#⚘ anri × alizebeth — with whom can you sit in water?

[swordluck]

⚘ @hawksblooded // cont.

Oh, but the words cut like sharp-edged stones, knocking the wind from her like the blunt end of a hammer.  Her gaze fell, a bluebird struck from the sky, to land on the churned dirt at her feet.  Bone ash and detritus of their long, brutal journey clung to her boots.  Childish.  The accusation lingered, a dead-eyed spectre, a paring knife in her side.  She could not say what stung more – the scorn veiled in the word, or the cold indifference of its delivery.  Both burned like fever.

Her hand tightened reflexively on the handle of her sword.  Its worn leather grip had steadied her through unspeakable horrors, serving as a reminder of purpose, of duty.  It should have been enough to anchor her now, but her chest ached with something not so easily assuaged.

Perhaps there was truth in Alizebeth’s rebuke.  Anri was a woman sprung from an arrested girlhood, still alight with dreams too delicate and fanciful for this ruinous world – they pricked her eyes like starlight, like the tears that now pooled and burned.

Horace had never given her grief like this.  Horace, who had moved through the world with quiet constancy, whose silent presence had long been her only solace.  Horace, who had been lost to these winding tunnels, with their pockets of bones, housing dead that never rested.  This ghastly place had swallowed him whole, and might yet be ravenous. 

Tear-heavy eyes trained themselves on Alizebeth, the hunter hunched over her axe as though it were a wounded creature in need of her care.  Comfort offered to a weapon over a person, her words barbed and delivered like a swift kick, but Anri could not blame her. 

“I know,” she murmured, her voice wet, her sadness palpable even when her skull – her sorrow-sick face – was encased in steel.  “But surely we are stronger together?”

Her supplication hung itself on the dust-choked air, fragile as spun sugar.  Anri stepped closer, cautiously closing the distance, as if physical proximity might breach the chasm she felt had opened between them.  She hesitated before speaking again, breath catching as she tried to steady the swell of emotions that swirled in her chest, fighting to keep them from surging into her throat.

“I feared for you,” she said at last, quietly, fervently.  “I awoke to find you gone, and my heart knew no peace until I found you again.  You can call it childish if you wish, but I will not stop caring.  I cannot.  If that makes me a fool, then so be it.”

Anri let her hands fall to her sides, gauntleted fingers brushing against the mail at her hips, her heart straining against her ribs.  Alizebeth’s solitude was laid bare before her now – a shield and a weight, armour that protected even as it imprisoned.  Closer still, her presence deliberate, her voice softened to a final plea:

“Do you so badly wish to be alone?”

[swordluck]

( teeth ) - my muse bites your muse -- @hawksblooded (forgot if i sent one already, sorry if so!)

Gooseflesh puckered across Anri’s bare skin, rising in a wave, in a shiver of excitement and chill entwined.  One side of her basked in the campfire’s warmth, pale skin kissed red by the flames.  The other endured the creeping cold, a shadow’s chill where Alizebeth lay clothed, her only barrier against the dark. 

Their kisses carried heat, and the hunter’s were as untamed as she was – teeth quick to nip, her tongue a velvet force that pressed with intent.  When her strong thigh nudged between her legs, Anri rolled her hips, desperately seeking friction.  The coarse fabric of her breeches teased mercilessly, but offered no relief.  When the ache grew unbearable, pleading whispers broke the near-silence.  Alizebeth relented, acquiesced, withdrawing her thigh on the promise of something better.  

Shame burned like an ember beneath Anri’s skin, scalding her cheeks as she spread her thighs wider.  The sound of her longing – sticky, wet, undeniable – reached her ears.  Rough fingertips ghosted over the curve of her inner thigh, each stroke setting nerves singing with anticipation.  Alizebeth’s mouth followed, fierce and unyielding, leaving a trail of kisses from her jaw to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse skipped beneath the surface.  

Lower still, Alizebeth’s lips drifted, scattering kisses across Anri’s sternum, pausing at her breasts.  There the blade of her tongue flicked over a pebbled peak before drawing it into her mouth, the enamel edges of her teeth dragging the sensations into something sharper, more keenly felt.  Anri gasped, her back arching, her body offering itself without thought.  Pleasure hummed beneath her skin, gossamer-winged and insistent, like clusters of dark-eyed honeybees.  

Need burned between her thighs, a molten ache.  It seemed Alizebeth sought to relieve her of her suffering, as work-worn fingers danced over her mound, tender and possessive, exploring her with a patience that bordered on torment.  One finger slid along her seam, parting her slowly, pressing inside with care.  Anri gasped, her breath catching as a second finger joined, coaxing her open.  

Breaths came shallow and quick then, her body squeezing around the intrusion, greedy and grateful at once for the rocking of Alizebeth’s wrist, the practiced curl of her fingers, the thumb that teased her most sensitive spot with short, quick strokes.  Under the weight of those ministrations, Anri quaked, fighting to draw her lover deeper, eyes fluttering and half-focused.  Obscenely slick and soft, every plunge elicited lewd noises, withering her with distant embarrassment.  

Alizebeth gave her nowhere to hide, did not make room for doubt or shame.  Amber eyes bored into blue, the connection between them electric, grounding.  Anri’s lips parted around a broken cry, her body trembling as the hunter’s hand worked her.  A third finger pressed inside, and she saw stars – not just those hung in the heavens above, but ones that exploded violently in the corners of her vision as that callused thumb pressed harder, rubbing in hot, unrelenting circles.  Alizebeth’s gaze all but crackled with intensity, her focus unshakable, her movements precise.  Her head hung low, near Anri’s flushed and spit-slick chest, dark hair spilling in a curtain.  

“Oh,” Anri whined brokenly.  “Oh – !”  

Pleasure surged, building to a dazzling crescendo.  Overwhelmed, she instinctively tried to pull away, to run, but Alizebeth held her firm, lunging to deliver a sharp bite to her neck.  Lust seared Anri like branding iron.  Held between the hunter’s teeth, she cried out, breaking apart, the sound of her climax swallowed by the night.  Release ran along her spine like lightning before dissipating from her skin, leached into the inky dark.

Breathless, spent, gleaming like a pearl in the moonlight, Anri gazed upward, and found that the twinkling constellations seemed closer than before.  Alizebeth released her without ceremony, having bitten down hard enough to leave irregular crescents that Anri would trace lovingly in the dawn light, that she would strain to see reflected in the silver pools of her armour.

Long, clever fingers slipped free, shining and wet.  This time, Anri did not feel the sting of shame.  For her, the world steadied the moment Alizebeth drew her beneath her cloak, shielding her from the cold.  Smiling faintly, still rocked by aftershocks, she cupped Alizebeth’s face in her hands.  Anri kissed her and kissed her and kissed her – on her brow, on the scar tracing her cheek, on the crooked line of her nose, and at last on the downward turn of her mouth. 

“I think I might be growing on you after all.”

[swordluck]

🔥from liz uwu

Anri blinked, faint colour rising in her cheeks as the question lingered.  Fidgeting with the hem of her surcoat bought her a moment to think.

“Her eyes,” she answered softly, her voice warm.  “Never have I seen another pair like them.  That amber, fierce and bright – they can cut a person to the quick.”

But inwardly, Anri’s thoughts strayed beyond Alizebeth’s gaze, to the strength etched into her frame, the way her movements carried a grace born of battle, of the hunt.  Slim-hipped and small-breasted, brimming with strength, her figure was a study in resilience, a testament to survival against all odds.  Even her scars – silver-pale and rose-blush lines carved into weathered skin – spoke of her courage and endurance.

Anri let her gaze drop, flexing her gloved fingers in her lap, gathering her thoughts before finishing: 

“It is as though they reflect everything she has faced, everything she has overcome.  They are beautiful, unflinching.”

[swordluck]

Ⓐ from liz uwu

attractiveness: 

repulsive || hideous || ugly || not attractive || unappealing || not unattractive || meh || no preference || ok || mildly attractive || nice looking || cute || adorable || attractive || pleasant on the eyes || good looking || hot || sexy || beautiful || gorgeous || hot damn || would tap that || perfect || godlike || holy fuck there are no words

personality:

grating || irritating || frustrating || boring || confusing at best || awkward || unreasonable || psychotic || disturbing || interesting || engaging || affectionate || aggressive || ambitious || anxious || artistic || bad tempered || bossy || charismatic || appealing || unappealing || creative || courageous || dependable || unreliable || unpredictable || predictable || devious || dim || extroverted || introverted || egotistical || gregarious || fabulous || impulsive || intelligent || sympathetic || talkative || upbeat || peaceful || calming || badass || flexible 

how likely they would have sex with them:

not if they were the last person on earth and the world was ending || fuck no! || never || no way || not likely || not sure || indifferent || i’m asexual || maybe || probably || it depends || fairly likely || likely || yeah sure || yes || would tap that || hell yes || fuck yes! || wishing that could happen right now || as many times as possible || we are already having sex

level of friendship:

never in a million years || worst of enemies || enemies || rivals || indifferent || neutral || acquaintance || friendly toward each other || casual friends || friends || good friends || best friends || fuck buddies || bosom buddies || practically the same person || would die for them || true friends || my only friend

first impression of them:

i hate them so much || i don’t like them || i don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || i’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || i think i like them || i like them || i’m not sure if i trust them || i trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || i think we’re going to get along || i really like them || i think i’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || i love them 

current impression of them:

i hate them so much || i don’t like them || i don’t trust them || they annoy me || they’re weird || i’m indifferent || meh || they seem alright || they’re growing on me || truce || i think i like them || i like them || i’m not sure if i trust them || i trust them || they’re cool || they’re genuine || i think we’re going to get along || i really like them || i think i’m in love || oh fuck they’re hot || i love them

how good of a kisser:

worst kisser ever || terrible || bad || awkward || just okay || alright || pretty good || good || makes me moan || excellent || exciting || oh god they’re good || i dream about it || fucking amazing || absolute perfection || we haven’t kissed

[swordluck]

⚘ @hawksblooded // cont.

In the cathedral, there had been little space for secrets. No absence went unfelt, no mark escaped notice, no treasure tucked beneath a pillow truly hidden.  Perhaps it had instilled in Anri a yearning for intimacy – a quiet, aching desire to understand the hurts that others carried.

A sister.  Anri inhaled around this revelation, the word heavy and unfamiliar.  Those who climbed out of their graves always left something behind.  Perhaps, in this case, it had been something vital.  Something irreplaceable.

In the twilit stillness, Anri listened, fingertips tracing the contours of the scar.  She marvelled at the texture of it, at how the body healed in crooked lines and uneven edges, how flesh carried memories the mind might wish to forget.

Alizebeth’s hard features were half-hidden by the dark veil of her hair.  Her voice was steady as she spoke, but tension thrummed beneath it – something jagged, like a wound stitched but not healed at its roots.  Anri’s eyes lingered on her lips, drawn by the silence between her words, by the weight of all that went unspoken.  Here was something raw, something sacred.

Anri was home to a similar scar.  A crescent etched into her skin, bleached to silver by long years.  She had been a child – bearing a pot-bellied pitcher of blackberry wine, pouring into pewter cups for the saint and his deacons – when Aldrich took her between his teeth.  How casually he had leaned forward in his seat, his bulk shifting mid-conversation.  To reach for the pheasant, she had thought, or perhaps the thick-crusted bread.  Instead, he had seized upon the birch of her forearm, as though testing the ripeness of midsummer fruit.  Blood had welled, rich and crimson, and he had washed it down with the very wine she served.

How often she had stared at the bitemark by firelight, the pale indentation a relic of her survival and a saint’s unholy appetite.  But it was nothing like this.  Nothing like Alizebeth’s scar, imbued with the weight of love turned monstrous.  

Fingers trembled like butterfly wings.  She wanted to speak, to console, but no words came.  What could she say?  That she understood?  That she didn’t?  She scarcely knew how to untangle her own grief, let alone tough the delicate spider thread of another’s. 

Instead, she simply tightened her hold on the hunter’s arm, in a gentle gesture meant to comfort.  It pained her to think of Alizebeth, so solid in the present, during the critical moments that left her with this mark.

“You don’t have to speak of it,” she said finally, her voice steady, though her heart ached with second-hand grief.  “Not if it hurts.”

[swordluck]

“If you were a nokken, still I would nail myself to you.”

Anri spoke the words brightly, almost flippantly, as if they were not a tremendous declaration of devotion. In the corner of her eye, she caught the moment Alizebeth briefly submerged, then resurfaced to scrub at her newly-wetted scalp.  Coppery stains of old blood leached into the river, swirling away in ghostly ribbons.  Anri’s gaze followed the fading streaks, tracing their path back to their source – the hunter, an anchor of flesh and blood rooted in the river’s flow.  Seeking to protect this rare sliver of peace, perhaps, Mara was offered as a playmate, as a distraction.  

Cornflower-blue eyes skirted to where the unsuspecting hound lay sprawled on the shore, tufted ears flicking as the breeze teased through pick-thin reeds.  Stretched luxuriously in a patch of sunlight, she was still save for the occasional gentle wag of her tail. With her grey-scruffed coat and sleek grace, Mara was beautiful, and currently a picture of peace – but the memories that surged in Anri’s mind were far from tranquil.  The dogs that prowled the cathedral’s perimeter had been executioners, trained to maul the fleeing and drag the desperate back to their unholy prison.  That was if they survived long enough to be returned.  

Choose:  Death by teeth, or death by teeth.

Mara was not one of those creatures – yet the potential remained, coiled like a spring beneath her calm.  It would only take a word from her mistress or the glinting spark of instinct.  Anri could see that Mara was as attuned to Alizebeth as the hunter was to the wilds.  It was solace enough to dull the edges of her unease, though not fully erase it.

“She is well-behaved,” Anri said softly, her tone almost questioning, clearly seeking reassurance.  “I can see how devoted she is to you.”  

Straightening, she brushed her damp hands against her thighs, the motion absent-minded and nervous. 

“It is… strange to me still.  Where I was raised, dogs were neither companions nor guardians.  They were arrows that flew over heath and heather, bolts that struck true no matter the terrain.  I – I must admit I am rather frightened of her.”  

The confession came haltingly, accompanied by an apologetic smile, as if to say that she was trying not to see Mara as a creature of violence, but as something gentler.  Still, any temptation to approach the hound bloomed and withered in a single breath, Anri’s fingers twitching with the short-lived urge to extend a hand.  Instead, her gaze returned to Alizebeth, thoughts drifting to the blood that had earlier clouded the water.  

“Here,” Anri chirped, cheeriness creeping back into her voice.  “Allow me.”  

She waded to the shore, water churning against her thighs.  While she gave Mara a noticeably wide berth, she clicked her tongue in a tentative greeting, and hoped that her effort counted for something.  Stood naked and dripping amongst her scattered belongings, she rummaged through pockets and leather pouches and returned to the river with her prize in hand.  A silver comb, plainly wrought, gleaming in her sunlit grasp.

There had been times, in darker days, when even Horace had flinched from her.  Hurts might heal, but horror lingered, and even a kind face could seem monstrous under the weight of memory and fear.  Long ago she had learned to make no assumptions.  

“May I?”  Anri enquired gently, the comb extended in askance.

The water is soothing in it’s frigidity, like Anri had said. Her dearest Mara was laid dutifully down on the shore, ears perked to the noises of the wind in the reeds, and the women speaking. Her tail wags gently as she takes in the sun. Still, this was the wilderness - at once somewhere Alizebeth felt at home, and somewhere she knew she was not. Amber eyes flit from the bank to the horizon, and her body insists on a certain tension of the muscles that she can only try to shake. The quick movement of a crawfish beneath the clear waves is enough to make her flinch.

She sighs, crouching down in the water and submerging her head for a moment, dutifully holding in the gasp that came with the cold. Alizebeth pats the riverbed with a wide hand, finds herself a suitably soft stone and sits down upon it, long limbs folded into herself. Without cease her gaze moves from Anri to the shore, to the reeds, to the tall oaks that border the river. Though she is tuned to the sounds of danger always, this time she begins to think maybe the knight is right, and nothing will reach them here but the rays of the sun and the song of birds. It is as though they have wandered in the fey realm, and are not mortal women but -

Alizebeth furrows her brow as water is splashed towards her. A heavy sigh as she sinks herself further into the river, bending her broad back. Her face only resurges to glare disapprovingly at Anri with a shake of her head.

“ Water sprites? Nokken, more like. ”

Really, the knight is too old to believe in such fairy tales. The hunter has never seen any river-women grant wishes, unless one wished for a swift death under the waves. But she can’t bring herself to say that. She sighs again and busies herself with rinsing her scalp. Specks of dirt and dried beast blood run down the clear river. Everywhere she goes Alizebeth brings the hallmarks of death and violence - even here, in this small idyll, this moment that could be a space, with the gentle knight she had for companion.

She looks up at Anri, skin colored rosy with cold, her blonde hair as bright as the sun. Maybe if she looked like that - like an escaped princess, or a pagan druidess - and hadn’t seen the things she had seen, she would believe in fairy tales too. She can’t help but wonder how that innocent girl has made it so far. In truth, she knows Anri’s skills are notable, has seen her fight, if briefly; can tell from the care she put into her armor and arms that she is no novice to the arts of war she herself has grown up with. But like this, bared to the sky and reveling in nature and the sunlight, she looks as though she has never even thought of the thing. As if she is to be protected, and loved, and not left to train with sharp things and wander with the rough, crude kind of the hunter’s. They had always made a strange looking pair, and beneath their armors they looked like they came from entirely different worlds. Perhaps they did.

Alizebeth speaks plainly, wide shoulders rolling as she unfolds herself to rest one elbow on the shallow riverbed: “ Play with the dog, if you must. I’m sure she’d like the attention. ”

[swordluck]

Anri stood frozen in the embrace, the unexpected warmth of Alizebeth’s arm around her more arresting than the words themselves.  She had not anticipated this – a gesture of comfort, of regret, from the ever stoic hunter.  

Her breath hitched, escaping as a trembling exhale that carried both her sorrow and the faintest trace of relief.  Her helm knocked against the hunter’s cold breastplate, its battered metal unyielding yet strangely reassuring.  Here was someone who had been built to last, someone born of true resilience.  Without hesitation, Anri’s gauntleted fingers curled over Alizebeth’s arm, testing the fragile reality of the moment as though it might stretch thin and break like a strand of spider’s thread.

“You don’t need to be good at talking,” Anri murmured at last, her voice muffled beneath the steel of her helm, snuffly from weeping.  

It was enough to be gifted with honesty – and there was honesty to Alizebeth’s words, unpolished and halting though it might be.  Or so Anri sorely, desperately wanted to believe.  The hunter’s hesitation, the awkwardness of her touch, stood in stark contrast to her usual fluidity and purpose.  That reluctance made Anri wonder, not for the first time, if Alizebeth even liked her.

Perhaps it was only tolerance.  A livestock guardian for a bleating, black-eyed flock animal frightened of the dark.  A sure-footed hunter for a girl dressed as a knight – one who cried and stumbled and retched as she fought to fulfil her duty.  Poorly fitted armour, forged for another’s frame, hung awkwardly on Anri’s too-delicate form, its suffocating weight a constant reminder of her fragility.  Like blood in water, her weakness was apparent. Abhorrent to the truly strong, to the truly courageous.  

And yet Alizebeth lingered.  

Anri pulled back slightly, her fingers trailing down the hunter’s arm as she tilted her helmeted head to seek the shadow-veiled eyes above her.

“I forgive you,” she said softly.  Her sadness remained, but now it felt lighter, fragmented, as though dissolving at its edges.  “But don’t leave me like that again – please.”  

Her words hung in the coffin-cold air between them.  Stepping back, her hand brushed Alizebeth’s shoulder in a fleeting touch before falling to her side.  Somehow, the atmosphere between them felt heavier than the silence that had preceded it. It seemed to swirl thickly as Anri turned toward the darkness that pressed in around them.  Grief-bright eyes took in the catacombs’ pockmarked walls, the silt of ash and dust stirring beneath their feet.  Shadows yawned wide, threatening to swallow them whole, bones and all.  

Discreetly, she raised her visor, her leather-clad fingers brushing clumsily at her damp cheeks, smudging the tears to little effect.  With a sigh, she drew the visor back down, sealing herself away once more.  A tomb within a tomb.  

“We should move,” she whispered at last.

Alone. Alizebeth is never alone. The dead follow her, cling to her broad back like shadows; those she couldn’t save in time, those she killed with her own hands. Theirs, long and skeletal, dig into her shoulders and drag through her night-sky hair. She is shrouded always in their cold embrace. The dead do not weigh her down. The dead make her strong. Could Anri understand this, sorrow-filled girl, who yet has tears to shed, too soft for the world that birthed her? The hunter doubts it.

So when she hears the metallic sound of the knight’s fidgeting, the trembling in her crystalline voice, Alizebeth feels a pang of remorse. She should have known, should have spoken more carefully, should have pretended to a concern that she didn’t believe was really there. She has always struggled to evoke her feelings, and often their untangling in her mind seemed an impossible task. Humans, in all their myriad ways, their hurts, their fleeting humors are strangers to her as though she were of a fully other species. So she had kept to herself, lonesome thing grown wild in the wilderness. 

She doesn’t know what to make of it, Anri’s pained plea, and so she thinks of what her sister may have done. Tender Natalia, with her spring-song voice, her soft eyes. She digs for memories of childhood like arrowheads from old wounds. 

Alizebeth sighs. She places her damaged axe with care in its holster at her left side, gets up with a groan to turn and face the knight. Even through the steel that conceals her she thinks she can see her pretty face darkened with sorrow. With easily betrayed hesitation her arm raises around Anri, tentatively brings her into unsure embrace.

“You are a fool to care.”

A beautiful, strong fool. To shed such precious tears for someone like her seems like sacrilege. Anri’s helmet presses into the hunter’s breastplate. Though the gesture is shy, it is not unwilling. In terrifying truth Alizebeth finds that she, too, cares for the knight. That is in part why she left alone this morning. She always finds it easier to settle her thoughts on her own, in the lonesome where she feels at ease. How could she know it would wreak such turmoil in her companion? She, who saw friendships as temporary alliances, who knew too well the impermanence of relationships and chose to sever herself from them. But of course, Anri was right. She wasn’t protecting herself, not just - the armor of the recluse keeps her from pain, but also from joy.

“It's what makes you strong. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m not too good at talking,” Alizebeth whispers. A long inhale as she wrings the words from her throat, those rarely spoken words held back by their weight. “I… I’m sorry, Anri.”