#ledetlore writes

Art by @so-na-r (and it's so prettyyyyyy!!!)

It’s time to saddle up for the next chapter—Hitching Buckles & Hitching Breaths is on the way, and it’s bringing dust, drama, and just a little bit of cowboy charm.

Gideon thought he was heading west to pay his respects at his Pa’s grave, to find a little closure before returning home. Instead, he finds his father very much alive, running a ranch where a burned out shell should be. While his Pa is happy to see Gideon, he’s less than pleased about the gatorfolk at his side. Kremy is tolerated, but barely. It’s clear he’s not exactly welcome, and yet, here he is; poised, polite, and absolutely not about to let a few wary glances ruffle his composure.

Ranch life, however, is another challenge entirely. The heat, the dust, the sheer number of cows—it’s all a bit much. And yet, somehow, Kremy manages to handle it all with attempted elegance, his fine suits and carefully maintained posture a stark contrast to the rough world around him. He may not be built for farm life, but he refuses to let it show. At the very least, the cowboys on the night shift seem to like him, though they can’t quite seem to agree on whether to call him Miss or Mister.

Prologue is on Ao3, linked below!

Setting: England. The Krew does run a shitty carnival at one point. Mostly the same, with some English additives for flavours. This can be read as human!au but it's funnier if they're all still fantasy creatures.

Gricko Grimgrin:

Post-punk pub dad =- calls everyone ‘darling’, ‘gorgeous’ or ‘love’. Somehow knows your dad ‘from a gig a couple years back’. Never completed school. Employed (maybe?) – does something to afford the blunts he smokes behind Sainsbury’s and drink all day. Probably on benefits for a ‘gammy knee’. Proud divorced dad of one girl – she’s his perfect angel, his Ex-Wife is in Majorca with the alimony. Always dressed in baggy joggers and a ratty band shirt/ratty printed joke shirt with absolutely ruined converse trainers. Has shitty tattoos done by his drunk mate from college. Spends his money on beer and his kid. Runs the pub barbeque in summer. Body mods for days. Hates Thatcher as much as Scabatha.

Morning Frost:

Chinese exchange student, went to oxford because he couldn’t get into Cambridge, staying with a stout catholic family. Early thirties and a scholar, wants to be a professor of Psychiatry. Reads in Café Nero and talks to no one. Always spotted with a massive backpack and a massive flask. Got bullied out of the Chinese Society because his mandarin was pure shit, and he only spoke Cantonese. Judges everyone on his dorm floor for being loud and going clubbing when he doesn’t. Has a cochlear implant and takes it off when he’s sick of listening to people. Gricko learned sign language so he couldn’t escape.

Torbek:

Unemployed. Pathetic. Hangs out in ratty tracksuits and smokes cigarette butts he finds in the bins. Lives in Bedford. Somehow has a network of homeless guys. Couch Surfer Supreme. Great guy. Likes to get a tesco meal deal and sit in the park with a cider can. Feeds ducks. Accidentally scares kids when he’s just trying to get a sarnie. Everyone in town knows him and half love him and half think he’s rabble. Can get the fuck down at a club though.

Gideon Coal:

Still from Texas?? Was kidnapped by a gang as a kid, managed to get out and away in England and then proceeded to find a way to make it. Lived in Manchester for a while. Wears Man United merch around Man City supporters and vice versa to start fights. He uses his accent to pull girls and Gricko gets uppity about it. He gets called a yank and people love when he’s around. Drinks whiskey in bars but only the cheap shit. Spends his time wearing jeans and wifebeaters in the dead of winter. Has an old zip-up hoodie with a bunch of patches from Gricko, or a leather biker jacket (he has no bike). Carries around shiny stickers to put on people’s suits when they’re not looking.

Kremy LeCroux:

Lived in Brighton mostly. Has a good RP accent, but mostly speaks like he’s from Hertfordshire. When he’s drunk his true self comes to life – he’s from Sheffield lads. He wears a three-piece suit daily but looks gay as hell. Dresses nice but has to get it from Charity Shops. He gets his accessories from Unikorn. All of his make-up is stolen from Claires and Primark. He’s got a lifetime ban from WHSmith for stealing shitty romance books. Waterstones hates to see this man on a Wednesday afternoon sat in the corner. Does drag but used to be a stripper in his early twenties. Toxic Situationship with his old boss.

Hootsie:

Kremy LeCroux watched the guards that had escorted him to his room leave it, their armour clinking softly as they moved in one fluid motion, perfectly mirrored as they closed the tall, carved doors behind them. The world outside the door became muffled, if silence could even be so – this old, grand estate seemed like it had been made to be filled with sunlight and moonshine equally.

The room itself was opulence incarnate – a bed, draped in neatly folded eiderdown covers, smelling like fresh soap and covered in pillows and cushions; enough to satisfy even the pickiest of princesses. The walls were smooth, with the most delicate of patterns painted into the thick cream in a shade just a touch lighter. Thin, gossamer curtains billowed with the breeze, dipping from cool silvered sheets in the night to buttery, elegant wings furling in the lamplight of his room.

A fireplace crackled, impossibly big and gilded at the mantle, above which hung a painting of a woman on a swing, greens mottling in the bushes and trees as one of her shoes flew off. Kremy recognised it from one of his lessons, but couldn’t quite place where – Garou had told him, he was sure. The fire itself wasn’t needed, what with the summer season spreading its wings over the sky, but it crackled merrily all the same to fill the silence of the room.

It was further furnished for his stay – a writing desk, with a high-backed chair and stocked with quills, ink, and paper. A wardrobe easily big enough for his outfits, and then some – all unpacked by the servants, apparently. A low-slung set of seats, a chaise lounge, a short table with a bouquet of freshly prepared orange-red roses. Kremy smiled at them – they reminded him of Gideon, the way they unfurled in the room as if aflame.

Stepping in further, his feet tapped lightly against the tile in beat with his cane. Wood surrounded the bed, presumably to be warmer than marble come morning. Even so, his slippers had been laid neatly beside the bed-step. Baron knows he’d need it, with the sheer size of the mattress.

A set of doors to his right piqued his interest, and he opened them. They swung inwards, gliding like a dancer on ice, and came to a cushioned stop. Inside this next room was a bathroom, so unlike his cramped one on The Hungry Catfish. A deep bath was set into the floor, lace pink quartz curving in a delicate approximation of a halved clamshell. The wall in here was painted with a mosaic of various merfolk surrounded in seafoam, and strings of pearls hung in clusters. The domed roof had a skylight, a sliver of silver that was swallowed by the number of candles and glowing lanterns lit. The bath was prepared, as he had been informed it would be.

Heat curled around him, damp and clinging, like welcoming hands. The bath was steaming hot, and covered in clouds of white bubbles, sprinkled with more rose petals – blush, this time. A massive boudoir was set to the side, white paint crisp, the rounded mirror set with more pearls and shells.

Kremy stepped out again, humming. Well, Remy was certainly in the right place to discuss deals of grandeur, he supposed. His shoes, tight after a day on his feet, clacked as he made his way to the wardrobe. Sitting on a little stool, he unlaced them, removing his spats at the same time. His slippers went on next, cork-soled and glinting with the faint shimmer of glitter. Gricko knew him well.

Opening the wardrobe, he found himself face to face with all his clothing, and then some. Hung up were the things he had brought, as well as gowns, suits, bedclothes, shirts, skirts, more. Hesitantly, he pulled open a drawer to find much the same – his own things folded neatly (oh, gods, someone had folded his underwear) besides an array of finer, more elegant options.

Kremy wasn’t sure what emotions it was supposed to make him feel. So, instead of thinking too hard, he traced his fingers down the hem of a thistledown thin nightdress. If it were in his closet, he supposed he should wear it – after all, some elven nobles were strange about their guests and the rules of propriety.

He hung it over one arm, and made his way back to the bathroom. No need for all this hesitation if he was just going to wear it, after all – no one would see him in it. Slipping out his slippers, he shut the doors behind him, swallowing steam into his lungs with a desperate, deep sigh of relief.

He hung the nightdress on the brassy bar hanging on the wall, where three empty hangers were waiting. As he undressed, he hung each piece of his suit up carefully, avoiding wrinkling it before snapping a quick prestidigitation over himself and the fabric to remove the day’s filth.

Now he could settle into his bath, clean and not worried about wallowing in his own filth.

The water was heavenly, a kiss to his calves as he sat on the lip of the tub. He looked back to the pearls curiously, watching condensation cling to them, dripping down and falling in heavy globs of water. They made an odd musical ping each time, and he looked carefully.

There, running in a thin groove along the ground, was a rose-gold layer of curved metal – the water would fall in from the pearls to there, neatly avoiding puddles on the floor. He traced the path of a droplet as it fell, watching it race along the shimmering journey until it disappeared into a grate at the far end of the room.

How curious, he mused, sinking in lower. The elves seemed to have it figured out – this way, no mould would grow, except on the pearls, which could be cleaned far easier than the walls. Luxury being functional was a new concept that made him tilt his head.

He swam in the bathtub until the bubbles had faded, brushing past rose petals as he sank below the water and closed his eyes. The water hadn’t become cold, but it was definitely a few degrees below what it had been when he finally swam back to the edge and clambered out, reaching for his cane to help him stand.

It would be an irritation, he supposed, to have to do that constantly with his bad hip. Still, he wouldn’t complain about this place, not yet.

Indulgence had not yet said it’s goodbyes, apparently. As Kremy slipped the nightdress on – scandalously thin, though modest in length and cut – there was a soft knock upon the door. He dressed himself fully, opening the door and wandering out, leaning on his cane. A small servant boy stood there, a human with a mop of curling blond hair, a tray in one hand and a bucket filled with ice in the other. He said nothing, and Kremy looked awkwardly to the main doors to his room.

“Um, Whattado?” Kremy tried, wondering why there was someone now in his room.

“My Lord,” the servant boy said, voice high pitched and jittery. “I have been sent to offer you wine, one made from the daisies in our very own gardens.”

“My- Oh, why thank you,” Kremy smoothed, momentarily taken aback at the title. The young man flourished a glass, filling it with the bottle in the bucket. It fizzed lightly against the crystalline glass, and when full, he paused momentarily.

“Would you like me to stay, sir?” He offered, half bowing to Kremy.

No, no Kremy did not want this weird kid to stay in his room. He hadn’t been expecting to find some random servant in his room after what was supposed to be his bath and retirement to bed.

In lieu of answering, Kremy took the stem of the glass delicately and sipped the pale liquid inside. The roof of his mouth tingled as the effervescent liquid passed through, and he found himself sipping deeper, for more of the sharp, light flavour.

Oh Baron, he was drinking that whole bottle, come hook or crook. The servant was stood, still and silent, and Kremy knew what Garou had told him to do, and how to act, but gods was this hard.

“You may leave,” he said, but gestured to the bottle with his free hand. “Uh, do leave the bottle. This is fine wine y’all have made.”

The servant bowed, low once more, and left the bottle on the table, already gathering crystalline drops down its smooth, tapered throat. Kremy waited for the doors to close before grabbing the entire thing, pouring until his glass was far fuller. Oh, tonight was shaping up to be far better than expected.

Wandering to the open window, Kremy breathed in the night air, alone once again. The balcony was carved from smooth white stone, rounded in a half-moon that jutted out with a perfect view of the gardens, centred with the fountain. He could hear it, just about – the burble of water as it cascaded, catching the light with diamond reflections in the translucent, night-shaded sheets it fell in.

The lanterns behind him did not glow half as bright compared now to the ivory caress of moonlight, coming to settle cool and light as frost on his scales. The air was still warm from the day, dry heat that fluttered with promise, the sun long gone. Far off, he could hear the sound of music playing, possibly from where Garou was still being entertained by their hosts.

Kremy leaned on his forearms, and turned his eyes to the sky. It was as if he’d been placed in a sphere of blue goldstone, encompassed by the distant glint. Sapphires in deep blue velvet, all draped and hung out as if settled to be perfect as possible.

A smudged shadow darted between hedgerows, but he couldn’t see it, tilting his head to catch the strains of strings and stars at once.

Across the sweet, cut grass, Gideon breathed low, his heart thundering in his chest as he ducked past yet another ornamental shrub absolutely doused in thick, honeyed blooms. The guards weren’t going to be round for another ten minutes, and he could see Kremy already – a silhouette against a drop of gold, a bead on the face of the moon-blued walls.

He’d scoped the place out earlier, of course, under orders from both Kremy and Garou – find the weak spots and make sure no one else did. His job was to guard Kremy, and while those elves and their ivory towers were good, Gideon didn’t trust anyone but himself to get bloody keeping Kremy clean.

There – under the balcony, stretched up to allow the hybrid roses to climb  a trellis, thick and sturdy and enchanted not to fall. It wound around Kremy’s balcony and up another story still, but he wasn’t caring about that. No, he was climbing to that low point, to where he wanted most desperately to be.

The night air was heady with the powder-sweet scent of petals, and he stepped closer, a hand coming up to test the wooden framework.

Satin soft, the petals of the roses brushed against him like lips, dancing over his thick, scarred knuckles and kissing the heel of his palm. The wood would hold, easily, and he shifted to set the toe of his boot in the gaps. Both hands moved, grabbing to the best holds for him to cling to, for when he pulled himself up.

Sharp, stinging pain. Gideon nearly let go as teeth bit into him, prickling thorns digging their canines into his hands. But, no, he couldn’t.

Above him, as if dawn were already breaking, Kremy’s window loomed. Gideon huffed, breaths steady and even as he forced himself to ignore the sensation of scratches. He began his ascent, avoiding knocking the blossoms as he did, knowing these damn elves would spot a bruised petal like he’d spot a drawn blade.

It wasn’t much strain to climb, with its even set diamonds, and he climbed careful but quick. He hated wasting time, especially when he knew he couldn’t stay all night. Any second with Kremy would be a spoil, a treasure worth more than the gold in his wages. So, he climbed, one arm up and then the other, the warm night drying the sweat pricking up on his throat and forehead, the cool of night not yet silked on his nape.

The magnolia trees at the edge of the property creaked as the wind tussled them, brining over their richer, jammier scent, swirling with the roses under his nose. Giden twitched, his beard shaking as he clenched his jaw a little, still moving. He could see the marble arch coming to view now, and in a few steps he’d reach Kremy. He kept light and quiet, as much as a genasi on fire could, at least.

Kremy too noticed the scents mixing – and took a deep inhale, marvelling in the way the two flowers made such a delicate perfume. He sipped his wine, then breathed again, only for a new scent to grace him. The flowers were there, strong, but underneath he could smell the faintest traces of smoke, of leather, of something like the pink pepper cologne he gave Gideon for special occasions.

The idea made him smile – Gideon would have made this night perfect, he mused, but there was no joking to be had when they were closing in on such an important deal. Perhaps they could bargain more of this wine, he wondered, spinning the glass by the stem and watching the bubbles coalesce into a thin white foam. He turned himself heavenward again, drinking in the constellations.

Gideon climbed a little higher, and glanced back to see Kremy through the pillars of marble holding up the balcony’s railing. Face sky-turned, Kremy’s eyes were filled with more stars than Gideon thought the sky could ever reflect. He was in some new dress too – though Gideon wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such things outside of the tastefully illustrated romance novels that Kremy swore he’d never read.

His glass clinked real pretty when he set it down, and Gideon knew then that he wanted nothing more than to be the crystal stem twirled between his fine, thin claws.

In his leaning to get a better look, he hadn’t noticed where he’d set his weight, and the trellis creaked a little before he hurriedly righted himself, the plants rustling as he spun back. The sound caught Kremy’s attention, and he turned. Gideon had one leg reaching down to the balcony, the other on its knee as he paused his climbing.

They both froze, eyes locked on each other’s. Kremy’s breath hitched. Gideon’s new thorn-bites beaded with blood.

“What,” Kremy hissed, as if anyone could hear them, “do you think you’re doing here?”

“Comin’ to see you,” Gideon replied, grinning ear to ear. No one could hear him – guard rotations wouldn’t be round for a while, and the guards at the end of the hall wouldn’t hear them. He’d read the floorplans extensively. Still, it didn’t compare when he peered in, looking over the rich wood and luxurious bedspread. “Whew, nice set up they got ya.”

“Yes, because I’m here as Garou’s protégé,” Kremy snapped, wandering over and glancing at the garden in worry. “You were meant to stay with the other staff!”

“No, they said Garou’s staff were to stay there,” Gideon smirked, rolling his eyes. “I ain’t Garou’s staff, I’m yours.”

“I am very sure they meant you too,” Kremy hissed, and tugged Gideon into the room, dousing them both in buttery light. He carefully closed the stained glass of the doors, and tugged Gideon further inside. He peered to the other door, eyes flickering in concern.

“No one will know,” Gideon said, and it was the truth. He put his hands on his hips, and took a deep breath in. Kremy stared at him, wringing his hands for a moment, wine softening his judgement as Gideon started to explore around.

He checked under the bed, in and behind the wardrobe, and peered into the bathroom with a tight face, until something cleared the storm on his brow and smoothed it into the sunrise of his smile. Carefully, he kicked his boots off, and fell backwards onto the bed, rumpling the perfect sheets with an impression of his body.

“So,” Gideon asked, rubbing the texture of the embroidered brocade with his palms. “What’s the deal, then?”

“Well, you know the itinerary,” Kremy sighed, brushing his fingers along the bottle neck as he walked over. “Today they’re having some sort of private meeting, tomorrow I need to be available for brunch, and then in the evening is the dinner, and then is… uh…”

“The ball,” Gideon said helpfully, propping himself up on his elbows as he leaned his head back, craning to stretch out his neck. Kremy wouldn’t ever admit that the exposed expanse of burnished burgundy made his throat dry, but the dip between Gideon’s clavicles glistened with sweat, and his eyes were stuck to it like a bee to pollen. “Y’all have a fancy ball, and I get to finally see you again. Officially.”

“On the clock,” Kremy reminded him absently, watching how Gideon’s chest muscles moved as he breathed. “Which means-?”

“Means no fun,” Gideon grumbled, flopping back down to his back. Kremy scoffed, but didn’t correct him. The room had felt warm earlier, but now it seemed like it would never be warm enough, and Kremy bit down with all his force on the desire to crawl next to his bodyguard.

They weren’t on The Hungry Catfish, and it seemed the servants could come in at any point, if the wine boy was anything to go by. It would be bad enough if someone entered and saw Gideon, let alone saw the protégé coiled up like a housecat next to him. No, Kremy had to be sensible.

Though, the swell of Gideon’s body called ever so sweetly, promising warmth.

No.

“Gideon, why are you here?” Kremy asked eventually, when the silence stretched and the fire crackled. It seemed his question had struck something, and Gideon held still, not meeting his gaze or answering. All of a sudden, the thin shift he wore felt hardly enough to cover Kremy. Exposure dragged its cold hands down his back, over his hips.

“Like I said,” Gideon huffed. “I came t’ see you. This place is awful big, and I don’t much like the thought of not seein’ you.”