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boxofbonesfic · 7 months

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Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

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Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.

Your father is to be buried tomorrow.

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.

You cannot stop—

She will not let you.

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.

At least, you try to.

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out.

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.

But the witch might.

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.

The thought spurs you onward.

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.

She is an elf.

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”

Your throat tightens.

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”

The stone stops.

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.

It is by that grace alone that you see the man.

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.

Nilfgaardian.

You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.

“No.”

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.

“Here, my Lord.”

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.

Just for a little while.

to be continued…

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the-kr8tor · 3 months

Text

On These Metal Tracks I Lay Myself Bare

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 6.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, CW guns, TW violence, CW injury, Cowboy AU, wild west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 5 >>> CHAPTER 6

The train station is packed with people, all finely dressed, waiting along the tracks, their luggages weighing heavy in their hands. The place smells of iron and steel, sweat soaked wood and rough leather. Your eyes wander around the station, domed ceilings loom above, carvings of horses and birds decorate the chestnut wood. Sunlight filters through the cracks, rays of light acting as a spotlight to the ornate building. It's a busier train station than the town you were in, the city you've stopped in is huge in comparison to the little towns you've passed by. The station is full of ticketing booths, lines stretching a few feet away that are full of impatient passengers. You look across the train tracks, seeing parents chastising their children, hearing hurried murmurs from husbands, holding their wives’ hands even though the luggage in their hand slows them down. You look at Hobie's gloved hand that's resting upon the ticket booth, you stare at it longingly, eyes getting glossy by the minute.

He's taking you home, and just like back home, you have no say in it.

A train whistle echoes, a signal of its metallic arrival. Its steel body creaks as it stops, its copper inlay is slowly turning green, and there's rust around the wheels. Soon, the station fills with smoke, dark tar belching smoke that sticks to your lungs as you cough. You feel a warm hand on your back, in a second you look back, the warmth is gone.

“You alright?” Hobie asks, lighting up a cigarette in-between his lips.

“It's the smoke,” you say, scratching at your throat that he cannot keep looking at for the scar in his neck throbs at the memory from the mundane act.

“Alright,” without a second thought, he takes his freshly lit cigarette from his mouth and then flicks it away from you, embers fly off in the distance just before it lands on the dirt outside.

You feel like the golden light in the summer. “I was talking about the coal smoke from the train. But that works too, thank you.”

He scoffs, a small smile ghosting over his lips. “Right, didn't do it for you, I did it for myself. Heard it kills people y'know.” Nudging you, he doesn't expect for you to shuffle away. Blinking, he avoids your eyes, “that's our train, it's an overnight one so we can rest in our cabin.” He tugs you in by the sleeve of your coat that's tucked in between his middle and forefinger, guiding you towards the waiting doors.

“That's good.” You follow, eyes trained on his back lest you get lost.

As much as you don't want to go home, you still don't want to leave him despite your mind telling you to forget about him and just leave on Cherry and wander around the west like a tumbleweed caught in the wind. You'd probably last a week.

Hobie stops by the doors, waiting in line with the other passengers. You flick your eyes downwards, his fingers wrapped around your sleeve, not taut, just holding you close to him as the crowd grows. So close to your own hands, yet so far from your heart.

“Tickets?” The man clad in a blue uniform asks, Hobie shows the pink papers and the man nods.

You enter the train car, it's a cute little thing filled with blue velvet curtains with golden tassels, and carpeted floors that run towards the end of the car. On your left are filled with little cabins, with clear windows that you can see through inside. It's big enough for at least four people, five if possible, though it would be a tight fit. The hallway is already small enough that only two people could walk side by side, you'd like to walk side by side with him, unlike now that you walk behind him, behind his shadow that gathers around you like dandelions in the spring.

“This is us,” he stops at cabin number three, opening the door with a creak, he leans away to let you enter first. Closing the door behind him, he pulls down all the curtains so that wandering eyes can't watch your every move. It's bad enough that there's a bounty on both of your heads, you don't want gossiping passengers peering inside.

There are four collapsible beds on each wall, all held by golden ropes, bed sheets in rich red cloth, pillows fluffed to perfection and blankets neatly folded. Hobie scooches in between you and the beds to close the top bunks so that there's more space for his tall frame. He has taken his hat off not for politeness but if he wore it inside it'll be squished by the low ceiling. Then there's the large window that sits across the door, before you could take note of the people outside, Hobie shuts the curtains close.

“What do you think?” He asks, taking his jacket off with a flourish. “It's not even close to the ones back home but it'll do for now. We'll be train hopping to get our scents off the lawmen.”

“It's nice— wait, train hopping?” You sit down on one of the beds, the mattress is surprisingly soft under you. “Please don't tell me we'll be jumping from train roof to train roof.”

Hobie chuckles, copying your actions, sitting across from you. Back resting against the wall, comfortably slouching. “Think you can handle it?”

“God, no.” You can't help but rest your tired head upon the goose feather pillow.

“Good, because we're not doin' that, love.” Again, he copies you. Arms tucked under his head, eyes above the ornate ceiling. “We’re not gettin' off at the last station, so we'll be ridin’ with Buck and Cherry for a bit and then to another train station. Confuse the wankers with our brilliant wiles.”

You lift your head off the pillow, and in turn, Hobie turns his head to look at you. “Wait, what about the horses?”

“They'll follow the train.” He smiles.

“Follow? Like they have our scents?” Hobie laughs, not teasingly, no, it's full of endearment, chuckling softly, but it flies over your head.

“Don't laugh. It's a genuine question.” You roll your eyes with slight amusement.

“They're in the back carriage,” he tamps down his laugh but his smile stays.

After that silence prevails in your cabin as the train slowly chugs on, sharp whistles piercing your eardrums, and the hum of machinery bringing you back home. You want to speak to him, to finally tell him of all your concerns about going home, going back to them. But most of all, you want him to speak to you about everything, to tell you how he was faring for the last five years, and how he became such a terrifying figure to outlaws. You want him to just…talk, and make up for lost time. You gather the courage, but just as you were about to speak, he no longer lies across from you. Hobie is sitting on the bed, body facing the door, hands busy with oiling his guns.

“Hobie…I—”

“What is it?” He flicks his eyes briefly to you, his tone was sharp, but he didn't mean it, blaming it for his own worries and fatigue. He'd say something about it but you're already facing away from him. Back turned, blanket shielding you from him.

“Nevermind,” you mumble into the covers, falling into a deep slumber where the conversation happened in your dreams.

This goes on for three days, hopping from train to train, from busy cities to dead empty towns. You barely speak, talking only when Hobie asks you something. It's like you're back at that empty mansion, with only the plants to talk to.

Hobie silently hates it, he doesn't know what to make out any of it. You seem hungry so he gives you a can of strawberries, you look tired so he lets you sleep without him saying a word. When goosebumps appear on your arms he gives you a blanket, when you're nervous, lips bitten until it's bleeding, he leaves you alone to calm yourself down. None of it works, he misses your chatter that has kept him sane the entire journey. The silence gives him time to think though, a situation that he despises since nothing good has come out of all the thinking.

—

The rest of the journey goes without a hitch, except for that one bit where Bucky was stolen by an outlaw while you and Hobie were buying train tickets. You panic while he sits and waits. People look at you like you were a mad woman pacing back and forth, hand petting Cherry, voice whispering your thoughts to the poor hitched horse. And Hobie just…stares. After what seemed like forever, or fifteen minutes, Bucky returns, riderless, still has his saddle on his back, and seemingly chipper. Turns out, Hobie trained Buckeye to throw off would-be thieves, and this time, Bucky found a convenient ledge to throw this particular man off. You and Hobie quickly ushered both horses into the back just in case a sheriff comes looking for a murderous horse.

You've been seeing a few familiar faces in the crowd of travelers, the same children that's tugging at their father's coat, the same old couple that helps each other up on the platforms. Some have taken notice of you too, to which you smile politely at them while they wave kindly at you.

—

It's another warm humid day, another train to ride in. You don't bother to look at the interior this time, only deciding to sit on the cushy seat you were assigned to, sliding inside the booth, eyes already staring longingly at the outside world. Hobie once again tries to speak about something— anything to try to get you to finally speak your mind, but his rapid pulse tells him otherwise. So he clamps his mouth shut, deciding to sit across from you instead of sitting next to you like he wanted to.

He feels eyes on his form as he picks mud off his spurs, raising his head, he comes face to face with a freckled child staring at him curiously with her big blue eyes. Her tiny hands are curled around a teddy bear, her fiery red hair is tied into a neat ponytail. You notice her a second later, smiling softly at the child.

“Hello,” you greet kindly, and the girl scampers back to her family's seat, hiding her blushing face behind her mother's skirt.

“Sorry about that.” Her mother apologizes, round pregnant belly prominent as she tries to coax her daughter out. “This is Clementine, she's a bit shy.”

“That's alright,” you speak on behalf of Hobie. “Hi, Clementine, my name's Y/N, and this is my companion, Hobie.” The second your eyes meet his own, Hobie's breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Say hello, Clem, be polite.” The girl's father playfully pokes her side. Blue eyes hidden behind rounded glasses.

“Hi,” she says in a small voice, giggling when she looks back at Hobie.

“I think she has a crush on your husband.” Clementine's mother chuckles, patting her daughter's back for a job well done.

“My husband?” Panic sets in your chest until you see her gesturing towards Hobie. “Oh,” you chuckle shakily, fists bunched around your trousers.

Hobie notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He takes your reaction as something else, so to keep your embarrassment at bay, he tells the couple otherwise. “Not her husband. Just escortin’ her.”

The air becomes awkward. “Oh,” the mother rubs her belly, smiling gently. “Sorry, you two just look like a good pair.”

Her husband taps her shoe with his. “Just like us, eh, sweetheart?” The wife shakes her head with a bashful smile, bringing a grin to the man's lips. You start to think that this is what marriage is supposed to be. Caring, loving, clinging onto each other in the best way that doesn't stifle or choke, just love in its most natural form. It's unlike any marriages you've seen and experienced back home. “So where are you folks off to? I'm guessing south? We've been seeing you two around since Valentine, it's nice to have some company during the journey don't you think?”

Hobie doesn't sense malicious intent from the parents. “Sure, whatever you say, mate.”

“You're not from around here aren't you?” The little girl listens to the conversation, head moving from side to side whenever someone speaks. “That's alright,” she laughs softly, rummaging for something in her bag. Hobie has his thumb pressed along the side of his gun. “I can tell you'll be good neighbors,” she hands you a small jar of honey, it's bright yellow and clear, you wish you had some tea to go with it. Hobie breathes a sigh of relief. “Here you go!”

“Oh no thank you, we can't possibly take it.”

“Please do.” The husband says, “we used to have a colony of bees, but we had to sell them all before we moved.”

“We have dozens of unsold honey, we're honestly just looking to get rid of it before we get to our destination. They're heavy, y'know.” His wife finishes for him. “Clem, can you give it to sweet Y/N for me?”

“That's so kind of you.” You smile, nodding. “You're moving to the south?”

“Okay.” She happily takes it, walking across the aisle to you and Hobie. Unsurprisingly, she gives it to Hobie instead of you. “Here you go.” She copies her mother.

Hobie takes the jar with trepidation. “Thank you?”

You quiet down a laugh while Clementine’s parents guffaw across you.

“Oh she's in love.” The mother says, arms raised to embrace her daughter who welcomes her touch. You can't help but feel a pang in your heart at her love for her child. “And yes we're going to be living there with my in-laws. Rent has gone too high in the west, y'know.” You nod along, making friendly conversation.

“Wish I had tea,” you hear Hobie mumble. You smile softly at his words.

—

It's been a couple of more trains, and more smoke in your lungs, you start to feel like your hands are starting to smell like the steel that you now know as your temporary home. The scenery outside your window has changed. From grassy dusty plains of tumbleweeds and windmills to rolling mountains that rise up high with large looming trees that shield you from the sun. Soon your view will be full of the southern charm, but you don't look forward to it, being there means that you're closer to getting back to the place you dread.

You've grown quite close to Clementine and her little family, even the other familiar passengers that are heading the same way as you are quite fond of you as well. You eat breakfast with them, have afternoon tea, and have even introduced Cherry and Bucky to the children. They've lovingly named them both ‘horsies,’ to which you'd always giggle at.

Clementine has latched onto you, you teach her about plants and flowers, and have her draw them for you just like you've sweetly described it to her. But when Hobie's near, she opts to be his shadow for the time being, following him everywhere until her mother calls her back. Hobie is half annoyed that he can't find the time to speak to you, but he's glad that there's someone as a mediator between the two of you or he'll start vomiting out words that may or may not make the situation worse.

Your back aches at the lumpy mattress that you've unfortunately landed into. You can't help but give up the assigned cabin for you and Hobie to Clementine and her family since the beds are much more comfortable in that cabin. So you offered to exchange it, citing that the mother, Florence, you've come to know, needs it more because of the growing baby in her. She gratefully gave you another jar of honey for your sacrifice.

Hobie enters the booth, heavy boots thumping against darkened wood, spurs clicking, footsteps rolling along like a thick heavy fog of loneliness.

“Where were you?” He asks even though he's afraid that he'd be overbearing. His worries win over him.

You grip the spine of the borrowed book, knuckles tightening, eyes drawn downwards to the written word that spells out ‘grief.’ “I visited Cherry, I don't want her to be lonely.” You barely look at him.

Hobie flexes his hands not out of anger, no, out of fear of losing you, this time, just like the last time he did, he doesn't know why or how he could even lose you. He sits down across from you, bed creaking from his weight. He tries to play as the nonchalant cowboy like he always had for the past five years.

“Clementine was lookin' for you.” *I was looking for you. “Cherry won't be lonely, she has Bucky with her.”

“Bucky hasn't been much help when all he does is look at her. Not much of a conversationalist.” You flick your eyes over to him, flashes of anger and hopelessness are melted into your irises.

“Maybe Bucky just doesn't have the words.”

“And maybe Cherry just wants to talk to him.”

“That fuckin’ horse,” he laughs, you don't find the humour in his words. But he clearly does. Your anger flies over his head. “that horse is already worth half of your bounty.” His words are a sharp sting in your arteries. “If she actually speaks she'll be worth it.”

“And what if she doesn't? That she's not worth your damned money?” You toss the book aside. Anger seeping out of your pores. “You'll sell her after you bring me in to my aunt?” Your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it. “Am I just that to you? A bounty?” The dam breaks, and everything you've kept to yourself bursts open.

“That's not—” The heart that he has sewn together breaks at the seams.

You abruptly stand up, tears pricking your eyes. Inhaling, you stare down the man you love. The only man you've ever loved. “You are not what I hoped to find when I escaped on that ship.”

Before he could say something, anything, you disappeared into another train car, and amidst the metallic halls.

—

Another grueling day, another steel cage to get into. The train whistles as it comes to a stop, you've grown acclimated to the smell of burning coal, you let it coat your lungs as you enter the train with Hobie silently trailing after you.

Your eyes are glossed over, red and swollen from the sobs you've let out over the course of the last sixteen hours. Hobie hasn't talked to you since then, always looking at your back, face unreadable. You pass by familiar faces, you don't acknowledge them. You're tired, bones aching, muscles twitching from lack of sleep and water. Head thrumming, you enter your designated cabin like a doe who has lost its way.

There's a sinkhole underneath your feet, slowly it eats at you, up to your shins and up your thighs, coating your flesh in mud and dirt. You don't tug at him anymore, the small ember of hope in your chest has diminished, instead, you let the ground swallow you whole— letting it suffocate you, letting it drown your lungs in soil.

Just like he did on the first train ride, there's four beds on each wall, but instead of an empty space in the middle, there's a little foldable table. You close the top bunks and lay down on one of the bottom ones, head heavy against the soft pillow. You feel his presence behind you, and then a cool steel atop your bicep. You flinch away, thinking it was a barrel of a gun.

“I figured you're thirsty.” He says, hand hovering above your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down. The train whistle rings out, and the engine whirrs and starts up as more smoke bellows outside your window.

You take the flask, sitting up to take a drink. He sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

Hobie sees the glow of your ring, he instinctively brings his hand up to his own that has made its home around his neck; hidden behind his clothes, finding comfort in its gilded form, the closest thing he can get to you.

“Why do you still hold on to me? After all these years?” He asks, eyes swirling with unknown emotion.

“Why did you let me go?” You answer, and that was the end of the conversation. Then it hits you, he truly doesn't love you anymore.

—

Night comes, and with it your sadness comes flooding through you, getting in the corners, slithering around every crevice— it has memorized your form and made it its home.

Weirdly enough, Hobie hasn't left the cabin, his lingering presence doesn't stifle you, unlike the man back at home who watches you with piercing glares. Even with your fury, your mind still finds comfort in Hobie.

He hears your almost silent cry, he wants to hold on to you, to brush his palms on your cheeks, to wipe away the tears and press his lips against your own. But he can't, or you'll think that he didn't mean it, that he only did it to make you calm down. It would be a cheap satisfaction for the both of you.

“I didn't let you go, I had to go.” He suddenly says above the quiet cutting of an apple in his hand, leaving pieces of it on your side just in case you want it. His voice doesn't waver, perhaps he has been saying the exact words to you in his mind for the past five years. You still have your back turned facing him as the deep rumble of the train goes on. “I was young and stupid. I was forced—”

You suddenly turn towards him, sitting up on the lumpy mattress. “And I was young and stupid too, yet I knew in my heart that running away with you wasn't foolish. Was it stupid to you? Escaping with me? That you'd rather run away, alone, to another country than be with me?” The memory of a young you waiting for him with your luggage in your grip has you seething.

Hobie matches your anger, hunting knife pausing on the red apple. “Did you hear what I said?” He angrily skins the fruit, slicing and dicing at its flesh. “You have no idea what I've done to survive. I have endured a lot to be where I am now—”

“And what of what I endured?!” You stand up, taking your bag, rummaging through it. “I'm truly sorry for whatever happened to you— but how could I apologize for something that I don't even know?” You toss the letters on the desk after struggling to take it out of the bag. “There! The letters that were sent back to me because I had no idea where you would be! Read them, and you'll know of the things I've endured. Unlike you who would rather look at me with contempt than tell me why I deserve that horrid gaze.” You gasp for air, he lets you speak, his own anger dissipating, fear once again encompasses him. “I thought you were dead, everyone kept telling me you were, but I didn't believe them. It's been years, my hands are raw from— I mourned you.” You pause, watching your golden ring glow in the lampshade. “Do you know how much that hurt? To start to believe their words? To lose hope? I didn't know where you were but you knew where I was and yet, not a single fucking letter went my way.”

Hobie stares at the letters spilled all over the table, apple juice seeping into the yellowed paper. He takes one, the oldest looking one that has its edges burned. Breaking the wax seal, he reads as he listens to your words coated in venom and grief.

“One letter, Hobie, and I would've understood. Then I wouldn't have come after you if you just told me you didn't want to be with me anymore.” You nod, “and now you're bringing me home, to the same people who would rather keep me locked up and tell me lies. I don't know how your letter got in my possession, but now I know that you didn't mean anything you wrote in it.” For five years you've asked yourself, ‘was it me?’ ‘Was I the reason you left?’ you never got the answer to your question, so now you ask him finally. “Was it me?”

Hobie raises his head to look upon your sorrow, his hand shakes at the act they've done to you the second he escaped. He had thought they'd leave you alone, that they'd finally let you go once he was gone and forgotten; but he never thought it would get worse, the hurtful words and slaps on the wrists were nothing compared to what they've done after that night he was almost buried alive— the night you tried to escape with him. His mind draws the scene, blood coating your knees, your pained cry as your aunt jabs your hands with the tip of a fountain pen. And then her words of hollow apologies as she heals your wounds so that it wouldn't scar. You're filled with them, invisible to the eye, but not to you, the only person who has felt every single torturous wound.

‘It's terrible,’ you wrote, ‘not ever seeing you again.’ And he agonizingly read it. No, it wasn't you, it was them, them who would rather commit murder just to mimic what he had. Hobie can't form coherent words at what he just read, anger and sadness piercing his veins like a poisoned arrow of guilt.

You sniff, wiping the tears in your eyes as he just stares back at you. His hands shakes, paper crumpling under his tight grip, he needs to bring you home. But not there, not at the gilded cage he left you in.

The cruelty of memory has plagued you, you try to remember, you reminisce, but did it actually happen? Did all his love for you even happen?

“You don't have to keep reading,” you say solemnly, “it doesn't matter now, we're nearly there.” With a slide of the door, you leave.

—

After the twelfth tear stained letter, with his own tears flowing down and leaving moistened webs on the paper, he has had enough. His eyes always seem to see the same words now, ‘was it me?’ ‘Are you alive?’ and ‘When will you come back?’ Hobie hasn't even made a dent on the letters, barely reading half of the pile of longing you've left. Hobie's mind swirls into different emotions, going through every scenario where he didn't run away, where he came back for you while clutching his still bleeding throat and body covered in moist soil.

He was foolish to try and push you away, to hold you at arm's length, to only look at you like he has let the poisonous words thrown at him by the very same man that gave him the scar curl around him like blackened smoke that stains his clothes. He thought that wanting you back would bring nothing but hurt, especially that he thought that he didn't deserve it. To want is his demise, to have you again in his arms is his folly, but what a wonderful folly it would be.

How could he do all of that to you when his scarred flesh is in the shape of your name.

He pockets the letters, tucking it inside his waist coat, right above his heart just to feel your words through them. The door opens with a click, and he walks towards your direction like a compass built inside him that always points towards you. His fingers glide along the scar on his neck, raised skin felt through his gloves as he walks from carriage to carriage. Where there's open air in between, cool breeze stinging his moistened cheeks. Then he stops at the edge of a crowd, a jaunty tune plays from a traveling musician, playing for a scrap of coins in the corner. People gather around the brightly lit bar, alive and happy, and there you are standing as if you're frozen in time. As if he's seeing you just how he left you.

Amidst the familiar faces within the crowd that gathers in the small bar to converse, he stares at you, and by some miracle, you stare back at him, meeting his jade eyes that are surrounded by a sickened red. There's a soft, ghost of a smile on your lips, even after what you've told him— eyes full of love for the same man who has your heart in the palm of his hands; gentle, caring and yet unknowingly the only person that could truly hurt you the most without the painful slap of a wooden board against your back. It brings him back in time, under the cloudy gas light and the whir of the metal machines whose maw opens and closes to reveal heated metal— His mouth opens and he says the exact same thing that he has been saying every single time his eyes meet yours in secret— ‘meet you back at home.’ He utters, a promise kept under the smell of unlit gunpowder and cheap champagne that your aunt always buys to placate the workers. And you say the same words back without a bated breath— ‘wait for me.’ You almost cry out into the crowd, you'd scream it if it weren't for the forbidden relationship. It has been like that through every cheap congratulatory milestone the factory and your aunt has thrown. You don't speak to him, but your longing eyes do. He doesn't come near you, but his hand would always gravitate towards your velvet clad hand. ‘No one else knows.’ ‘No one else knows,’ those words echo in your mind like a root taking its place. Yet, someone saw, it only takes one good pair of eyes to see the growing love between you— ‘no one knows,’ he mirrors, but one does. It only takes one to set off a domino effect, an effect that would lead to his attempted murder, and to your demise that he isn't fully privy to. ‘No one knows,’ ‘no one knows,’ you whisper to yourself as you pack your bags to escape the life you haven't got a say in. No one knows, and yet, one did, and that one got your love's neck slashed and buried alive in the same soil you once kissed above on, under the same tree that you were supposed to meet in.

He wondered why you didn't show up, but the one that knew did. No one knows, and the one that did lived in your house, ate your food, shared a bed with your aunt— a story told through a letter from a man he once worked with, a man who now has one eye, a man that helped dig him out of the shallow grave they've put him in, waiting to bleed out in the earthbound soil. A dangerous letter that he had burned in the fire from anger. He wanted revenge, but you would be the cost. So he survived and killed, and survived again, always seeing you in the corner of his eye, always hearing your almost forgotten voice when he's on the edge of sleep. He survived and now he's here, meeting with your eyes amidst the crowd once again— with the evidence of his survival curling around him like a heavy rope, and your own hovering above you like a grey cloud that threatens to spill, yet he still utters the same words above the murmuring happier crowd, “meet you back at home.” His throat closes in around the words, almost screaming it to the crowd.

A tear slips from your eyes that are full of woe, and you say the words back, quieter, unsure, yet, the love is still there— “wait for me.”

Hobie breathes for the first time, his feet carrying him around the crowd, weaving through bodies to get to you while you stand still, waiting for him, watching as he desperately trudges to get to you.

You look just like how he remembered, standing by the oak tree, waiting for him even if his hands are stained black from grease— you'd still hold his hand. Now his hands are soiled in crimson that drips onto the floorboards, and yet you still hold your hand out towards him. He would atone for his sins if that's what you'd ask of him, but no one would grant him his penance, he has accepted that fact long ago. Only your touch could mimic it.

Hobie finally makes it to you, now he stands in front of your form, now he notices your hand grasping his own. Featherlight, unsure, if he'd reciprocate, giving him enough time to shake you off. But he doesn't, instead, he holds on to you tighter as he leads you outside of the noisy carriage and away from prying eyes, what he should've done all those years ago.

Hobie tugs you out of the hole that has consumed you.

Silently, you follow him, squeezing his hand twice to let him know that you're right behind him without him looking over his shoulder to inspect. You feel his fingers run along the ring on your finger.

The sound of the metal wheels are loud in your ears, steam rolling off in waves as it warms your back. It's dark out, the moon above guiding his path while he opens the other door leading towards the last carriage that carries horses and baggage.

The moon has always been a comfort to you. You thought in those years without him that he'd be staring at the same moon as you, that at least you've still got a connection with him. Even if you weren't sure he'd be alive to look up at the sky. Arms suddenly envelopes you, hands cradling the back of your head to keep you close to him, face hidden in the crook of your neck.

You're the first one to speak while you tentatively raise your arms to embrace him back. He's warm, warmer than you remember. “Do you mean it?”

Hobie sniffs, diamonds rolling off his cheeks, a promise falling from his lips, “yes, I'll bring you home, my home.” He molds himself to the shape of you once again. An act that you've been trying to attain since the beginning of the journey, now you're both perfectly aligned with each other, heartbeats synching and full. “I'll tell you everything, everything you need to know.”

“Just the ones you're willing to tell, Hobie. I'm so sorry for yelling those words at you.” You hold his head in your hands, gentle, caring, cradling him like you're holding the moon. Guiding it upwards so you could stare at his viridescent eyes that's full of hope for the first time in years. But the gnawing in your mind draws too close to you. “They'll never stop, they will keep hunting us down.” A sob breaks through your throat, “You have to bring me to them.” Tears flow out of you, “or we'll never be at peace. You'll never be at peace.”

The horses neigh behind you, Cherry huffs while Buckeye just stares at the scene. The carriage rattles for a moment before Hobie leans, laying his forehead atop yours, squeezing the soft skin on your nape. He closes his eyes, inhaling you in, you almost crumble in his arms. You've dreamt of this day, dreamt of holding him like this once again.

“You're my peace.” he whispers, “They can try to ruin that peace, but I'll stop them. I'll kill them if I had to.”

“Okay,” you close your eyes, just as he opens his own. “Take me home.”

“‘m sorry,” he kisses your forehead, lips lingering, a heavy kiss that brings you back to life, mending all your doubts. “Let's go home, yeah?” Leaning away, his eyes dart over to a man coming your way, he doesn't find it suspicious, but then the stranger brandishes a gun, raising it over your head. “Y/N—!”

Your body flings off to the side, hip hitting harshly on the corner of a crate. Then a loud cackle of a gun goes off, the sound bouncing off the walls, gunpowder flying over head, hiding Hobie from your vision. You yell his name, but you can't hear your own voice from the ringing in your ears.

Everything happens slowly in your eyes. Smoke spreads as you see Hobie still standing and unscathed, gun raised, barrel aimed at the man's head. Said man runs towards him like a bull, making Hobie miss his shots. Yet the man still shoots at him, slower than Hobie but just as deadly. Hobie leans his head slightly to the side, effectively dodging a bullet. You scamper towards Cherry, lifting yourself up, waiting for the right moment. And then you slap your precious horse, making her kick before he could reach Hobie. Cherry's deadly kick hits the perpetrator right on his back, where a sickening crunch can be heard. The sheer force of the kick has dust flying off his body, and now he lays motionless on the wooden floor.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie gawps at you, smile spreading across his lips. “You alright?” He walks over to you, or tries to while Cherry gives one last kick towards the dead man.

“Yeah,” you nod, patting Cherry, Keeping her calm. “It's okay, girl. I'm so sorry.” You coo at her, Hobie goes around the horse to hold you. “Are you—?”

His arms wrap around your waist, lips smashing on yours. You inhale and it's already over. Even if it was quick, it wasn't a cheap satisfaction, it's everything. He pats your cheek affectionately, beaming at you, holding you close. “You're brilliant.” His thumb rubs softly where you hit your hip on the crate, a silent apology.

You smile, heart thumping loudly like an engine. “It was all Cherry.”

“Should I snog the horse now too?” Hobie says smugly, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“No, preferably just me, for now at least.” You tap his chest, bashfulness encompassing you.

“Nah, it's you until the end, love.” He clicks his forehead against yours, making you chuckle.

A scream rings out from the other carriage, hurried footsteps bounding away. “Do you think—?”

Hobie reloads his gun effortlessly, giving the spare one to you. “You're a better shot than me anyway.” He takes one last look at you, as if this is the last time he'd ever set his eyes on you. “Whoever they are, I'll cut through them. Cover my back?”

“Always,” You nod, taking the silver six-shooter, “then we'll go home after this.”

He grins, hope in his eyes. “Home, you'll love it there.”

“Let's cut through all of them then.”

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anza-langblr · 9 months

Text

身の回りにある金属

銀（ぎん）silver (Ag)

アルミニウム　aluminum (Al)

金（きん）gold (Au)

銅（どう）copper (Cu)

鉄（てつ）iron (Fe)

水銀（すいぎん）mercury (Hg)

ニッケル　nickel (Ni)

鉛（なまり）lead (Pb)

プラチナ・白金（はっきん）platinum (Pt)

錫（すず）tin (Sn)

チタン　titanium (Ti)

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autumnmobile12 · 2 months

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My Hero Academia: Ambush Simulation AU - Provisional License Exam Pt 2

Part 1

Still the phone convo:

Shouto: All joking aside--

Touya: I never joke about a rumble.

Shouto: All joking aside, I guess you can finally tell me how your exam went.

Touya: ...I suppose I could.

Shouto: ...

Touya: They make you do the thing with the targets?

Shouto: Where did you place yours?

Touya: Everyone in the Vanguard clustered them around their stomach. Figured that's the part of the body everyone instinctively tries to protect when threatened.

Shouto: That's a good point. During that phase, I also found one area where I need to get stronger.

Touya: Yeah?

Shouto: When I went off on my own, I ran into a group of guys from another school. They attacked me with projectiles made from tungsten and I couldn't even scratch it. I need to work on my heat output.

Touya: ....

Shouto: You still there?

Touya: Shouto, do you know the melting point of tungsten?

Shouto: ...no.

Touya: Guess.

Shouto: Just tell me.

Touya: I want to hear you guess.

Shouto: *sighs* 1400 Celsius?

Touya: That's steel. Higher.

Shouto: 1800?

Touya: Titanium. Higher.

Shouto: ...2000?

Touya: You're not even close.

Shouto: What is it?

Touya: The melting point of tungsten is approximately 3400°C. Even I can't melt it, and I'd probably kill myself if I tried.

Shouto: It's that high?

Touya: Highest melting point of the known metals, and twice the temperature a blue flame can reach. And you should know by now orange flames only go up to 1200° max and white are 1500° max, so you couldn't even melt my piercings. Take my advice and stick to something manageable. Like copper and iron. Maybe work your way up to steel eventually. But leave tungsten alone, okay?

#my hero academia #shouto todoroki #touya todoroki #dabi #provisional license exam #ambush simulation #alternate universe #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #tungsten #todoroki family

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grim-ghosty · 6 months

Note

Ok so a few questions for your branch bounty hunter au. If branch is a seasoned bh does he use all his rewards for survival or is he saving his money? Does he ever search for his brothers? What would his brothers think how would they react? Would he just kill velvet and veneer if he found out about what they did? Would he ever get his colors back, would it be because of poppy or his brothers or something else? Sorry if this is a lot really like your au concept ❤️👌👍

Thank you for the questions, and it isn’t too much at all. I love it when people ask me about my au!

Branch isn't a seasonal Bounty Hunter. He does it full-time when he needs something. When he is injured or sick, he will take a brake. There are also times he disappears for weeks and comes back like nothing happened.

Yes, he uses the things he gets from Bounty Hunting to survive. The things that he gets are metals like steel, iron, copper, cobalt, etc. He gets foods he can’t get in the wild or is difficult/dangerous to get. He also gets medical supplies or books with information he needs.

My headcanon is that trolls don’t have money. They instead use a favor system and trading. That’s why Bounty Hunting exists, so subgenre trolls and mixed-genre trolls can get stuff from different tribes. I headcanon that subgenre and mixed-genre trolls aren't thought of kindly by other trolls, so having Bounty Hunting as something they can do really helps those communities. (Bruce and Brandy’s restaurant uses money because Vacationers use money)

He doesn’t search for his brothers because he feels like they don’t want him. He thinks it was his fault for them leaving, that he was the problem. He doesn’t want to ruin them again like he ruins everything else.

He does know where some of his brothers are, but that is a spoiler, so that is all you're getting.

When the brothers come together to save Floyd, they don’t know that he used to be a Bounty Hunter. (He retires after the events of world tour) John only heard about Branch being alive because of The Rock Apocalypse. Bruce lives on an island and never leaves, so he doesn’t know. Clay lives in an isolated community. Floyd was doing his solo career and being a vocal coach, and with being busy, he had no time to listen to the news.

There is also the fact that the Bounty Hunters don't really go by their names, they have titles, and the only one that uses their name is Chaz. Branch's title is The Grey Hunter. (he didn't pick it)

Branch doesn’t tell them about his past until months later, after rescuing Floyd, which is also a spoiler.

Branch doesn't like killing people, even if he has done it in the past. He did a couple of assassination bounties, and he didn’t like it, but he couldn’t pass on what they were willing to offer. So, no, he wouldn’t kill Velvet and Veneer.

Yes, he will get his colors back at the end of world tour because of Poppy, but his colors are temperamental and fragile.

#dreamworks trolls #trolls #trolls band together #trolls world tour #trolls 3 #brozone #broppy #trolls branch #branch trolls #trolls poppy #trolls john dory #trolls clay #trolls floyd #trolls bruce #trolls brandy #trolls au #bounty hunter branch au

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ryuzatodraws-archive · 1 year

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Copia stares into the candle's flame, truly abandoned by God.

Day 16 Yeehawgust : Prairie Fire

Theres no specific scene about a fire in the fanfic so i went with a burning church instead, in that chapter where Copia is slowly losing his faith in God

#copper and iron au #yeehawgust

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a-twistedheartslonging · 1 month

Note

Rollo gets itchy horns btw

There are a few reasons for ichy horns on goats.

Improper Nutrition: Goats on the wrong diet or with an overabundance of calcium may have brittle horns that chip or peel. To ensure proper mineral intake they need things like iron, phosphorus, calcium, copper, manganese, and magnesium. His thing about eating a croissant, a few grapes, and... I can't remember the third thing for lunch every day isn't going to be enough for the guy.

Mineral Deficiency: Providing a mineral lick can supplement their intake and prevent severe bone growth issues that might affect horn health. Tbh it prob really common for beasts in the AU to have those and some would think it's odd humans don't need them.

Growing Pains: Young goats’ horns are still developing, and some damage is expected during this process. As horns grow outward, the ends may crack or chip.

You might even catch him rubbing his horns against something, it's pretty common for goats to try rubbing their horns against their owners but I do wonder if Rollo could be that...bold. I don't think he would turn down scritches or rubs from you though.

#twisted wonderland #twst #ask #asks #nonhuman au #twst rollo #rollo flamme

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splashtail · 7 months

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i honestly forgot how i was formatting the other ones

SwipSwap JD and Viva, our big numbers for band together :) these two are some of my favorites of all of them - both have issues that are very reflective of each other

feel free to ask me anything about em!! i love this AU with my whole heart LOL JD and Viva are so.. normal

lots of credit goes to my friend copper for these. they did the initial concept art and ironed out the designs for both of them and i genuinely wouldn't have been able to do it without them !

#splash draws #my art #trolls #trolls band together #trolls viva #trolls john dory #trolls jd #john dory #trolls au #swipswap au #im honestly surprised more people don't draw parallels to JD and Viva. more for me i guess. i really like how these turned out :)

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merchant-wizard-and-jerry · 7 months

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“Hello, I’m the friendly wizard _____. My name got taken by a fey prince but it hasn’t really hampered my life. Anyways I am new to this wider wizard community and would like to get along. I have a magic book, a cart, and a friend. His name is Jerry, he is a fungus colony that has taken over my magic book and acts sort of as my patron. He…is a little weird but great fun.”

*sound of an explosion in the background, a book flys by being chased by goblin shamans casting fire ball*

“He is…”

“He is fine.”

“Anyways, I am here to sell goods and make a small profit. If you need something I’ll see what I can do : ) ”

“Also apparently I helped smuggle an amnesiac @fattocatto-wizard out of the city in my wagon. That was a shock, though he was just a cat.

Character Cheat sheet

( 3 currency to 16 silver crowns and 2 copper crowns)

(3 skulls to a coin)

(2 currency to 1 gold)

(100 currency to a 1000 grams gold bar)

(1 currency per 10 grams of gold)

(Current balance 89,314.250,001 currency, one penny, 23 meat pucks, 14 pounds, 2 gold coins one with Julius Cesar on it, 3 naturally-grown mana stones, 2 highly enchant able metal pieces, and one bar, 1 special bug corpse, 1576.5 gold, silver 18, 70 aus, 5kg silver, magic dirt house size. 24 counterfeit currency. Moss/lichen-coded bio stone. An inverse cold torch. 99 BG silver. EMERALD LINCOLN, GOLDEN CARROT, 200 SALTED MEAT DISKS, 200 POLISHED ROCKS, 82 FIGET SPINNERS!, A FULLY EQUIPPED LICH'S DUNGEON, and a cardboard box (magic black marble).” Invisibility stone, a bundle of drake feathers, quantum locked rock, raw gold. 9 Gold coming from the green goblin empire, 50 mushrooms, 92 secret society emblem. 5 trans enchanted gold coins, 2 skull coin, ancient lost civilization fragment, 5 glistening green metallic coin, 31 writhing bugs of gold, jade coin. Pile of gold coins and gold coin bugs, pile of shines from harpy, dust, quantum glass shards, bag of tooth shaped candy, 6720 candies from the festival, bag of holding money bag, 68 money bags, 500 flat Foxen, double sided dollar coin, 3 floppies, a Brahman horn, a medkit, a few candy bars, and an umbrella, 130 goblins eggs (goblin cooked chicken eggs.), 17 bars of pure gold, 1 crate of guns, temp singularity potion. 762 grasshoppers glow in the dark.Book on the formation patterns of natural portals - @serious-tabaxi. Edward Evandrian’s expired library card. Gems and frenicx mother gem and a junkarian leap amethyst. white mithril sapling. Timeseed, infinite note book, time tunnel. A nice gold bag. bag full of candied scorpions 💰, large gem stone. 💰 💰 💰, gems = 70currency. 1/3rd a gold bar. Compass map, it's keyed to the Island of Silence. N=10^7 menger sponge. 2416 shadow cloaks, 52 shiny stones. 20$, 3 gold coins 100 grams. Gummy worms. 100 journals of Ventus Asamuran, Last Peacekeeper of Har Aminas. car keys, box of a 27 rusted necklaces with warding spells. an amulet made of stone, with blue rectangular crystals growing out of it. 48 shiny stones, 30 currency worth of silver. 3 sets of custom made chips @crickled-thorn-thug. Gold potion It opens a portal to the realm of metals! It causes any land within 20 feet to be transmuted, temporarily, into a variety of metals. If left untouched, the land reverts after a day. If harvested, the stuff stays metal and can be used. It also causes uhh 20 gold peices to spawn, and anyone within the radius to get a bit of vertigo. Causes slight iron deficiency, for some reason. 23 bouquets of metalic flowers. They're grown beneath volcanic chambers, uses the heat of magma as a supplement for sunlight. Given their environment, they grow petals sharper than claws and harder than steel. They can be used for creating armours and weapons.)

(Currently holding baby dire bunnies. A ring of mana (covers energy into mana. Only suitable if you don’t have mana)

(Jerry’s balance 13 gold, a fancy rock, 1 coin, flower petals (snacks for later), harpy eyes, feathers, vocal cords, and talons, a coin with @informis-the-many-faced on it, it is locked away for emergencies. bottle of magic mold rejuvenation powder, wooden key @crickled-thorn-thug)

(Warlocks of Jerry @fungal-boy-witch-yay @ignisuadaroleplay @life-is-okay-rn2 I think that is who it was…)

(Possessions - wealth stone, Antidote stone)

Owner of membership cards

——————————

@the-final-knight-2

@confused-sorcerer

@bi-gender-sorcerer (+ 10% off for employee discount)

@the-mighty-dalob

@detectivewizzard

@goblin-wizard-in-the-making

@serious-tabaxi

@weltreths-wanderings

@ignisuadaroleplay (will)

@shittest-wizard-ever

@wizard-wylin-wylerian

@akronus-and-associates (the primordials)

—————————————

@hallowed-the-silver-gun

@jormungand-seas-champion

@crow-natures-wrath

@antros-ember-of-fear

@akronus-the-redeemed

@clockwork-time-watcher

@aldira-born-anew

——————————

@wizard-ghost

@yeast-wizard

@crickled-thorn-thug

@sorcererest-sorcerer

@damnable-druid (+ 10% off for employee discount)

@informis-the-many-faced

@kittycatwizard

@gun-sorcerer

@crime-wizard-conglomerate

———

Perks

———

5% off all purchases

Special requested items

More favorable bartering

———

#wizardposting #wizard posting #wizard #wizard tumblr #wizard shit #wizard island island

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mudandmire · 10 days

Text

Eris Week: Free Day

~ drip drop, gimme what you got ~

Eris has an itch, a burn he cannot out-run or fight. Azriel has hands, and cunning eyes, and most importantly for tonight, teeth.

This isn't going the way it sounds.

Technically this was supposed to come out on AU day for @erisweekofficial, but homework ended up kicking my ass :/

---

They find each other, like all mistakes do, at a bar.

Down the street—a right and down one block a sudden left—from the gym Eris frequents. The Jig is a building scooped out of the red bricked fronts of the town houses lining the street. Its door is a dark stained cherry, the swinging sign above a weathered green that reminds him of oxidized copper. Black metal patio chairs sit askew behind the iron railing, one little umbrella shading the tables. It's not often people sit outside The Jig, mostly because the inside feels like a dragon's lair.

Warm and heavy with air from the patrons and boisterous laughter jingling like fallen coins. A faint smoke, not from cigarettes, but no one truly knows where it comes from, lingers along the pockmarked beams above in strands of gray ivy. Light reflects oddly in the cavern of the bar. Great glass bulbs, so clear the intestines of the electrical work can be seen even by the drunkest patrons, hang from the ceiling. Their gaze is warm, a yellow balm that makes the sable colored liquor in their bottles on the shelves sparkle.

Outside, night has fallen, and The Jig continues to glow like a homely hearth. Eris had found his way hours before the gym closed—a rarity for him—and now remains firmly planted on a bar stool at the black quartz counter.

His knuckles ache. Raw along the joints, soreness stretching its tired limbs up into his shoulder, cresting the back of his neck. Rolling his head, tilting it at an angle where his bones pop, Eris sighs long and low. The fighting for the day had been less than satisfactory. His usual opponents either were completely off their game, or their heads weren't in it enough to give him their all.

Even Anton, who Eris can usually count on to give him a good run for how much he runs his mouth, hardly touched him in the ring.

He sucks his teeth after taking a sip of his drink. The lingering sting of his victories melding with the bitter bite of the alcohol.

How selfish they could be, he knew, allowing him win after win with only a conceding smile. Wrapped hands held above their head as though surrender was what he was after.

Now he nurses his victory like one might cradle their broken pride. But all that's between his numb, ice-chilled fingers is his glass.

The rubber sole of his loafer taps on the metal bar that runs under his stool. It rattles the whole of his seat, but there's a kind of comfort in the constant bounce of his knee.

The only annoyance is that he wanted that itch, that energy, kneaded and pressed out of him like one meticulously and brutally folds dough.

Eris is used to the current in his body. The call and the silent cavern that never answers back. Jolts of bone-deep prickling in his legs, a restless picking and skinning and rapping in his fingers.

It makes him agitated. Unfocused. A liability.

The fact that no one understood this was mainly the reason he ended up in The Jig in the first place.

Eris sneaks through its cherry wood door, a thief in what hardly can be called night for how alive it is. He steals into the lair, bruises and hurts donning his frame like scales, and pretends his heart doesn't patter a different beat than the bass drum of whatever plays on the speakers. He'll tuck his hands into the cuffs of his green turtleneck sweater, and ask for his drink—heavy on liquor, make it sweet so he can't taste the underlying bite when it hits his tongue.

Eris' breathing will never even. The drink will turn into two, and still—his hand will fall to his chest. Fingers pinching at the soft fabric of his turtleneck, as if maybe they'll hit an exposed wire and restart something.

Or break him entirely.

By the second glass, the bar lights going glossy, it doesn't sound so bad. A reset, a break, an end to the quiet, relentless, drive in his chest—

Someone falls into the stool next to him. Caught from the corner of his slowly clearing eyes. There's a hint of dark blue, maybe black but it's hard to tell with the dim golden glow. The knees of the stranger spread wide, feet resting on the bar of the stool with a kind of mindless ease Eris can only hope to imitate.

His arms lay casually on the bar, skin bronzed in the golden light. Eris catches sight of something curious with a gaze that would not be as obvious if he weren't two cups deep.

The hands of the stranger are scarred, a mottled clay work. Eris' finger traces the counter top, lazy and thoughtless, mirroring those patterns in the marked skin like landmarks on a map.

Hands like that do not belong in a lair like this.

Not when Eris is hungry. Not when he is desperate.

Apart from the obvious nature of their otherness, Eris finds them to be entirely too distracting. Large, encompassing, a glinting silver watch on his wrist.

They move suddenly under his stare and Eris hears the low rumble of his voice.

"I'll have whatever he's having." He gestures to Eris' glass—empty, has been for a while—while the bartender in shades of shadows Eris can't make out, acquiesces and slips away to make…

His mind poses his own question, wary eyes peering down into the dry bottom of his glass. What am I having?

Eris knows the taste, the stale reminder that he definitely had alcohol, the way it lays on his tongue.

He knows it better by how fuzzy his head has gotten. To the point he doesn't mind when his back begins to bow, shoulders slumping forward into the fold of his arms. A collapsing kingdom of cards until he's resting his head; the hard line of the bones in his forearm pressing against his temple.

The stranger, man, with wonderful hands, is even more enticing from a sideways angle. Wide lens: the two black bars, a roof and floor. The tip of Eris' tongue ends up between his front teeth.

Eris doesn't get a chance for his gaze to meander past his shoulders, broad and heavy-set. The kind that looks earned, that could barge through walls and all that would be evidence is a dusting of drywall like powdered sugar.

Eris is caught. When the stranger gets his drink and takes a small, modest sip, he says, "you stare a lot, you know that?"

Somewhere between the first and second drink, Eris lost his ability to feel shame. Maybe it dried up along with the last dregs of his sanity.

He shrugs, and it must look weird hunched over and meek as he is, because the stranger laughs. Sort of—a breath of air from his nose. But it's more in the way creases form at the corner of his liquid dark eyes. The pupil absorbs every scant inch of light and holds it captive in a flicker of candlelight.

"I'm out of drink," Eris tells him. "You're very stare-worthy," the alcohol adds.

There's no little breath lost to the general hum of The Jig. His mouth, pink and soft, tips up. From the angle Eris sits at, he thinks it's a smile. From the way the stranger's shoulders straighten, and the breadth of his chest leans just that much closer—a stretch of dark cotton over skin—the challenge becomes clear.

Of all the things Eris tries to plan for him to say—though the script of dialogue is lost to the buzz in his head—he cannot predict what comes out of his wonderfully formed mouth.

"Who'd you hit?" He asks, gesturing with the soft openness of his hand at the raw, scabbed knuckles on Eris' fingers.

The wounds are scaled, Eris wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and draws back the bitter taste of alcohol.

"My opponent," he says honestly. "In the ring."

Eris still gazes up at the stranger from the cradle of his folded arms. There is an insistence to his presence, kept secret and safe at the end of the bar. Back pressed to the lacquered wooden paneling that runs around the perimeter of The Jig. His front, however, remains entirely exposed to the strangers gaze, though he keeps his knee bouncing under the overhang of the counter top.

In a smooth movement, the man steps one foot solidly onto the ground, and shifts his chair closer with the other still propped on the metal rung. He ends up closer than before. A dark, raven-slick curl dancing on the hard line of his thick brow.

He takes another sip of his drink. Eris follows the path with his eyes, his tongue. His longing coiled like a fire-breathing beast in his chest.

"You're a fighter?" His head tilts and the glass sets down on the quartz top with a delicate sound.

Eris shakes his head, then frowns to himself. "I box at the gym down…" he loses track, hand held up in front of his face as he tries to map the streets of the city from his vantage. "The one on Main, that's where I go."

Mindless, his hand falls to the bar top. The cold of the stone sinks into the sensitive warmth of his palm—stealing it away as he watches the condensation bloom to trace the outline of his hand.

So enraptured by the sight, the dichotomy of feeling warped under his skin, Eris completely misses when the stranger ducks his head low.

His breath, lost between those plush lips, pools on the quartz. So low is his mouth, Eris can feel the heat of it on his fingertips, his knuckles, and freezes. It is not ice that runs in his veins, it is not sobriety that steals away the pleasant buzz of alcohol. The stranger stares up at him through the dark curtain of his hair, and with a flicker of something in those liquor colored eyes—something that Eris finds mirrors the stirring of the beast in his chest—his teeth close gently around the raw knuckle of his pointer finger.

Eris' lungs stall for a heartbeat. When they refill, he is the gust of air blowing into a forge—expanding and feeding that internal flame that refuses to be doused no matter how he taps his foot, or twists his body in the ring.

"I don't even know your name." He says. If it comes out more breathless than he'd like, the stranger doesn't seem to notice.

His teeth release from around Eris' knuckle—not that it had pressed hard on the sore wounds, or dug into sensitive joints.

"Azriel." His eyes glance up at Eris, curiosity curling in their depths. "Did you win?"

Eris doesn't have to ask what Azriel means. His name swirling like thick, heavy smoke in his head. This man seems to jump around, subject to subject with no real destination, at least not one Eris can predict.

His finger twitches, cold in the exposed air. Azriel catches it, and with little more than a flutter of his sooty eyelashes, pupils blotting darker, he dips down and takes his knuckle in his teeth again.

"I'm not drunk enough for this," Eris whispers. "And I don't believe you are, either."

Azriel hums. The vibrations course through Eris' bones, and his foot abruptly stops tapping.

"I did win." His eyes dart away from where Azriel's lips spread to hold his finger. Heat, a kind apart from the warm blanket the alcohol laid on his shoulders earlier, grows claws and begins to dig into the tender inner-lining of his stomach.

Azriel draws away again, but this time not without a gentle press of lips to his knuckle. A brief goodbye, before the weight of his gaze is pinned solely on Eris.

He shifts in his stool, straightening slightly so he's not fully hunched over. Eris leaves his hand spread out on the counter, though, and he doesn't want to think of why.

"You won the fight." Azriel repeats, something dawning in his tone. His glass is all but forgotten, the whole of his attention fixed on Eris who flushes belly to cheeks at the idea of being an axis point.

"Fights." Eris corrects him.

If anything, Azriel's small grin widens. The sharp threat of his canines pressed to his lower lip. "Never would have guessed since you've been drinking like a home-sick sailor."

Eris' eyes narrow. "How do you—" his head swivels, looking over the line of his shoulder at where the rest of The Jig flourishes with its tacky, oak tables and low-hanging bulb lights. "How long have you been watching me?" He asks, waiting for the weariness to set into his bones and smother the flames, yet the heat doesn't abate.

Azriel's eyes crinkle, and his arm reaches over for Eris' empty glass he had completely forgotten about. The curl of those fingers, scarred and warped though they are, around the cup sends lashes of warmth to his stomach.

"Don't need to watch you, the fact that you're drinking a Manhattan says enough, honestly." He brings the glass to his nose, sniffing it and scowling.

Eris blinks a couple times, before saying, "but you ordered the same thing?"

"Ah," he gestures with a stern finger, "but unlike you, I've lost today—so I earned it."

The vagueness of his statement leaves Eris wishing for more. More information, more specifics, more intimate knowledge about this man and how exactly he lost.

Unwittingly, his eyes dart down for a heartbeat to rest on Azriel's hands. The knots of his knuckles, the whitened, tight ridges of skin along the back of his hand. Thin enough that the veins stand out stark like a mountain range.

Azriel catches his gaze and follows it with a quirk of a dark brow. "You gonna ask?"

They've leaned closer over the span of their conversation. Map-less and without a compass, it has led them here and there, yet still Eris finds himself momentarily floundering.

His nose scrunches up. "I would think that rude." He says haltingly, and Azriel doesn't take it any other way he meant it.

He shrugs, and then his legs spread wider, closer, and suddenly Eris can feel the hard pressure of his knee against the outside of his thigh. It takes a moment for him to understand the heat of it, the kind only naked skin can give off. A single glance at Azriel's legs reveals wide, lengthwise cuts in the black denim of his jeans. Dark, coarse hair on his leg and knee.

Eris swallows thickly at the spike of his pulse at the sight. He knows his cheeks have gone pink, can feel the heat of it under his skin, around his eyes, the coiling cunning of a beast that lets its tail flick lazily from side to side in his chest.

Azriel leans closer. Perhaps drawn to Eris' sudden bout of flushed skin and glazed, amber eyes. One of his hands lays out on the bar top, fingers spread, half way between Eris' body and his.

It takes a moment, and the dawning idea is so ridiculous it nearly draws a crow of a laugh from his lips.

Whatever it was supposed to be, comes out a choked wheeze. Dilated eyes dropping to the exposed hand and back up again.

Azriel raises his hand, elbow to counter, until it rests like a veil between the two of them.

"Ask." He says, and then peers through the slits between his fingers as if daring Eris to creep closer to the enclosure of his restraint.

Eris has never been very good at lines drawn in the sand. Or palms meeting as nothing more than condensation on a black quartz countertop. But he knows what drew him to The Jig in the first place, the burn under his skin that he could not deplete no matter how many times he rolled his sore shoulders, flat on the canvas floor of the boxing ring. No matter how he kept his feet light, his body aware. No matter how many times he won; easily, stupidly, without challenge or complaint.

He turns in his stool, facing Azriel completely. A lock of his copper hair comes tumbling to rest on his cheekbone, light and ticklish. A pulse of victory—the kind he's been searching for—rushes through him when Azriel's shadowed eyes do nothing but follow the path his fingers take to tuck it away.

"What happened to them?" Eris asks, hardly more than a whisper, and then shifts closer.

It's very easy then, the liquid courage of alcohol wholly unneeded, to tip his head forward and hold Azriel's gaze as he parts his lips. His teeth come to rest around Azriel's knuckle on his pointer finger.

Azriel's smile is sharp, splinters of glass shards Eris gets stuck in his skin. "A fire happened." He replies easily, nothing more than a shrug of his shoulders. As if it was merely a prick of heat; a match that burned too long till the pad of his fingers stung, and not the whole of his hands to his wrists.

Eris swallows, trying to clear the uncomfortable feeling of saliva pooling in his parted mouth. Yet he does not want to draw away—not yet. The action brings his tongue closer, enough to brush against Azriel's knuckle for a second before it's gone.

There's something more to his words, a lingering blade kept hidden behind his tongue. The inner corner of Eris' eyes tighten, narrowed, and his teeth pinch with just enough pressure to draw out a hum from Azriel.

"Well," he drawls, and Eris is struck with a shock of heat when his head dips closer. "A fire my half-brothers started." Azriel reveals, giving Eris no chance to react before his face is a breath away from Eris'—paralleled completely.

Azriel sighs, Eris can feel the heat of it flow over his parted mouth. There’s a boundary between them, but Azriel’s eyes are lidded low, wholly locked on the bow of his top lip. Bringing his face closer, he brushes their noses together gently. Eris doesn’t breathe once.

Under the pressure of Azriel's knee, his thighs tighten, tensing toward each other. A band of energy lashed from the nape of his neck to his tailbone buzzing under his skin.

"But it's alright." Azriel says, and it draws Eris back. He gives a hum as if to say 'I don't see how.'

Azriel's dark eyes gleam, close, pools of the deepest drink he could sate himself to death on. "They're in prison, so I feel as if I got the better end of that deal."

A thrill trails fingers down Eris' spine. His breath shudders out over Azriel's finger, warming and soft in between his teeth.

"But, that doesn't matter." Azriel's thumb runs tenderly against the skin of his cheek, gaze firm where lips are parted. "I find myself much more interested in heading to your gym."

Though his soft touch hasn't stopped, Azriel's tone has deepened enough for Eris to feel it like a sudden swoop in his stomach.

He pulls away, eyeing the faint imprint of his teeth on Azriel's knuckle with a keen gleam in his eye. It shimmers with the trace of his tongue when the amber light hits it just so—a gem sparkling in the dim dragon's lair.

"Sounds presumptive to me," Eris says, raising a cautious eyebrow. "What makes you think I want you in my gym?"

Azriel has yet to lift his head, the sooty shadow of his lashes brushing against his cheek as he stares at the hand Eris had left. It shifts closer to his face, and Eris catches a glimpse of his eyes—and swallows thickly.

"Forgive me," Azriel does not lower his hand, voice low and dangerous and suddenly Eris is looking into the eyes of the beast coiled in his chest. Sat right across from him. Draining a glass of alcohol, resting his feet on the metal rung of his stool, drawing closer and closer to Eris like the draw of riches to a fool. This man may as well heave smoke from his throat from how utterly he's drawn Eris into his treacherous talons.

So easily; hardly a word, a breath, and Eris had taken his knuckle between his teeth like an iron bit in a horse's mouth.

Azriel is not asking for forgiveness; he is not sorry. Eris can tell enough through the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, carving his bronze features into a charming, reckless smile.

"I find myself entirely under your thrall—I think I just need to blow off steam. Long day, you know."

If Eris had walked into any other place besides The Jig, with its sticky tables and patrons crowding with their secretive smiles and low-hanging bulbs hoarding light like reflected gold coins, he would insinuate something entirely different.

Unbidden, his throat bobs. If he were anyone else—without bruised, scabbed knuckles—he'd carve his teeth into that plush bottom lip. Eris can see it, the imprint of what they would make. It is not beautiful, and it does not play across his mind's eye like a scene in a darkened film room. It would be…biting.

There is a danger, lingering like the aftermath of a lightning strike, in imaging where else his teeth could bury.

Azriel is not the only reptile in this place who craves to hoard and covet. He just wears it better.

"Pay your tab—they're open till three," Eris rasps, nodding to the one empty glass that sits forgotten on the counter in front of Azriel. He's got one hand searching his back pocket for his wallet, already pulling out the bills needed for his two drinks.

Azriel cocks an eyebrow, victory glinting in the shine of his eyes. Deftly, he obeys and settles bills on the counter as well.

"I've got the whole night," he's up and standing, taller than Eris thought now that they've left their stools. "I'm not on call." Azriel ends with a knock of his knuckle against the quartz counter.

"On call?" Eris asks.

Something crosses Azriel's face, too quick to identify fully before it slips away. Eris thinks whatever it was had just transferred to the mischievous grin that spreads across his lips.

"Firefighter." He shrugs, head bowed slightly.

Eyes falling automatically to where Azriel's hands are—one on the bar, the other half-tucked in his pocket—a low pulse of heat drops heavily into his stomach.

"You're fucking insane," he breathes. It takes effort to ignore the lack of force in his voice, and he can practically feel how his pupils dilate.

Azriel laughs, the kind where his head tips back and then his gaze comes to rest on Eris once more. Crinkles at the corners of his amused eyes.

"Glass houses, sweetheart. I wouldn't throw stones with those bruised fingers of yours."

Eris jolts at the feeling of the back of Azriel's fingers trailing over his knuckles. His next inhale is shaky.

"Let's go," Eris urges.

Eris doesn't wait for him to say anything else—sure if he did, he'd end up at the bar for another hour, a whole day. The walk out of The Jig is jarring; every laugh is too loud, the lights, which had been so soft like a calling of a reflection from afar, burn into his eyes and make them water. Azriel walks behind him, matching his pace, and he clings like smoke to Eris' back; he can almost feel the heat of his chest through his black cotton shirt.

The night hasn't changed much, if any. When Eris had first walked through the door the sun was just sinking below the strict line of the horizon. The streetlights had looked out of place at that point, muted in the dusk. Now they gild the dark asphalt street—rain-wet, the scent of damp rising with the last of the day's heat hours earlier. The air is shockingly active around them. Whatever atmosphere hung around Eris like a cloak has fallen away as sweet, chilled night air clings to his exposed skin.

Eris takes a moment to breathe it in. The faint scent of fried food, warmed concrete, and engine exhaust creates a strangely pleasant aroma as he stands in the middle of the one-way street. All but barren, the distant hum of traffic alive and well a block or so down.

When his eyes open again, they fall to Azriel. It's with a jolt he tries to keep maintained that he realizes Azriel's already looking at him. Though he can hardly stop how his eyes widen.

Eris clears his throat, hands stuffed into the tight pocket of his slacks even though the fabric pulls at the scabs on his fingers.

He winces. "Right, well, it's this way." Fumbling for the heated remnants of their earlier companionship in The Jig, Eris keeps his glances brief though he tries to re-engage Azriel.

In the brisk, night air, for some reason sobriety of the soul seems to seep into him like the coldest water.

Azriel hasn't made any movement to follow—nor has he spoken one word. The itch, burn, whatever Eris could call it, starts up again in his legs. He rocks up on the balls of his feet, the heels of his loafers coming off.

"Unless you don't…" He trails off, awkwardly abandoning the sentiment. Eris would back off, immediately and without scorn, if Azriel were to have a change of heart in the empty street.

Something of his tone, or posture, must prompt Azriel into moving. Eris holds his breath, unwilling to let it free him entirely, and keeps Azriel's unreadable gaze as he walks closer.

"Take your shoes off." He says softly.

Eris blanches, his whole body stilling in shock. "I'm sorry?"

Azriel leans in closer, the breadth of his shoulders strong, the toned muscles of his arms tense as he keeps his hands in his pockets. His eyes, now nearly indiscernible from the asphalt itself, narrow at Eris.

"Off. Shoes off, Eris." Azriel reiterates, and this time Eris rolls his eyes, a spark of heat he found and kept collecting in The Jig appearing now bright as any of the streetlights among them.

"Gods, you're demanding." Eris scoffs. He doesn't hesitate to shift closer to Azriel, keen, lidded eyes watching as his grow darker like ink spilled on paper.

Eris doesn't expect the flick to the bruised knuckle on his pointer finger. The thrum of pain catches him off-guard, and a noise slips from his throat. He refuses to acknowledge it, though the sudden heat embedded in his cheeks demands attention.

"I—" his voice breaks.

"Shoes." Azriel demands, and his rough voice is countered by the soft pad of his thumb soothing down his smarting finger.

Eris swallows hard, but obeys. He toes off his leather loafers, not losing Azriel's gaze once. Minutely, his hands are trembling—though not from any kind of lingering effect of alcohol. Everything left in his bloodstream had been scorched away in the heat of Azriel's body. His gaze, his nearness.

Bare feet on the rain-damp asphalt, Eris' toes curl. He bends down to pick up his shoes, and holds them pinched at the heel. There's defiance rising like a slowly building tide on his tongue, but everything he had been meaning to say is lost in a whoosh of air from his lungs.

Azriel had dipped down in a swift, sudden movement. And in the next second Eris had been caught, warm palms spreading across the backs of his thighs, and thrown over Azriel's shoulder as if he weighed no more than a sack of grain.

A shriek rises to his throat, pressing at his teeth now that he hangs upside down. His grip is precarious, shoes in one hand while the other grasps desperately at Azriel’s waist, the belt loops of his black jeans. This close, he smells like woodsmoke, as if it’s been sown into the fabric of his tee-shirt.

"Here, gimme." Azriel releases one hand from holding Eris and reaches behind his back.

"What are you doing!" He cries, voice thick at this angle while the blood pools in his head. "Don't lose your grip, you're going to drop me!"

Azriel hefts him higher, the muscled bulk of his shoulder pressing into Eris' ribs so hard he has to draw shallow breaths. The dizziness that comes from the angle, and the lack of air, is so delicious he has to close his eyes to re-settled his pounding heart.

"I'm not going to drop you." Azriel replies, hand still open and grasping for the shoes. Eris can practically hear his eyes rolling.

"Fine," he offers begrudgingly, "here."

Eris shoves his shoes into Azriel's hand, aware that he could stand like that the whole night waiting for Eris. Azriel thanks him with a wordless hum and a pat on the back of his thighs.

"Good," he says softly. "You said your gym was on Main, right?"

Azriel starts walking down the street, and clarity rushes through Eris. Soft and cloying as the night air around them. He breathes out slowly, trying to maintain the heat building under his skin, and the gentle pounding in his head.

"Yes." He says hoarsely, anticipation running its frequented course through his muscles; stringing him tight and ready. "Yes, it's on Main right across from the office buildings, streetlight in front—I'll tell you when I see it."

Another tap on his thighs is his reward, and Azriel begins the trek down the street Eris had walked earlier. Back when the world looked different; unassuming and vague. What they walk through now, leaving the maroon neon sign for The Jig behind to glare at them from the damp asphalt, is entirely separate. The rules Eris had followed don't apply anymore, nor does the cheating of his satisfaction.

Eris hangs from Azriel's back as they walk in quiet—every thought telling him this should be unbearable, complete madness.

He doesn't quite mind, finding it easy to think over the hushed rumble of discontented voices in his head, none of which come from the burning claws sinking into his belly. The want he had been hunting this street at dusk for; found so easily, taken so willingly back to his gym, his ring, his coveted ritual.

One last glimpse of The Jig is all he gets before they turn the corner onto the street that will lead them to Main. Eris' shoes hang from Azriel's free hand like a prized trophy.

---

...can you tell I watched the Hobbit movies on repeat while writing this.

Trying to involve myself back in the community because I love it and y'all are so wonderful and talented and sweet. Just working through things but this fic is kinda my way of sticking it to myself.

Thank you for reading ❤️, and happy Eris Week!! Very excited to read through what everyone's made and look at all the art! I've already seen some things and they're absolutely amazing no shock there :D

#azris #azris fanfiction #azriel x eris #eris vanserra #erisweek2024 #...i can't write eris without azriel i guess. whoops.

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