pain.

You carefully eye up the princess, "You should have left Blaviken." She smirks at your remark before swinging her sword at you. Quickly dodging her blow you shift to the side as she advances forward, launching more attacks left and right, you're able to block them with your dagger as this weapon's large enough to clash with hers. It doing enough damage on its own, even against her sword.

"No man can kill me." She hisses breathlessly as you clash your silver dagger against her shinning sword, she moves to the side as you skillfully thwart another one of her deadly assaults.

You lightly chuckle at her proclamation, "I am no man." You snap, whipping your body around to block another heated blow, she simply sneers at you, her eyes flashing with hatred.

Another slash of her sword sends you reeling backwards, your dangerous waltzing taking you and her between two houses and into another courtyard. When she brings her sword towards your stomach you quickly grab the hilt right out of her hand, taking her by surprise at your abrupt strength and inhuman reflexes. You point the ruthless silver at her jugular, your eyes two glowing rubies staring into her black stormy irises. She stares you down defiantly, nothing in her cold dark eyes but rage, you almost pity her.

Breathing heavily, you cautiously twist her sword in your hand so that your grip is holding it easier, keeping it close to her skin the whole time. You throw your large dagger to the ground, pulling away her sword from her throat and bringing it down to your side. Her brows furrow but only for a moment before she thrusts her dagger en route for your own windpipe. Dropping your sword, you quickly catch her hands clutched around her weapon with incredible speed as you then turn it around to face her. The blade pushes soundlessly into her flesh as you step closer, your blood spotted sweaty faces inches apart as her eyes go wide in realization.

You blink, pulling the dagger out with a shling sound in its wake, blood seeps out of it in a shiny tide of crimson enough to match the color of your saddened eyes. You hold her in your left arm, sword in your right, she stares up at you with nothing. You suddenly feel dreadful.

"The girl in the woods will be with near you always. She is his destiny." Gasps Renfri quietly as she searches for your eyes as something to hold onto before she's gone from this world. She didn't want this and neither did you, but she chose.

You can't help but feel horrible at what you've just done, none of this shit should have ever happened to her, she could of had a wonderful life with happy days and laughter. Instead she got betrayal and blood from the hands of a wicked wizard and his ill intent. You slowly lower her dying body onto the soft ground as shaky breaths rush from your lips. She's growing paler as a river of blood runs out of her wounds, dripping onto the mud.

Your expression contorts into a conflicted frown, you feel unbelievably terrible. "Rest now." You softly speak a last kindness, a pained expression painted across your face as you watch the light from her eyes dissipate away. When you rise from the ground Geralt stands quietly before you, a soft gaze lingering with your somber one.

"Why does it always end this way?" You wonder, anger rising into your words. Geralt lowers his head, reaching down to pick up your discarded dagger. He hands it to you, blood smeared over the hilt and blade. You walk away from the dead laying in the dry mud, Geralt following you.

—-

"Incredible. Marilka. Marilka? Marilka! Get me a cart." Demands Stregobor as he turns his head away from an approaching Geralt, "We'll take her to the tower for an autopsy."

He holds his sword up to the old wizards neck, "If you touch a single hair on her head, yours will be on the ground next." Growls Geralt, not an ounce of falsehood lacing his words. Stregobor gives him a quizzical look as you step closer to the two of them, irritation glaring back at him through eyes of crimson.

"Have you gone mad? Her mutation, it influences people. That's how she got these men to follow her. We need to take it." Insists the wizard, pausing for a moment to study Geralt's face, he tilts his head knowingly, "She got to you too, didn't she? That's why your beast had to slay her, jealousy perhaps." He concludes, glancing to you for a split second with a punchable smirk upon his aging features.

"Do not...touch her." Hisses Geralt in a low and menacing tone, Stregobor seemingly unaffected by his threats.

"Witcher." He states in the tone of a disappointed father, "You butchered bodies in the streets of Blaviken, with the princess of night at your side, killing at your command." He rules out, a crowd of shocked villagers gathering close by, sending angry looks your way.

"You're a beast." Shouts one man.

"You've both endangered the girl." Cries a woman.

"Beast!"

"She'll turn us into night creatures next.."

"Killers!"

Stregobor simply half smiles, "You took the law into your own hands." More insults are screamed and yelled at by the growing crowd of displeased rowdy villagers, "You both made a choice. And you'll never know if it was the right one." He whispers, pleased with how things have turned out for him.

Suddenly a rock cracks you in the side of your temple, another one catching Geralt on the side of his head as people from the crowd shout more insults and heated threats. He kneels to the ground, picking up Renfri's brooch as more rocks bounce off of his back. You keep onto your feet, glaring at Stregobor from the hood of your eyes as you tilt your head down, your hands balled into tight fists at your sides while more rocks are being thrown at you. Marilka walks in front of the two of you, a pitifully disappointed look upon her young face.

Her lip trembles, "Get out of Blaviken, the both of you. Don't ever come back." She warns as tears well up in the corners of her hazel eyes, Geralt slowly stands as he turns a downcast look in your direction. You give a small nod in mutual understanding, it's time to go. As you turn on your heel and take a step forward, the people of Blaviken immediately go silent as they watch your every move.

They back away as you and Geralt pass through the dreary streets on your way out of the village, soon they gain their confidence back as they scream and curse, clenching their fists. A couple bold teenagers chucking more stones, aiming to shed blood. Aiming to feel strong.

You and your Witcher keep your heads down, eyes upon the dirt as they scream and harass you both all the way to the gates. You make your way for the woods, dirt and blood marking unkindly upon your dispirited features.

Everything feels so wrong, and your head feels cloudy with troubled thoughts and dismal images. You just wanted to travel to Blaviken to get Geralt some new clothes, this is not how you intended for things to go.

-

Tagged: @notahappytree​ @ashleyforeverareject​ @sokkasdarling​ @kmuir1​@haleypearce (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work)

[paperficwriter]

I’ll Follow You Into the Dark

Harboring a fugitive means having to be careful, having to be smart about it. Because what terrible things might happen if someone were to find out? Unfortunately, being particularly clever is not one of Badd’s strong suits.

Written for @kaincuro​! Cut is for length, not for content.

“Where have you been?”

Badd hasn’t even gotten in the door yet. He’s just opened it with his shirt covering his hand because it’s gross, because there are splashes of gore on his clothes. Showers are available at the Hero Association HQ, yes, but it would have meant being out even later. The chance to take advantage of the Class S wing’s amenities was outmatched by his desire to be home with Garou.

“I got sidetracked by two monsters when my shift was supposed to end.” Garou’s eyes shine in the dark like a cat, even when the rest of his face is obscured by shadow, and Badd gropes for a light switch. “Ya could have at least waited with a lamp on. Where’s Z—”

“She’s staying over with that one annoying girl from her class.” A hand grabs his wrist and pulls him. “Why didn’t you call? You’re always browbeating me about using the burner phone you got me.”

“I said I was—”

“After.”

“It died. Garou, let me get a damn light, ya fuckin’—”

There’s a mouth jamming into his, which isn’t really the best way to describe a kiss. This is more like he’s being berated, like it’s a scold in the form of affection that’s being taken rather than given. Garou licks his face, and that’s so fucking gross, he’s told him how gross that is, especially right now when he’s sweaty and dirty. 

That sharp nose presses in next to his, and his face is held by icy fingers. He can hear his lashes falling on his cheeks, and between their eyes is this singing . That’s the only way he can think of it as. A high-pitched energy.

I was worried, Garou is thinking into him so he doesn’t have to say it. 

“I’m sorry.” Despite the grime (clearly Garou doesn’t give a shit) Badd palms the back of Garou’s neck until their foreheads touch into a point of pain. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

“Mm.”

He puts on a little smile. “I’m real flattered that ya missed me so much, though. It’s nice to be missed. Kinda sweet, comin’ from you.”

“Shut the fuck up.” There’s not even an ounce of bitterness in those words; the only thing reflecting any hurt is the way he pinches his cheek.

“Ow.”

“What? You’re the one who liked being missed so much. I should show you all the things I miss. Like these stupid soft cheeks of yours.”

“You’re just jealous. You’re like all skin and bones and shit.”

It’s still dark, but Badd’s eyes have adjusted. He leans his bat against the wall by the coat stand, on the linoleum where he can take it out and hose it off later. It’s the only moment he takes his hands off Garou, and he returns them just as quickly to sweep over his chest. Garou’s shirt is just a little loose on him, which is a pretty big indicator that he’s borrowing one of his.

He leans up until he feels a little soft hair on his nose and the bump of Garou’s ear. “Why don’t you show me all the other things you missed in the shower with me?” he whispers, and damned if he isn’t dragged down the hall on the spot.

Garou hisses when he finally turns the bathroom light on, and Badd gets his eyes on him for the first time since that morning. God, he kind of looks awful. Not that he’s going to say that, but there is this worn quality to the skin on his face, his eyes are a little squinty (even after he gets accustomed to the light) and there’s just a fatigue that’s there that’s not normally there.

“G. I’m okay. See? None o’ this blood’s mine, yeah?”

Slim fingers pick at some dried blood on his collarbone, then practically tears his shirt off. 

“I’m really, really sorry. I promise I’ll try not to let it happen again. I—”

“I almost went out looking for you.”

Badd stops talking for a second. His heart squeezes uncomfortably. “Ya know ya can’t do that durin’ the day. You’re…” A wanted criminal. The only monster that has ever escaped from the Hero Association. “It’s not safe.”

Garou scowls, pulling back, his touch rescinded entirely. He bends his head to rub his face against his own shoulder like a cat, and it makes Badd wonder if he’s trying to spread his scent onto his cheek. “I didn’t, did I?”

"It won't be forever. And it's nice when we go out at night, yeah? To our special spot?"

On the hill that overlooks the river. The one that's two miles outside the city, where sometimes Garou will meet him after work or Badd will drag him out on evenings like this in a completely different outfit.

Sometimes they don't even get there at the same time. They even pretend they're strangers. To spice things up. Keep it interesting.

But Garou doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere. He’s kissing him again, grabbing for his pants, and those pale fingers are getting dirty on his buttons. Badd scrambles to try to undress him too, but Garou is like some unstoppable force when he’s like this. 

“No trips tonight,” he says when he gets to his neck, hand slapping out to start the water. It hits too hot, but Badd can’t get to it to adjust. “I need you here. I’ve needed you here. I don’t want to share you with anyone else, even if it’s just the fucking bugs and birds and shit.”

Badd chuckles and lets Garou pin him to the wall. The water is running murky right now, and this should be gross, he should be shoving him off, but denying Garou is like trying to stop a hurricane with a parasol. 

“Alright, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”

How does it happen?

They fuck up somewhere. It’s hard to say where, or when, or how.

Was it when Garou slinked along beside Badd when he went on a midnight grocery run?

Or the time Garou snarled at a guy who catcalled a girl as he was waiting for Badd to get off the train, and Badd grabbed his arm so he wouldn’t actually take off after the weasel? 

Or was it just chance? A suspicion, a hunch, and a window open a little too wide in the bedroom?

It doesn’t matter.

Garou had gone for a walk. Just a walk. It was fall, so the nights were getting longer, so while Badd dropped Zenko off at their cousin’s for the weekend, Garou went out into the crisp air, hat pulled down over his ears, Badd’s favorite jacket on with the embroidered tiger on the back (the hero had made the piece of clothing too tantalizing, always scolding that if he ripped it or stained it, he’d fucking kill him).

Although Garou’s walks always took him into a run, and then a leap, dashing up buildings until he could see for miles. And this one was different. His slippered feet propelled him from rooftop to rooftop, the smell of drying leaves and burning wood in his nostrils, air whistling.

His phone vibrated. ‘Gonna pick up food. What u want?’

He landed on one foot on the top of a stone cross erected on an empty church. Pigeons noisily swarmed from inside the belfry and out into the air. ‘Dumplings. Soup. Meat.’

‘lol, ok. See u soon.’

That’s the last one. The last text.

When he’s coming back, the noises make his ears twitch as much as his nerves. Anyone else wouldn’t notice, but he knows every inch of Badd’s house. He knows the furniture in it, the weight of it, and he knows what it’s like to fight inside (there were a few of those when he first started living there). 

There are people inside the house. There are people ransacking Badd’s house. 

The part of Garou that Badd always calls “the guard dog side” heats up to combustible levels. Usually it’s “cute” (again, something Badd says), when he glares at the door before he’s pushed off Badd and down the hallway out of sight. 

They’ve sprayed something on the windows so he can’t see. Fine. If they want to do this the painful way, he’ll oblige.

The window breaks as he goes through it so fast that he barely cuts himself, rolling into the bedroom. There are three men in suits, and the bed - their bed - is turned upside down. The nightstand is cracked, the drawer thrown open and turned out. Everything that they have worked to make theirs is ruined, and Garou roars. 

“He’s here! He’s—”

Garou grabs the man’s face and throws him through the broken window. The other two reach for guns on their belts, but the movement takes far too long compared to the speed with which Garou attacks, sending each of them flying into the walls. 

I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all.

“Garou…”

It only takes a few sprinting steps to get to the stairs that lead to the living room, although it takes three (precious, few, too many) seconds to take out goons in the upstairs bathroom and in Zenko’s room. One manages to get a shot off, and the sound rings in Garou’s ears even as his fist breaks through his nose and jaw. He drops the bullet he caught onto the ground.

From the landing, he can see down into a black sea of men in suits, like the ones he’s dealt with upstairs. Badd is sitting up in a chair, and even from here Garou can see that his eyelids are heavy, a sagging in his cheeks and muscles. 

He’s been drugged with something.

One of the guys has his foot on his bat, which is on the floor, and there are several guns trained on Badd’s head.

He does the math.

Garou is fast, and if it was one person, only one, he could make it. But there isn’t one. There’s...twenty. They are crammed in here, and they all have guns, and there are too many for someone not to get lucky. And from the range they have on Badd, they don’t even need luck.

Run. 

It’s not a word that comes to his mind. It’s one silently mouthed by Badd.

Run, Garou.

Garou shakes his head. How can he run? How can he leave him? Now, at their worst point? That’s not just making him a coward. It’s making him a truer villain than he ever possibly could have conceived of himself to be. “No. Badd—”

So Badd is the one who moves. He sinks his teeth into his own hand, and Garou can feel as much as see how his Fighting Spirit flares. 

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

Shots fired at him, around the room. Ten men pile on Badd, and he disappears under their bodies. “Run, Garou! Get the fuck outta here! ”

Two shots hit him. In the side and in the shoulder. Too much happening. Too many distractions. Below him, he can see Badd struggling, and he knows he’s alive and if he’s alive he can find him, he can get him back.

“Take him down! Don’t let the Hero Hunter get away!”

The Hero Hunter.

That’s all he is to them. He’s still that version of himself that he had given up, the already-flimsy mask that had been torn off in that last fight.

Breaking into a run down the hall is like running through mud. Maybe not physically - physically he outpaces them all, a wild animal that knows the woods better than any clumsy human - but with every step he’s calculating when, where, why, how, will they, won’t they, what are you doing?

He doesn’t just go through the window; he takes half of the wall with him. This time, he barely touches the rooftops as he jumps from one to the next. Anything it takes to put as much distance as he can between himself and that house, those men.  

And Badd? A voice in his head asks.

He smothers it in his molten rage.

---

Who is he kidding? Garou can’t stay away. It doesn’t matter that it’s only been a few months. It doesn’t matter that they will probably check in on the house, or that they may be watching it now. He’s drawn back to it like a bird - like a chicken, that awful voice says again, rearing back, returning over and over no matter how much he ignores it - and in the dark he’s much harder to spot.

He waited a day. That’s as much as he can be expected to wait, isn’t it?

They’ve only put tarps over the holes, so he goes in the exact same way as he did that afternoon. 

Everything is still a mess. Any shelf that was standing or on the wall has been torn off, tipped over, emptied. Clothes have been pulled out and left scattered on the floor, or in piles. Nothing seems intact.

Even the bed has a gash running through it, clearly torn open by a knife. It nicked Badd’s pillow, and feathers are bleeding out onto the comforter. The sight makes him so angry that he picks up the whole bed and he’s about to throw it through the wall when two eyes shine up at him.

“Meow.”

Tama. She’s pushed herself into the tightest ball she can in the corner, somehow evading the terrible events of the afternoon. He puts the bed down, leaning it against Badd’s desk, and reaches down for her. She darts down the hallway into Zenko’s room.

The scene is the same. Granted, he always hated the posters and standees of Amai Mask, but seeing them ruined, torn off the wall (for what fucking purpose, those bastards) makes him nauseated. 

“Meow.” Now she’s under Zenko’s bed. He gets down on his stomach and pats the floor. She doesn’t move.

“Come on, Tama.” She backs up, and he kicks the door closed with his foot so she can’t run away again. “Come. On.”

She can survive. Cats are predators, and they can handle themselves. You’ve done enough— 

“Come on!” His fist lands on the floor. A piece of paper falls off the pink cork board over Zenko’s desk, fluttering to the floor. Not paper. A photo. Badd is grinning, with her up on his shoulders, and Zenko is making bunny ears over his head. Garou stares at it, not blinking, not moving. And then he realizes that he’s just barely in the picture. Half his face, the visible part of his smirk, and he recalls Zenko begging Badd to let her keep it. 

“Just that one. And it stays at home. Understand? No showin’ it to anyone at school.”

“I promise!”

He hates this feeling.

And it’s one he should be used to, isn’t it? Being on his own. He was on his own for so long, living in that shack, stealing food. And only a few times did it ache a little, to be away from the world, but it was worth it, because he had a goal.

What does he have now?

...nothing.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Liar. Liar. Liar.

You could have stopped it. You should have died stopping it. 

No. No. No.

The bristles of Zenko’s carpet are making his face itch, but all the energy has gone from his body. It’s hard to tell how long he stays there, the silence so eerie. No television. No talking. No breathing. 

And then, there’s something. A gentle vibration. He glances up to find that Tama has occupied the space of his slightly-bent arm, where it had been outstretched. Her eyes are heavy, and she’s purring gently. When he picks her up, she lets it happen, and he pockets the photo as well.

For a moment, he considers taking more, but…

No. 

...better to let this chapter end. It’s easier to let it all go. He has the jacket, and Tama, and one picture of them together.

Yes. Look at where attachments have brought you.

---

Garou memorizes the address on the fridge, and rips it into tiny pieces. If they found it already, they have it, and if they don’t, they won’t now. It doesn’t look like anyone is watching the place, so far as he can tell.

He gently knocks on the window.

“Garou!” Zenko looks like she’s been crying, so she must have some idea what’s happened. That makes things easier, although who knows what they’ve told her. Her face is red, and she grabs his arm, trying to pull him in from where he’s crouching on the window sill. 

“No. I can’t stay.”

“You can’t go!” One of her fists punches his arm as her eyes start filling with tears again. “Don’t go, Garou!”

It hurts. He doesn’t...he wasn’t expecting it to hurt this much. “Here.” Reaching into his jacket with his free hand, he takes Tama out and hands it to her. She has to let him go to take the large cat in her arms.

“Tama…” Now she’s sobbing into the cat’s fur, and he remembers just how old Tama is. Old enough to have been there through losing their parents. Old enough for all Badd’s antics, all the things that led him to promise ‘no violence in front of her.’ 

Some good that did.

“Do you…” she hiccups and scrubs her eyes. “Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know if he’s okay?”

“...I don’t know.”

“What do you know?!”

“Nothing!” Before he can stop it, his voice goes as sharp as hers. “I don’t know anything yet! Are you happy?!”

At first, in the moment he regrets it, he thinks she’ll start crying and then...what, is he going to try to comfort her? But instead she puts Tama down, jumps up and slaps him in the face. Which doesn’t really hurt all that much (physically, at least). Not as much as when she yells at him, “You’re the adult! You’re supposed to be able to deal with it!”

...he is, isn’t he.

He holds his hand out. “Give me your phone for a second.”

When she unlocks it and hands it over, Garou brings up the news and searches for ‘Metal Bat.’ Immediately, there are several articles about his “leave of absence” from the Hero Association, about “suspicions of misconduct,” and how he was currently staying in the Hero Association Headquarters where they would be investigating his involvement with “possible criminal monsters.”

A monster...

Garou hands the phone back to her. “You probably saw that he’s at the hero headquarters.”

She nods. “That doesn’t narrow it down much...the new one is huge. You can’t just— Garou!” Zenko pulls hard at his arm as he tries to jump away, like she can yank him inside. “You can’t just go in!”

“I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Take me with you!”

“No way.” She’s about to yell at him again, he can tell, but he gently, firmly pulls his arm out of her grasp. “Your brother will kill me if I get you in trouble. And who will take care of Tama then?”

Zenko hates it. He can tell, because the expression on her face is how his gut has felt all day: angry, grief-stricken, hurt. “Promise you’ll come back for me. That you’ll both come get me!”

He nods. “Fine. Call Tareo. He’ll be worried, and I don’t want you alone.”

He leaves after that without saying goodbye. There’s nothing more to say, and he can’t make any more promises he’s not sure if he’ll be able to keep.

---

Garou spends that night in the special spot. He curls up in the tall grass where he usually does, and below him he can hear the water gently lapping over the rocks. It’s dark, and there’s a breeze, but there are stars overhead. 

He takes Badd’s jacket off and balls it up under his head, where he can breathe it in.

“I love ya, Garou.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, it’s right, jerk.” Badd laughs and smacks his chest. He’s using him as a pillow, that night, and it’s warm yet cool enough that this is the first time they’ve been able to stand being out in it. In the distance, storm clouds are moving in. They’ll be forced home soon.

Garou is playing with his hair. He usually has it down when they go out. The pompadour is too much of a signature for him, too unique. Like this, Garou can pass his fingers through it without it getting caught in product. 

“You don’t have to say it back.”

“Good.”

Badd’s smiling into his flesh, and he traces the outline of one of his pecs. It makes goosebumps jump up across Garou’s shoulders. “You at least like me, don’t ya?” he teases, poking him near the armpit so he jumps. 

“God, no.” Garou rolls until he’s got Badd on his back and he’s looming over him, growling as he places several nipping bites down his throat. “Can’t stand you…”

“Yeah, I get that a lot from folks,” Badd laughs.

“No, you don’t. And that’s what I hate the most.” He follows the path of the bites with little kisses, faintly feeling Badd rubbing at his scalp. “You’re so damn likable...everyone fawning all over you...you’re like the neighborhood mutt everyone wants to give treats to.”

Badd sits up a bit until he can press his face into the soft space of skin under his eye, slotting his nose into the dip of his cheek. “Do ya wanna give me a treat?”

God. He wants to be annoyed, but Badd’s boyish face, his little smile, his hands, even the calluses on his fingers...every piece of him just endears him more and more. Does that mean that this is love? Is this what love is? It’s not like he’s ever felt this for someone before, this positive energy. The only things that he can think of that have fueled him are spite. Anger. Bitterness. At best: boredom.

Not that he hasn’t been kind to others (as kind as he has thought possible) but…

But he doesn’t know enough to say it.

…

You should have said it. You might never get a chance to tell him again. You knew at the time, and the only reason you didn’t say it was because you were a fucking coward.

Garou curls up tighter. 

Or.

An itch is beginning to cover his skin. His eyes actually hurt, like he’s been swimming with his eyes open, but it deepens into a worst burn.

Or you never loved him at all.

“No!” When Garou punches the ground, he can see that his skin is different. Harder, stony. Like that day. His head is on fire. The voice that comes up from his throat doesn’t even sound like his. It’s coming out of a smoking muzzle. 

When he gets up - on all fours, so tall now that the long, hard tail swinging behind him knocks two trees over - he picks up the jacket, the picture still in the pocket, and holds it against his chest. The armor shell that has been forming around him seems to swallow it up, and he can feel the material, feel Badd, pressed to him. Present. Protected.

It’s very possible that he won’t survive the night.

He accepts that.

And as he lets out a howl so long and so low, so reverberating and far-traveling that he can hear dogs on the far shore return his call, he turns away from the hill and begins to run back toward the city.

---

It’s like this was the only form he could take to quiet his mind.

Because when Garou gets to the Hero Association Headquarters, he doesn’t stop to think or consider his next plans. He’s not crafty or cunning (was he ever?). He’s a mad dog. No, a wolf. A rabid wolf, in form as much as action now.

And the Hero Association has never been good at actually defending itself against monsters.

The glass in the front of the huge building shatters as he goes through it. 

“Baaaaaadd!” It’s the only thing that comes out of his mouth where gray fangs make the darkness within look like a cave without an end. “Badd!”

The men inside are shooting at him, but this isn’t like inside the house. The bullets bounce off him, and he runs through them, into a door, another passage. His huge nose sniffs at the air, and even though they begin crumbling under his weight, he starts taking the stone stairs that lead up further into the building.

More security. This time, in the form of flying drones with both constant artillery as well as drugs, electricity, nets. 

Insects. All of them.

It’s not to say that Garou doesn’t feel their attacks. The rocky armor surrounding him cracks in places, pieces falling to the floor in small piles. But he’s being fueled by something greater than metal and energy.

They crunch like cans in his jaws. 

“Baaaadd!”

He tears through another door, clearly reinforced, having to dig through it with his claws. Cameras are watching him; sometimes he catches one out of the corner of his eye, and in the lens he can see his blood-red, burning eyes. 

He doesn’t waste time with them. Let them see.

More humans. More humans with guns, with long spears that end in shock cords, like the kind used to leash strays. Do they think it will be effective? They sting when they touch him, sure, when they manage to loop his ears but the moment he shakes his head he can hear their bodies make contact with the walls.

They keep trying to trap him, trying to close him between lock-down gates. It’s obvious they think he’ll try to go through the steel, but then he just turns and rips his way through the wall. 

More robots. More rolling, shielded automatons. They issue warnings he doesn’t heed, and the ones he can’t literally destroy he just ignores.

Then, it gets quiet.

And that is worse than any of the defense that he’s faced to this point as he’s climbed higher and higher in the building, following Badd’s scent, tracking him through corridors and stairs and firepower. 

When he gets to a large, open room, empty but for equipment and air ducts far up in the ceiling, he’s about to start scaling the wall when the door in front of him opens and a lone figure walks through.

“Ah...I just want to sleep...why do they want to put me to work so late?”

It’s him. Saitama. Again, here, at the end of everything, why, why, why .

He’s picking at his ear, his other hand in the pocket of his striped pajamas. “Didn’t even have time to change…”

Garou’s options are limited. He can go back the way he came, or he can charge forward. But then, would he make it either way? Saitama was fast last time. And Garou… 

He can’t help slumping. God, he’s tired. 

He’s no stronger than he was before…

“Oh, it’s you again. You look a bit different. So...you here to cause trouble, or…?

Garou growls. He’s talking to him like he’s a child that’s gotten somewhere he’s not supposed to be. On the tip of his nose, he can just barely smell Badd still. They’re moving him. Higher? Farther away? It’s hard to tell. “Badd…”

Saitama turns and looks up toward the ceiling, where Garou’s gaze is fixed. “Is that why you’re here? Are you two friends now or something?”

The growling intensifies. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have. This isn’t a moment he wants to share. Not with him. Not with the one person who could break him down so completely, who could ruin everything like it was nothing. 

“I don’t like that, you know. What they’re doing.”

Garou stops moving. 

“Everybody knows Metal Bat. He talks about his sister in every meeting. I don’t think he would do something that would endanger her.” He drops his fist in his hand, as though something has made sense to him. “It was you, wasn’t it? Who they think he’s associating with. You two are friends now. Good thing Genos isn’t here...that probably wouldn’t be enough to stop him.”

Garou watches as Saitama moves, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I think,” he says, cracking his bare feet against the floor, “this is better for you, you know. Doing more of the hero thing. The villain thing was kind of half-assed, you know.”

Saitama walks away from the door he came out of, leaning against the wall.

“And I’m sure I’m probably already in trouble, but it’s going to be worse for you if you don’t go get him now. Because they’ll probably send one of those other heroes after you...maybe that scary girl that flies around.”

Every instinct Garou has is telling him this is a trick. A trap. Not to trust anything he says, to stay and fight.

But what is there to gain? What would be smarter or better than just letting the strongest hero kill him right here, right now? 

...he’s still not going to thank him. He won’t give him that satisfaction. 

Garou just smashes through the door and keeps running.

—

Badd wonders if he’s having some kind of out-of-body experience.

He can’t focus on anything, he realizes. Not asleep. Not awake. 

At one point he thinks...is he at the dentist? Because there’s something in his mouth, keeping him from putting his teeth together...but they don’t cuff your hands to the bed at the dentist, do they?

Now and then, he hears people talking.

At this moment? People are talking much louder. More excitedly. Above him, lights are moving quicker. He can see them around the mask over his nose. 

He’s in a hallway.

And everything is starting to feel...bumpy. Like there’s an earthquake. Is it an earthquake? Are they taking him somewhere safe?

...somewhere safe...because...this place isn’t safe, is it?

People start screaming, and suddenly something huge is standing over him. He’s staring into gray dark, and there are four limbs over top of where he is laying. Somehow, in all of the fog, it’s like…

It’s like he knows he’s being protected.

“Hnngh…?” He can’t talk with the thing in his mouth. And his hands are still trapped.

This...god, yes, this has to be a dream. It’s the only thing that makes sense when all the sounds stop and the creature backs up and stares down at him. A wolf. But...a statue of a wolf? No, more like a gargoyle, because there are cracks in the stone, and that’s falling away, getting smaller until…

Garou.

Garou’s here.

He tries to reach his hands out to him, but...right, no, those have to stay where they are. Except then Garou breaks the thick cuffs, and he’s snapping the harness that’s around his head, holding what he sees now is some kind of bit. He takes the mask off him too.

Slowly, he begins to come back into the real world.

“Garou…Garou, I…” Arms go around him, holding him so suddenly, so tightly, that his muscles object because… “How long have I been here?”

“Two days. I love you.”

Badd blinks. “Garou, it’s—”

“This is my fault. It’s all my fault. I ruined your life. I ruined your life, and they took you away, and if I had lost you, I would have...I don’t know what I would have done. And you would have been gone without me having said it back.”

Badd pulls back enough to look him in the face. He doesn’t even know how to describe the expression that’s there. Garou looks like he’s the one who was coming close to death. “I love you too. Okay? I’m okay. They probably...fuck, they were probably keepin’ me under and all so I wouldn’t trigger my Fightin’ Spirit. If I accidentally bit my tongue ‘r somethin.’”

Garou kisses him, and he kisses back. He’s pretty sure they both know this is not what they should be doing right now, but… 

“Zenko. Fuck, Zenko, is she—”

“She’s okay. So’s Tama.”

Even in spite of the terrible condition they are in, as Garou helps him out of what seems to be a modified hospital bed, Badd has to laugh. “Ya went back for Tama, huh…”

Garou picks up something off the floor. His jacket, he realizes, and Garou puts it on him, over the sort of sterile gown they changed him into. He takes a step and almost falls, and Garou picks him up effortlessly in his arms.

“Ya know...I didn’t think that the first time you would carry me like this would be so...dire, ya know?”

Garou’s face is starting to soften, and as he hears approaching footsteps - running, quickly - he takes them through an empty room. The windows overlook the city beyond. It’s a long way down, but...they’ve both managed from higher places. “Ready?” he asks.

Badd tucks his face into Garou’s neck and steals one last kiss before bracing himself. “Yeah...yeah. Let’s do this.”

He’s not lying. The rest of the details aren’t important. He just closes his eyes as Garou carries him through the glass and the air, into whatever comes next for them, trusting that he’ll get them there, no matter what. 

[chocolatepot]

Captive Princess, Chapter One

(Working title)

The sky should not have been so blue, Madeleine thought, her work forgotten in her lap as she gazed out of the solar’s southern window; it had no right to be such a beautiful day, when all of Germaine held its breath to find out whether its king would live or die. She had left the sickroom under duress, after both the court physicians and her closest ladies begged her to rest.

“You know that I will not be able to sleep,” she told Lady Lianne. “Not while my father struggles so to breathe.”

“Of course.” Lady Lianne always understood: she was Madeleine’s confidant, offering advice in every situation and ready with a witty retort or whispered comment to defuse tension, and there was no-one the princess trusted more. Lianne squeezed her hand. “Why not sew an offering to Iaçe and Acese, and pray for your father’s health?” Madeleine nodded, and allowed herself to be led away to the solar, where she allowed Lady Jeanne to cut a square of white silk for her to embroider with a prayer and Lady Cornelie to put a length of golden thread through a needle. She could only manage the first few letters of her prayer before she laid her hands in her lap and stared blankly out the window.

Lady Lianne had tried to console her the night before, offering her sweet mouth and fingers if they would help her sleep, but Madeleine could not bear to be touched at the time. She sat near the princess's feet, glancing up every now and again without speaking, for which Madeleine was glad. She did not know what to say. Unless the gods were merciful, within a matter of days or possibly hours, she would be taking on the role she had been trained her entire life for – she would rule Germaine. And while she had never been fervent in her ambition (indeed, there were many times that she had wished Guy were the older sibling and that she could become a consort, not to be required to make heavy decisions regarding war and peace and executions), she could not imagine wanting it less than she did at that moment.

Suddenly, the door was flung open with such force that it rebounded against the arras behind it. Adele screamed, dropping her sewing basket, as four guardsmen rushed in with drawn blades; Jeanne and Marie clutched at each other and looked fearfully for the threat that had brought their protectors crashing into the solar. But the protectors were the threat, Madeleine realized in the split second while she fought through her weariness to stand, before they fell upon her ladies.

It was a slaughter. They were gentlewomen, none taught to fight. Quick Cornelie ran, but there was only one door to the solar and it had been blocked, so she was chased and stabbed awkwardly – it took several cuts to bring her to the floor. Adele was not so quick, not even getting to her feet before a heavy downward thrust pierced all the way through her body. The others fell, one by one, in terror and pain and blood – so much blood, spurting and oozing and dripping and, finally, spreading quietly over the floor. It happened so quickly that before Madeleine could think of what to do, it was over, and she stood by her chair among the dead bodies of her women, trembling, with her hands balled into fists by her side. Only Lianne was left, crouched by her legs – it must have been a miracle.

But that was also not what it appeared, Madeleine realized, as her first lady of the bedchamber slowly stood and went to stand behind the guards, who were now turning their gazes on her. Lianne's face was sick and pale, but there was not even a hint of surprise on it. She was joined from the corridor outside by another familiar figure: Sir Pierre de la Guiaume, Lianne's brother and Prince Guy's favorite companion. A handkerchief was at the ready in his hand, and he pressed it to his face as he looked about the room, ensuring that the slaughter had been complete.

"A pity," he said after overlooking Jeanne, whose lovely long neck bore an obscene gash across it, and whose body was pierced in two places. They had been betrothed, and Jeanne had read aloud so many poems written by her supposedly ardent swain on the subject of his eternal devotion and submission to her wishes. That was all that she merited: two words, the same he might have delivered if a brachet were gored during a hunt.

He was finally satisfied, and turned to Madeleine. "Which one of you has the gag?" he asked, holding up a hand and motioning forward with his fingers. Two of the guards sprang to order, but now she found her ability to move again, and she backed away, past the window.

"How dare you," she said in a half-croak. "How dare you commit this violation, this atrocity on my women? You will be tortured, and flayed, and then hanged, drawn, and quartered for this – I shall see your heads rotting on spikes until there is nothing left but clean bones, and I will have them crushed to dust."

"You will not," said Pierre, as one of the pair of guards lunged forward. She was wrapped tightly in his arms so that she could scarcely struggle, only kick ineffectually at his ankles. The other was hidden from her sight, but after a moment a sort of pointed leather cup appeared from behind her; it snugly fitted over her mouth and chin, and no amount of head-shaking could prevent it. "You will be far from here, and I suspect that you will die long before any one of the rest of us."

The princess could not make any retort regarding the intercession of the gods in her plight due to the gag, which was tied tightly behind her head and kept her jaw firmly closed.

"Good – you're quiet now. Someone bind her hands and feet, and let us move." She would have thought that the guards would feel something –  at least some trepidation at the possible result of this lesé majesté – but their movements were unflinching and sure. With her hands tied behind her back and her ankles wrapped with a cord, she was truly defenseless, though she was forced to admit that she had been defenseless even before: she had been able to do nothing when her ladies were killed, not even scream for help. Still almost disbelieving that any of the events of the past few moments had happened, she looked to Lianne, hoping that some look would reveal her to be acting under her brother's control. Instead, she stared back with a clear gaze. How?

"You may take this as a lesson," Lady Lianne told her, "about not trusting someone simply because they agree with you and bed you well."

"That carpet will do," Pierre said, pointing to one at the side of the solar with only a little blood on it. The guards forced her down onto one edge, and proceeded to roll her up in it. This cut off her senses, and she was left in the hot dark, alone. Her mind went accordingly blank.

That had been a mercy, she realized some time later, after the carpet she was imprisoned inside had been carried out of the palace and unrolled in some damp cellar. She had been roughly stripped to her shift, then left to wait, huddled in a corner – and it was then that her emotions returned. Jeanne was dead. Adele was dead. Cornelie was dead. Beatrice and Marie and Margot were dead. Adele would never tell another of her amusing anecdotes; Margot would never dance a lively rondeau. Lianne was the only one left alive, and that was by her own design. She had betrayed their little sisterhood, allowing her brother to have them all butchered.

Her father suddenly came to her mind, and that broke through the last of the icy numbness, driving her to tears and great, shuddering sobs. She would never say goodbye to him – never observe the funeral rites, not stand by Guy's side at his bier. And Guy would never know what had happened to her. He would have to lose his father and sister at almost the same time. He was a man grown, by many standards, but she still thought of him as a little boy, terrified and alone, and he would have to cope with the greatest responsibilities of the kingdom being thrust upon him.

It was some time before she had herself under control enough to question what would happen to herself. Most highborn ladies who were stolen were ransomed back to their families, or sold to someone else to ransom. That could not be it, though, as once she returned she would only have to give the order for the entire Guiaume family to be arrested and executed for treason, and they would not be so stupid as to think they could get around that. Only two possibilities seemed likely, and the likeliest was that she would leave the cellar soon, but as a corpse. It was possible, in that scenario, that she would be raped before that in order to degrade and humiliate her before her death. The other was that she would be sold to some enemy of the state and executed, although this seemed less likely – the crowns of any of the surrounding countries would want to force her to sign pacts and treaties that would benefit them.

Madeleine was the crown princess, her father’s rightful heir, and so she had been well-educated in statecraft, modern and ancient languages, geography, mathematics, music, philosophy, and rhetoric; she had been only trained enough in swordplay to be comfortable wielding a dagger, and performing ceremonies that required a blade, and could not wrestle or brawl. She would have been defenseless any way, and she was naked, bound, and gagged. She would die, and there was nothing to be done.

At least if she were to die, she would do so with dignity. Her legs had become stiff from being pulled back in one position, and she stretched them before coming to kneel on the damp earth. Her bonds prevented her from raising her hands or speaking any of the words aloud, but she silently began the prayers to the funerary goddesses Tacite and Nenie that she had said with her mother years ago, when the queen’s illness was finally drawing to its end.

When men came for her, Madeleine was prepared and at peace, confident that her soul would descend from her body at the appropriate moment and join her mother’s, and perhaps also her father’s. She did not struggle when she was pulled to her feet, and she walked out with her head held high. If they were to cut off her head, she knew that the gods would ensure that the blade would be sharp and the blow strong.

[jeballin]

Caught in the Crossfire

Hey there, I just started this new blog for when I am inspired to write! This is my first fic.

Hope you enjoy! 

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Summary: When an unexpected and most definitely unwelcome gift arrives on your doorstep, you find yourself realizing the terrifying consequences of getting caught up in Jeon Jungkook and Bangtan

Genre: Mafia AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Gore, Suicidal thoughts (briefly), Panic attacks, Mentions of violence

Word Count: 3.2k

 You stare in absolute horror at the box on your doorstep, wrapped perfectly in beautiful paper with a silk bow tied around it. The ribbon is embroidered with blue roses— their symbol—and a tag with your name is tucked under it. Your blood runs cold, and you immediately jerk back inside your house, slamming your front door shut. Your feel yourself start to hyperventilate; your heart is racing, and your palms are becoming sweaty.

They know about you.

You reach for the curtains on your windows, but quickly think better of it and bring your face to your front door instead. The peephole reveals nothing out of the ordinary in its limited scope, but you don’t relax. You pause briefly, hand on your doorknob, and gather all your courage.

They know your name.

Carefully, you twist the knob and open your front door again. To both your dread and unsurprise, the package is still sitting in front of your door, mocking you. You nervously crane your neck out of your doorway and glance down both ends of your street. No one is on your street and you find no parked cars with suspiciously tinted windows. You quickly collect the box in your arms and back into your house, slamming the door shut again and hurriedly locking it.

They know where you lived.

Your empty residence suddenly feels like it has far too many windows. Your legs feel like lead as you bring the box upstairs to your bedroom and draw all your curtains shut. You set the box carefully on your bed and take a few steps back, staring at it as if looking away would cause whatever was inside to jump out and kill you. You still your breath and listen, but no sound comes from the box at all. You wish that you can just ignore it and throw it in the trash. You wish doing that would actually make this all go away.

How did they find you?

You glance at your cell phone on your dresser. A pink notification blinks up at you. Pink was the color you had assigned to him in your phone; your boyfriend, Jeon Jungkook. Your fingers twitch. You want so badly to pick up your phone and call him and tell him to come and rid you of this terrible nightmare, but you steel yourself.

No. You can’t. Not until you know exactly what you’re dealing with. Not until you know exactly what’s in that box.

You squeeze your eyes shut and clench your fists. You breathe in deeply through your nose and exhale through your lips.

You take a step forward. Unease washes over you.

Another.

One more.

Reaching the edge of your bed, you reach a shaky hand to an end of the ribbon and pull it off. Resting your hands on either side of the box lid, you take another breath, grit your teeth, and yank the lid off, peering inside.

A blood chilling scream rips itself from your throat as soon as your eyes fall on what’s inside. A detached head stares up at you with dead, milky eyes. His hair is matted with blood and dirt, and his tongue sticks slightly out of his hanging jaw, puffy and pointing to a trail of dried blood that led to his neck where his skin was ripped and ragged to reveal the rotting flesh underneath.

The box lid falls from your hands as you cover your mouth, tears instantly springing to your eyes. You stumble back and crumple to the floor. Your whole body shakes and all you can think of is the last time you saw the newest intern at your job who had always been so kind to you, bringing you coffee in the morning and treats when you were stressed, coming to you for relationship advice, accompanying you on those dreadful company dinners and even escorting you home when you had too much to drink. Now he was dead, brutally murdered and head packed in a box to be delivered to you while his loved ones probably had no idea.

Adrenaline swells within you and you bolt to your dresser, pull open the top drawer, and rifle through its contents until your hand meets the cold metal of a Glock 19. You’d never really touched it before—never needed to—but Jungkook had insisted you had something to protect yourself with just in case, so he brought this home, took you to a shooting range, and taught you how to use it.

You switch the safety off and clutch it tightly in one hand. You grab your phone with the other to call Jungkook, but when you unlock your phone the text notification that lights up your screen breaks right through your panic, and you freeze instantly.

Have you been outside recently? The sky is clear and the sun is shining brightly today. -JK

It’s the type of text you don’t receive often only because Jungkook thought it was best to keep you as separated from his work as possible, but sometimes he would communicate with you in little codes.

Have you been outside recently? He’s asking if you’re well. The sky is clear. Whatever his gang, Bangtan, had been working on lately was coming close to a score and he’ll be coming home soon. The sun is shining brightly today. He misses you.

You slide down the wall next to your dresser and sink to the floor, locking your phone again and clutching it tightly. You sigh in despair; you can’t call him. If you do, then he’ll come for you and for all you know that’s what they want. Your eyes drift from the phone in your shaking hands to the lid of the gift box lying a few feet away. It had turned over in its fall, and neatly taped to the underside of the lid was a pretty, blue rose that matched the ribbon the box came tied with. The sight of it makes your skin crawl.

That symbol belongs to the Palinjang, a name you had seen in some files Jungkook had brought home one night. After plenty of reluctance, Jungkook told you they were Bangtan’s biggest problem recently; a newly formed group of criminals that were viciously trying to steal the underground empire Bangtan has created. Everyone has heard of Bangtan, but it’s Palinjang that has been all over the news lately. They’re ruthless and formidable too; just a few months ago when one of Jungkook’s partners wasn’t reporting back on a recon job, Jungkook found him in some back alley beat into a nearly unrecognizable, bloody mess with a blue rose tucked into his breast pocket. It was by the grace of God alone that Jimin survived that night. That incident was what made the name Palinjang mean anything in the criminal underworld, and that was just the start. Now they’re the subject of nearly every news story in the metro area.

This new gang wants to control the city and that means taking down the organization who currently does: Bangtan. There’s just one problem. Bangtan didn’t get where they were by dumb luck; they were dangerous and deadly and knew exactly what they were doing. If Palinjang was going to have any chance in taking them down they’d need a weakness, and in order to get that, they’d need information. It would be a cold day in hell before they got anyone in Bangtan to turn on their brothers—that much was made evident with Jimin—so it was clear that the next step would be close friends or loved ones.

That means you.

You hadn’t meant to fall in love with each other. People like him knew it was a bad idea to get involved with people like you, and you should have known better when you found out exactly what his “work” was. Yet when Jungkook came into your life he didn’t just walk in, he swept you completely off your feet and you’ve been caught in this dangerous, exhilarating, perfect whirlwind of a romance ever since. You never regretted getting caught up in Bangtan or Jeon Jungkook; not even when he came to your home bruised, bloody, drunk, or high off some job they pulled off that may or may not have included killing anyone (he never told you, but you knew).

Being with someone like Jungkook and having friends with people like Bangtan always made you feel so safe and, hell, even brave. Their confidence, ambition, and unwavering loyalty was contagious. At least, you thought it was. How simple of you. Bangtan, as much as they loved you and you loved them, was still a group of ruthless criminals. Of course, there was no such thing as “safe” when getting mixed up with them.

It’s funny how being faced with the promise of a long and painful death affects you.

Who knew what kind of torture these people would inflict on you until you gave them what they wanted? Even if you, unlikely as it is, managed to evade them, how many more people would die until they had you? They were playing with you now, you could only imagine what they’d do when they tired of the game.

You turn your eyes down to the phone that had fallen out of your grasp onto the floor, to the gun in your hands, then glance at the gift box still laying on your bed with its contents obstructed from your position on the floor. You scoff to yourself, feeling tears begin to well up again. There’s no way you’ll stand a chance.

Your eyes are locked on the gift box; even though you can’t see the head inside, the image is burned into your mind.

You don’t want to die like that—screaming and crying and painfully and slowly. You don’t want to betray Jungkook and his family before you are brutally murdered. You don’t want to be the reason for any more misery. You can’t let them get you.

You can’t.

The feeling of cold metal against your temple nearly startles you. You didn’t notice your own hand bringing the gun to your head.

Immediately you feel claustrophobic. Your knees are pressed too tightly to your chest and your body is hot. You’re sweating. You can’t breathe.

You quickly get to your feet and in your haste, you catch sight of your reflection in your vanity mirror. You’re a complete mess. The blood had gone from your face, your hair is mussed and sticking to your skin, your trembling lips are clamped tightly between your teeth, and then you meet the mirror’s gaze.

Your eyes are totally wide, nothing but panic and fear in your eyes and the cruel barrel of a gun still pointing at your head. You can only bear the disturbing sight of yourself for a moment until tears start streaming down your face. You clench your eyes shut and sob. You feel your strength draining from your body, but before you can let your hand fall to your side the solid weight of another body suddenly collides into you, knocking your body to the ground and the gun out of your hands.

You shriek in horror at the impact as you fall underneath their weight. They got you. You were a coward and you hesitated, and they got you.

Your bodies crash against the side of your bed, knocking the gift box to the ground. You scream again.

This is a terrible, horrific nightmare and you can’t escape. You’re going to be tortured for information, stripped of your dignity, and gruesomely killed.

The person above you hauls you fully onto the bed, pulling your arms roughly to your sides and pinning you against them with bruising force.

You wish you had called Jungkook. You don’t care anymore if it’s selfish, you just want to hear his voice.

“… the fuck are you doing?!” His voice sounds far away at first under the blood rushing in your ears. You don’t stop wriggling in panic; he only grabs you tighter. “Stop! (Name), stop!” He yells at you. You whimper and strain against his grip, craning your head back to look at him. He meets your eyes, looking both furious and terrified

“Jungkook…?” You breathe out in disbelief. Relief floods your being with overwhelming force and you collapse fully into Jungkook’s arms, wrapping your arms around him as tight as you could. You can’t speak, you can’t cry, you just hold onto him as both unbridled fear and insurmountable joy leaves you stunned. Jungkook holds you just as tight, afraid that if he lets go you’ll disappear. Just what the hell has gotten into you? Were you seriously about to kill yourself?

“(Name),” Jungkook calls softly after a moment and a shuddering breath. Now that he was reassured you were safe and sound, he had to get to the bottom of this. He pulls you away from him and holds you by your shoulders; his grip is firm and desperate. “Why?” He asks, looking into your eyes with an intense look. You hesitate briefly before averting your watery eyes in shame and fear.

It was then that the world began to materialize back around the two of you. Jungkook’s gaze follows the tilt of your eyes to your bedroom floor, where he sees a box on its side and a decapitated head unceremoniously laying a few feet away from it. Instinctively Jungkook pulls you back to him and hides your face in his chest so you’re not looking at it anymore.

“(Name), what happened?” Jungkook demands, glaring hard at the gift box—or more specifically—its blue floral wrapping. How the fuck do they know about you? “I need you to tell me.” He says more gently after a moment of silence, trying to remain calm for your sake.

“T-there was a knock at the door…” You whisper, training your eyes on the expensive threading on Jungkook’s shirt that your wet eyelashes had left marks on and focusing on keeping your voice from breaking, “When I opened it, there was that box…I know it was them.” You say tightly, holding your breath for a moment in an effort to keep yourself together. Jungkook’s arms tighten around you. This shouldn’t have happened. He thought he had been so careful to make sure nothing about his work threatened your safety. So how the hell did this happen?

“I’m sorry.” He tenses underneath you as you say that, but all you can do is bury your head in his shoulder in shame. “I’m not—,” You feel tears building up when Jungkook starts stroking your hair to comfort you, “I’m not strong like you, Jungkook. I’m so pathetic… I just didn’t want to betray you and Bangtan. I was scared of what they’d do to me if they ever—.”

“They won’t get you.” Jungkook insists. You squeeze your eyes shut and push away to look at him. His eyes have a desperate look.

“They already have! Don’t you see? They could’ve done whatever they wanted to me today and there would have been nothing you or I could have done about it. They’re playing around like this is all some sick fucking game—.”

“Stop!” Jungkook interrupts you, jaw tight and hands grasping your wrists. He can’t stand to hear you talking like that. He hates it, but what he hates more is the fact that what you’re saying was true. He could have easily come home to find you either missing or—he doesn’t want to think about it—but instead the Palinjang opted for trying to scare you first, and it worked. But there’s no fucking way in hell he will let it go farther than that. “We’ll handle this, (Name), okay, babe?” He doesn’t really know if he was trying to reassure you or himself, “I swear I will fucking end them for doing this to you. We’ll crush them, okay, so don’t you ever let any god damn asshole bring you to putting a gun to your head ever again, do you understand?!”

Overwhelmed, all you can do is nod as tears fall from your eyes again. You look towards the box again, but before your eyes can land on it, Jungkook’s hand on your cheek stops you. Your lip trembles.

“He was our new intern. His name was Hosung; he was so nice. He always brought me coffee and showed me pictures of his dogs and I helped him ask out a girl he really liked…” You ramble, sobbing. Jungkook leans forward and holds you while he flips the box over the head of your nice, new intern with his shoe. This is all his fault; none of it would have happened if he just stayed away from you back when you first met like he should have. He knew it was dangerous, but he was so confident he could keep you out of the crossfires if he was careful enough. How naïve of him to think such a thing.

While you cry, Jungkook walks briskly about your room with a couple of your bags and packs as much of whatever he thought you might need as he can. You watch him numbly, having calmed down a bit from your hysterics, as he finally walks back over to you and helps you stand with his free arm wrapped securely around you. Jungkook escorts you out of your bedroom, making sure to pick up the Glock 19 on his way and tuck it into his belt. On your way out of your house, Jungkook tells you that he is sorry.

“I swear I’ll never let anything like this happen to you again, baby.”

You know he can’t really promise you something like that, but you feel comforted and loved and safe all the same now that he is with you. Jungkook kisses your hair softly as he continues to apologize; he’s so soft with you, but when you look at his face as he leads you into his car and buckles your seatbelt, you see murderous rage in his clenched jaw and burning eyes. You can see his mind racing with plans of action. Jungkook gets into the driver’s seat and holds your hand tightly in his as he speeds out of your neighborhood.

You watch him drive in silence for a moment. You decide that you'll try to be strong like Jungkook.  “I love you.”

He brings your knuckles to his lips and squeezes your hand, rubbing his ring clad thumb along the back of your hand. He thinks in that moment of how brave you are to say such a thing after what loving him has put you through. “I love you too, baby.”

You smile a little and turn your head to the road in front of you. You don’t have to ask where the two of you are going, you already know.

This is just the beginning.

[ennergetics]

Can you make hunger games! Woojinm with bulletpoint style and hapoy ending?

[woojin prompts are always welcome! this got a little intense, but i’m pretty happy with how it turned out. hope you like it, anon!]

(image credit)

pairing: park woojin x reader (hunger games au)genre: angstsummary: The red string of fate may be a long-forgotten legend, but you and Park Woojin are hoping it is enough to spark rebellion. warnings: mild gore, death

when you’re eighteen years old, you become district 4’s oldest volunteer tribute

your father looks on with a grim expression, his eyes uncommonly bright with tears

your mother is long-buried, lost to a blazing fever that took everyone by surprise

‘who could have imagined that a victor would succumb to so common a sickness?’ people whispered ten years ago, when you and your father had carried your meager belongings from the victors’ village to his old home

the capitol had cared little about the family of dead victors, and your father had taken up his old trade once more, tying knots and catching large fish by the sea

you were always by his side, and were witness to the blackout that had lost him a limb, the harpoon slipping in his grasp and cleanly taking his fishing arm

with little left to support you and your father, you began to train as a career tribute at the late age of nine years old, which ensured your family received rations from the underground, unofficial leaders of your district

in the meantime, your father started reading the books your mother had left behind, collections of long-forgotten mythologies he would tell you about before you fell asleep

and as you sat in the sand at midnight, exhausted from training, you wondered if this were the fate prometheus had imagined for humankind, if yuè lǎo had woven the threads to tell this story

on your seventeenth birthday, you and your father begin to plot the seeds of rebellion, with your plan culminating in your participation at the next hunger games

now, as you stand on the stage, your father says, “i am proud of my daughter for facing her destiny,” and he takes you into a tight embrace

“be strong, my seastar,” he says softly into your hair, and the scent of sea salt and tobacco surrounds you, your face wet with your tears and his

at the tribute parade, you make sure to look the innocent, lost little lamb, your simple white dress the perfect canvas for your token, the single red ribbon twined loosely around your torso, ending with a dainty knot around your right pinky

“this is my fate,” you say mysteriously during your interview, “i know what the stars and sea have told me, and i will listen, wherever or to whomever they lead me.”

at the training center the next day, the career tributes immediately take you into their alliance, though they’d rather talk amongst themselves than to the strange, older girl with the ribbon round her wrist

but you see a nondescript boy lingering at the corners, watching the others warily

his hair is the colour of the dark rocks at low-tide, and when he opens his mouth, his snaggletooth is barely visible

he’s from district 8, the textile district, and his name is park woojin

you lock eyes with him and he doesn’t look away, and though his gaze is fierce, it is not crazed with bloodlust or fear or excitement, as are those of the tributes around you

you flash him a small, genuine smile, knowing he’s the final piece of your plan

all the other career tributes are younger than you and they mostly talk among themselves, leaving you to train alone

“hey,” you say, approaching woojin, “woojin-ah, spar with me?”

he looks at you warily, and you laugh softly, adding, “everyone else here is under sixteen years old,” like your flimsy excuse matters, and he stares at you some more before nodding once

you have him in a grapple hold, your arms strong from working with nets, but he doesn’t let up, muttering, “what do you want?”

“district 8,” you say under your breath so only he can hear, “meaning you know your way around a needle and thread. fabric isn’t so different from skin. who knows what’ll happen? ally with me.”

he yields with a yes, and you train together for the rest of the day

on the third day, you and woojin are the last tributes in the training room, and the two of you are lying down on the mats, exhausted from the day’s drills, and he turns his head to you

“i don’t want to die,” he says, and though he’s kept a poker face the whole day, you can hear the dread in his voice, the same one you’ve been fighting since you first volunteered, and you realize how lonely it is to be carrying out your plan, destiny be damned

so you lean over, letting him know what you and your father have talked about for the past year, grasping his hand like it’s a lifeline

when you finish, you close your eyes, wondering if you’ve made a fatal mistake

but you feel him cradle your face in his hand, his fingers calloused from handling fabrics his whole life

and you know it’s the stress of your impending deaths, the frantic emotions grasping the both of you and making you cling to each other in desperation

but there is comfort in the gentle touch of his lips against your own, in the steady warmth of his embrace

you get little sleep that night, readying yourself for the bloodbath to come the next day

so many things could go wrong, you think as you grab a random backpack of supplies and a spear from the cornucopia, using the pack’s hard side to shield yourself from the attacks of the other tributes as you run away

you’re hiding among the bushes, your back to the trunk of a tree, when you spot woojin, and you whistle once

he nods, and you come out into the clearing, noticing the odd look on his face, then you see the blood on his shaking hands

you run to him and embrace him, and though you’re trying to build a narrative for the audience, part of you is truly relieved to see he’s alive

he takes your face in his hands, his voice deep and loud as he says, “fate has brought us together,” and you thank the gods that he pulls it off, ignoring how the words send a pleasant shiver up your spine

later, you’re keeping the first watch of the night, noting the fourteenth cannon fire, glancing every so often at woojin as he sleeps, both of your torsos tied to the tree you’ve climbed

when you feel the net you’ve woven move on the forest ground, you look down, shaking woojin awake at the sight of the district 1 tribute fumbling for his bow and arrow

without being asked, he winds his arms around your waist to keep you steady as you both straighten up, your arm winding back to aim the spear at the boy below

it hits him straight in the chest, and as you watch the life fade from his eyes, the numbness you expected to feel is replaced by shock and disgust, the urge to vomit barely held at bay by woojin’s arm wound tightly around you, his other hand stroking at your throat lightly

a cannon goes off in the distance and you say a quick prayer to the gods of old, with woojin telling you to rest while he takes second watch

the rest of the night is quiet save the three cannon fires you hear even in your sleep

when the clouds begin to grow dark, the two of you go down from the tree to look for another hiding spot, and you’re caught unawares by the female tribute from district 2

woojin kicks her in the stomach and you’re tying her tightly to the tree, mumbling an apology as she writhes against the knots, when woojin blanches and he moves to your left right before a searing pain hits your right arm

you turn around and see your fellow district 4 tribute, his face mad with rage, screaming of your betrayal, but woojin takes a baton from his pack and bludgeons him unconscious, allowing you to use the rest of the rope to tie him to the tree

your gaze lingers on him, a thirteen-year-old child whose place was not on the battlefield, and you place a tender kiss on his forehead, woojin pulling you away as the howls of the animals grow closer

three hours later, you hear two cannon fires and weep quietly

woojin is sewing your arm wound up with red thread, and he says, solemnly, “i am here for district 8, but should i win, those of district 4 will always be welcome in my home,” and it’s a dangerous thing to say, almost beyond what’s acceptable within the plan you’d whispered to him what felt like a lifetime ago, and you have no choice but to nod

you slice your ribbon in half and wind that around his wrist, and as you fall into a fitful sleep you find yourself losing your grasp of what’s real, unsure if you lean your back onto his chest for the audience or for yourself

two days and a cannon fire later, a package floats down to the cave where you’ve hidden, marked with a simple number ‘8’

woojin opens it to find two pairs of well-made hunting gloves, the pinky fingers embroidered with scarlet thread

“my parents made these,” he breathes, stroking the gloves fondly, and you pull one from his hand, noting how putting matching gloves together reveals a torch design, the symbol of prometheus

you smile genuinely, throwing your arms around woojin as you blink away your tears of joy, murmuring in his ear, “the flame is ours,” and he looks at you, his eyes as wide as your own

you resist saying anything else, but you both know it should only be a matter of time

three days pass and your food has run out, the landscape not yielding anything for you and woojin to eat

as the cannon fires for the twenty-second time, you drink the final canteen of water, handing the last of it to woojin to drink, and you’re breathing deeply, trying not to panic at the thought of failure

you and woojin are at the cornucopia, your weapons poised as the snarling creatures from before begin to surround you

you’ve finished the last of your arrows and the wolves are climbing up the giant horn structure

“i can go,” woojin says quietly, and you glance at him, horrified, kicking the knife from his hand

before you can say anything else, tell him he needs to stay alive, that you think you might love him, that there’s no one else whom you would have died for, you see the forcefield disintegrate

the dome’s top explodes and the smell of burning is everywhere

you and woojin begin to run to the huge hole in the wall

outside, you hear your father yelling, prophesying about the people’s fate and encouraging them to go on, and you cannot believe things have gone as you’d planned

it had seemed impossible before, but with woojin’s rough fingers laced between your own, twin ribbons around your wrists, the beginning of the rebellion brings the hope blossoming in your chest and the fierce, beating desire for a better tomorrow.