#and be bred for function
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sometimesanequine · 3 months ago
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can you please explain why you hate the horse breeds you talked about in your last post? i'm curious and don't know a lot about horses
so halter horse breeds are a bit like the modern kennel clubs for dogs. they want cartoonish porportions which inevitably end up hurting the horses health in the long term
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im real bad at explaining horse faults as i only draw horses and watch the occasional train wreck that is equestrian drama. i dont have the terminology to explain the faults here tbh, but there are worse specimens than this.
if you want something funny though the photoshop people do for halter aqh stud advertisements are pretty cartoony
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cosmik-homo · 1 day ago
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i mean part of the issue w the whole Virtue Is Only Virtue In Extremis thing- other than holy shit. holy shit. VIRTUE ETHIC? fine use the word but are you actually going to be working on a framework of Good person Defined By Good Traits / Bad Person Defined By Bad Traits? with her???? are you NUTS- anyways OTHER than that, it's like. girl what are you doing. baby steps. She is NOT at "how do i make choices truly motivated only by the wellbeing of others" she's at, like. I think step one is somewhere along the line of "y'know most people Will Not react to vulnerability by killing you with hammers and rocks and such right. right. like. i know a lot about helping people and usually when you ask for help people help you rather than killing you with knives. yeah that was just our teachers and peers growing up. sorry. Yeahhh striking first doesn't make you Safer it just makes you, like, more disliked, by people."
#if i was in charge of doctorwhomst he would NOT be such a strict fuckin deontological moral realist. what are we- christians.#like i can see how you draw the line for 'some corners of the universe have bred the most terrible things. they must be fought' to. here bu#come onnnn#i for one am not intimidated by 'PROVE to me killing for personal benefit is bad' like its p fuckin easy#or like. sure i like the sense of clarity and security of Kantianism i can see how this kind of stuff Fits the doctor but like.#he also IS someone who does what's needed to stop threats. points at seven does this guy look like he's treating the humanity of others lik#a purpose rather than a tool.#and generally. plenty of philosophers and People have Personal Beliefs they believe in and Public Beliefs which are good to build#understanding and like functional agreement with others. like. yknow. the fine china politics and the fight for what you can get politics#BUT NO. obviously he's too psychosexually busy trying to turn her into himself to approach this remotely practically.#i mean. too stubborn to compormise on the fight what i can get politics is a great tragic arc flaw. v relatable for one-#hashed tag MY prombles.#but. as a nuance liker im like what are you doinggggg#deradicalization ISNT ABOUT winning at ethics its about PSYCHOLOGY and SOCIOLOGY and -#what's in it for her!#you cant market martyrdom you NEEDDDD a reward stimuli. and it cant be some reward coming from your authority either#its gotta be inherently tied to the action its trying to motivate. this is like. Teaching For Learning 101.#me: LET ME IN THE RINGGGG i can logistics the fuck outta thissss#also me: and then 18 is in many ways Worse because she's addicted to lying to herself and also thinknig her experiences are universal-
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ivyfox-illustration · 10 months ago
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Clipboard RAINBOW POODLE, standard poodle, watercolor, spoo, continental cut, realistic, unique poodle gifts Your favourite breed art print - head or body conformation - groomer gift - Other Breeds Available - dog breeder gift - regional specialty or national specialty prize gift idea Artwork by Ivy Fox Illustration Follow Ivy Fox Illustration on social media https://m.facebook.com/IvyFox.illustration/ https://www.instagram.com/ivyfox.illustration/ Find your dog breed: Personalized Pet Portraits: https://ivyfoxillustrates.etsy.com/ My website: https://ivyfoxillustration.com/ Art Prints Merch Original PaintingsColorful samoyed clipboard featuring pastel watercolor splatter and a samoyed, making it a unique gift for breed fanciers, ethical breeders pet owners, and dog groomers. The vibrant colors and all-over print make this clipboard stand out, perfect for those who love stylish and practical accessories. Ideal for dog lovers, groomers, and show dog owners. Relevant for birthdays, holidays, and appreciation gifts for dog lovers. bring some extra character around the office, the dog show, your next dog sporting event, the classroom, the upcoming event, or anywhere in between. This clipboard is made in the USA and has a double sided design. original artwork created and designed by the very real, living, breathing artist, Ivy Fox Illustration! Product features - Polished chrome clip for holding standard letter size paper - Built-in hook for easy placement - Vibrant colors with latest printing techniques - All over print design on both sides - Fiberboard base for durability Care instructions - Gently wipe the dirt or dust off with a clean, dry microfiber clothContact Email: IvyFoxIllustration@ gmail(dot)com ———— Tags and other miscellaneous info: ———— Ivy Fox Illustration Ivy Fox dog art Museum of the Dog American Kennel Club Showsight - Where Champions Are Celebrated American Dog Fancier InfoDog Best In Show The Canine Chronicle AKC Gazette best pet portrait artist watercolor fine art unique art Akc meet the breeds Westminster kennel club dog show national dog show crufts grooming intergroom superzoo petquest groom expo dog sports well bred dogs purebred preservation breeders ethical breeders breeder of merit akc grand champion Ch – Champion of Record – earned by gaining 15 points in conformation wins. Points awarded is determined by the number of other entries the winning dog defeats. A dog must win at least two majors (by winning at two different shows under two different judges where there are enough entries defeated to equal 3-5 points by the AKC point system. OTCh – Obedience Trial Champion To earn an obedience title, the dog must have a passing score of 50% of possible points or better, and an overall passing score at three different competitions under three different judges. CD – Companion Dog (First Level Obedience Competition, basic obedience exercises) CDX – Companion Dog Excellent (Intermediate Level Obedience Competition, more advanced obedience work) UD – Utility Dog (Advanced Level Obedience Competition, difficult obedience work, including hand signals) UDX – The highest obedience degree AKC presently awards TRACKING TD – Tracking Dog TDX – Tracking Dog Excellent VST – Variable Surface Tracking HERDING HIC – Herding Instinct Certificate HT – Herding Tested PT – PreTrial Tested HS – Herding Started HI – Herding Intermediate HX – Herding Excellent HCh – Herding Champion AGILITY NA – Novice Agility OA – Open Agility AX – Agility Excellent MX – Master Agility Excellent NAJ – Novice Agility Jumper OAJ – Open Agility Jumper EAJ – Excellent Agility Jumper AKC Unofficial Titles CGC – Canine Good Citizen ROM – Register of Merit – A dog or bitch must earn a number of points specified by the DPCA rules, and also meet the numbers of champion and major pointed progeny required by DPCA. The requirements for bitches are less than the requirements for the dogs because males have the opportunity to produce a far larger number of offspring. ROMC – Canadian ROM ROM/C – designates that the dog has earned an American and a Canadian ROM. TT – Temperament Tested TC – Temperament Certified AOE – Award of Excellence-A dog must meet qualifications in conformation, obedience, and also be OFA´d to earn this award. New competitions are being added and rules for competitions change, for the most up to date rules and regulations, check with the AKC and the DPCA. Miscellaneous American titles often seen on pedigrees and in advertising. BIS – Best in Show at an All-Breed Show in conformation. BISS – Best in Show Specialty (where only dogs of the same breed are competing in conformation) BOB – Best of Breed BOS – Best Opposite Sex BOW – Best of Winners (best between Winners Dog and Winners Bitch in breed conformation class competition) WD – Winners Dog – the winning dog overall of the regular classes of his sex. WB – Winners Bitch – the winning bitch overall of the regular classes of her sex. RWD/RWB – Runner up to the winners dog and bitch, if the winner becomes ineligible for the award then the runner up will receive the points awarded from that show. Special – A dog that is already a Champion that is competing for Best of Breed only. A Champion cannot compete in the classes where points are earned (because a Champion has already earned them!) RTD – Registered Therapy Dog TD I- Dog has passed Therapy Dog International´s testing HEALTH CERTIFICATIONS OVC – Ontario Veterinary College OVC Hip Certification – A dog may be preliminary screened at a younger age, but will not receive a certification unless the dog is at least 18 months old. It was told to me by a tech in the radiology department of OVC that they consider hips to either be bad, in which case they are rated on a scale from 0 – 4, with 4 being the worse, or they are “good” in which case the animal will receive a certification number (if 18 months or older. Therefore they do not follow the U.S. rating system which includes “FAIR”, Good, Excellent”. Their exact words were “the hips are either GOOD or they are NOT. OFA – Orthopedic Foundation for Animals OFA Hip Certifications – dogs within a specified range of normal hip x-rays are certified OFA-Excellent, Good, or Fair OFA – Elbow Certification – Certified by OFA for normal elbows on x-ray, only one grade recognized as normal. Check with OFA for proper procedures and positioning for hip and elbow x-rays. A dog may be preliminary screened at a younger age, but will not receive a certification unless the dog is at least 24 months old. OFA is also now doing certifications for other canine health concerns such as normal thyroid levels, check with OFA for accurate data and rules concerning these. CERF – Canine Eye Registry Foundation-dog is certified to have normal eyes. Re-certification must be done annually. vWD – Von Willebrands Disease free-meaning the dog has been tested and found free of vWD, a bleeding disorder, vWD free ratings also are often given with a percentage listed. For the best information on Von Willebrand´s Disease, contact Dr Jean Dodds, who is the leading research specialist in blood disorders. Dog show prize idea
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snekdood · 1 year ago
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i just struggle to believe theres any ethical way to harvest meat. farm animal dying of old age? yeah. ok. sure. but farm animals aren't going to be perpetually dying of old age enough to fulfill the demand for their meats. you can make better and more convincing arguments to me for ethically harvesting eggs, wool and milk rather than meat.
#eggs? just supplement the chickens diet with more diverse foods to make up for the nutrients lost that they would otherwise have#if they were left to consume their own unfertile eggs#wool? well unfortunately we've already bred sheep to constantly grow wool so you kinda have to shear them for their own wellbeing#milk's a little harder to convince me w. but as long as you're not taking more than the calf needs then it should be generally ok.#the true crime however is how aurochs went extinct so that humans could benefit from them.#i don't think you can convince me that genetically altering animals for human benefit was ever a good idea. but we're here already.#so we gotta figure it out. i'm still disgusted about how we got here.#give me a convincing reason not to be. i do not marvel at the 'greatness and intellect of humanity' because all I see is people#using these animals as a means to an end. it feels the same to me as genetically altering dogs till they can hardly function.#wish people would just admit that this endeavor was done by the selfishness of humanity rather than try to fluff it up with#'well the animals can benefit too !!!' yeah but who benefits more and why do they deserve to benefit more#its fine to admit its done for self serving reasons. i'd respect you more if you did admit it.#humans do a lot of things for self serving reasons. the worst is when humans try to convince themselves thats Not the reason they#did something so blatantly self serving.#i think a lot of progressive types struggle to accept when they do things for self serving reasons. im not gonna pull a 'humans are#inherently selfish' on you but selfishness is very much a core part of being human and an animal in general. it's not what defines#us and it's not our only trait. we are a social species after all so it doesnt serve us to be purely selfish#but we do be being selfish still. we're not gonna be able to fully escape that behavior. you're not gonna be able to escape being#selfish by virtue of calling yourself progressive. it's impossible. just do your best to not be selfish but also dont deny when you are#honesty with yourself and what you're like is important. you're never going to be a pure perfect good moral person ever.#and convincing yourself all your actions are ones of Morality is Not the way you should go about ANYTHING ever#its why instead of letting yourself be kinda sad about an animal having to die to feed you you somehow try to convince yourself#that the animal wanted it or needed it or benefited somehow. it didn't. and thats ok to acknowledge. you're not an inhuman monster#for eating a dead animal. that doesn't mean it cant be sad. that doesn't mean you dont pay your respects. be sad it happened#and at the same time thankful for the animal feeding you. dont skip with glee about its sacrifice bc thats just fuckin.... weird...#a lil unhinged......... 'im so glad you're dying for me :)))))))' like.... girl what#not that you cant be happy to be fed just like.... dont sound like a serial killer about it in your inner monologue.............
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followthebluebell · 2 months ago
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This may be rather specific, but is there any breed that is bred for... Health? I know good breeders will do their best to screen for diseases and try to retire any cat that is prone to them, but is there any breed where the entire point is trying to make the healthiest, most functional animal out there?
Yeah, natural selection has given us the domestic shorthair.
Snarkiness aside, most cat breeds are really solid. Most cat breeds aren't bred to the same extreme body modification that dogs are. Outcrossing between breeds is pretty normal and encouraged in most breeds. Fédération Internationale Féline (FIFe) has actually banned several breeds, including Munchkins and Scottish folds. This is major because FIFe is part of the World Cat Congress, which is a sort of federation of the largest cat fancies with a focus on improving cat health in general. By banning these breeds, FIFe is effectively making a stand and hopefully other clubs will follow their example. They will, if their members make enough of a fuss.
There are absolutely outliers in cat breeds. Scottish folds, munchkins, extremely brachy persians and other short-faced breeds are all inherently unhealthy animals that should not be bred.
But, in general, cat breeds aren't as prone to fancy bastard diseases as dog breeds are.
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veganagenda · 1 year ago
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fascinating new argument has entered the animal rights field: "it's okay to breed animals for a specific human-related purpose over a long period of time and then continue exploit their bodies for that purpose even when they are no longer obligated to because they enjoy fulfilling that purpose. because we bred them to enjoy it"
Not to sound like I was raised by protestants, but I think those kids who argue that it's animal abuse to put working dog breeds to work doing the tasks they were bred and born for have simply genuinely never encountered the concept that they, too, could be genuinely happier if they could do work they found wortwhile and enjoyable. Like engaging in useful and constructive activities might genuinely make life better than a life of doing absolutely nothing because nobody's making you do anything.
#“genetic memory” oh you mean the genes? that we bred into them? *for the purpose of exploiting them?*#yes I'm sure that must feel like a PROFOUND moment of spiritual awakening and cosmic joy for them#like they're finally truly connecting to the authentic nature of their souls. and. certainly Not the result of Literal Genetic Conditioning#this is 'but horses need exercise 🥺' and 'but sheep need to be sheared 🥺' all over again Good Lord#isn't it just So convenient that the ones who still ultimately benefit/profit from this dynamic/narrative are the Exploiters?#'no no it's okay to exploit them because we made it so they cannot function or be happy if we don't. see? it all works out fine 😊❤'#I wonder if dogs 'genetically remember' a long history of being abused by their owners for failing to perform their tasks too 🤔🤔🤔#you know. because it's just so *incredibly* easy to treat an animal ethically when you literally Create them with the intention of#a) being your property and b) performing labour for your benefit#and I'm sure destigmatizing the concept of 'putting these dogs to work' certainly isn't a narrative that will ultimately benefit#those people who Do still actively exploit and abuse these animals for labour and want the legal right to do so 🤔🤔🤔 surely not.#'herders will herd because herders must herd' yes exactly. herders will heard because they'll get disciplined if they don't#where do you think the concept of being 'well trained' comes from?????#“nobody's making you do anything” I think breeding an animal for a specific purpose certainly counts as Making Them Do That Thing#is OP seriously comparing like. human beings Enjoying Doing Meaningful Work to animals that had their Genetic Coding Physically Altered????#BY HUMANS??????????? SO WE COULD EXPLOIT THEM FOR IT???????????????#IN WHAT WORLD ARE THOSE COMPARABLE SITUATIONS.#'Ah I love being an artist and performing massive amounts of voluntary labour for something I'm passionate about'#'truly feels like I've found my life's purpose!!! my true calling!!!'#'I'm so glad that race of benevolent aliens coded my love of art into my DNA strands 😊💞💞💞'#'boy they sure do seem excited to sell all my paintings though!!! wonder what that's all about'#and don't even get me STARTED on 'everyone deserves to experience that at some point in their life'#the level of romanticization and anthropomorphization here makes me wanna' Barf#do you seriously think animals are Incapable of feeling any kind of emotional or physical fulfillment without being BRED into it????#do you think this was like??? a nice GIFT we gave them???? out of our sheer benevolence and desire for their happiness????????#let's not even BEGIN to unpack the harrowing implications of genes fundamentally dictating a living being's ''purpose'' in life#because WHEW BOY. that line of thinking veers DANGEROUSLY close to a certain political ideology.#and let me be clear I'm not talking about like giving a dog a similar form of activity to its ''purpose'' as enrichment that's Fine#but OP specifically says 'putting working dog breeds To Work doing the tasks they were bred and born for.' aka. continuing to exploit them#why do you think they were bred and born for it? huh? for THEIR benefit? for THEIR enjoyment?
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great-and-small · 5 months ago
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Speaking of breed standards, would you be able to give me some context on what the heck is up with the German Shepherd "stack"? I see a lot of GSD owners saying it's breed standard and therefore fine, but the slant looks so extreme in some dogs that I have some skepticism about it (and also because, of course, breed standards have nothing to do with animal health).
This is a pretty hot button issue and you’re right that there is a ton of bickering back and forth about it online. I’m happy to share my thoughts, but keep in mind that as a veterinarian I am biased towards function over form. I care way more about if a dog can do the things it wants/needs to do than how it looks. I won’t get into it here but I actually have real qualms with the distinction between “working line” and “show line” in some breeds.
My quick takeaway opinion- There are several orthopedic issues in the German Shepherd dog (specifically show lines) that have likely been exacerbated if not entirely caused by breeders striving for the classic “sloped back” look that is considered breed standard.
Now that being said, it is a fact that the three point stack (how a dog is positioned when standing) greatly exaggerates the angulation of the back and hind legs. You will often see comparison images like this one that show a dog in stack versus standing square and you can clearly see the top line looks more sloped when the dog is stacked. This image is from a GSD subreddit, a pretty dog here nicely demonstrating how the stance can change the appearance of the top line.
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This phenomenon is what certain hardline GSD breed standard loyalists will point to when discussing this issue. They posit that the sloped back is essentially an optical illusion caused by aesthetic posing, and therefore a German Shepherd is no more prone to orthopedic problems than any other large breed dog. This is where I disagree.
You can easily find stark examples of a poorly put together dog in any breed or mixed breed out there, so when discussing my concerns with the GSD I will only use photos of titled dogs that are accomplished within the show ring. These are not random backyard bred shepherds, but champion dogs from acclaimed lines that will almost certainly be bred to pass on their genes. When breed clubs like the AKC award these dogs as exemplars of the breed, they tacitly endorse the conformation issues I’m about to discuss. So my beef is not with German shepherds or dog breeds in general, but specifically with breed clubs that refuse to examine whether their standard harms animals. An important disclaimer, not every breed club is like this and many take health concerns extremely seriously.
Dogs have a very different limb anatomy and gait to humans and a healthy dog is meant to walk on their paw pads. The “ankle” or hock should be upright and angled as you can see here in this nice-looking champion shepherd from 1902.
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German shepherds can sometimes have a problem that is colloquially called “dropped hocks” where that joint is abnormally loose and in more serious cases can even be touching the ground, which is completely abnormal and something I would consider a serious physical flaw. A dog having dropped hocks/tarsal hyperflexion like this is proven to cause medical issues for these dog, but unfortunately the sinking joints also help to give the dog that “classic” sloping look that breed clubs love.
This dog “Ch Kysarah's Pot of Gold” won best of breed at the National dog show in 2015. You can see his hock is literally flat on the ground even when not stacked
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And it’s not just one dog. Here is another champion dog (Cruaghaire Catoria), who got some controversy for winning best of breed at Crufts in 2016 despite an extremely abnormal gait.
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Perhaps we could excuse the low hocks when the dog is standing as being the result of the stack, but it is glaringly obvious when she moves that this is no trick of her positioning. Her entire tarsus rests on the floor as she runs and in close ups you can even see bald patches there to suggest this is a “normal�� gait for her. In this video, the announcers agree that this is the ideal gait for a shepherd. If I saw this gait in a friend’s dog I’d politely express my concerns for long term mobility issues and recommend an orthopedic consultation. To see it win best of breed is galling to say the least.
And lest you think the problem has been solved, here’s another from the National Dog Show in 2023
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None of these dogs could charge athletically into a field and effectively herd sheep. If we are prioritizing aesthetic over function to the degree that a dog cannot do what it was bred to do, or more importantly that it cannot do the simple things that dogs love to do, then we have veered unforgivably off course. Not to put too fine a point on it but what the fuck is the point of a breed standard if it impedes the dog’s function in any way? We have no right. German shepherds are an incredible breed of dog that have stood by us humans in some of our darkest moments; I think the breeders and kennel clubs who claim to love them the most should work harder to ensure the “champion” dogs they are producing can live long pain-free lives. If we have to adjust our notion of what the breed is “supposed” to look like then so fucking be it.
This is too long already so I’m not getting into hip dysplasia, DM, carpal laxity, elbow dysplasia or other conditions that exist in the breed. If German shepherd clubs want to distance themselves from the notion that their breed standard is causing problems with canine health then they will need to stop publicly lavishing awards on dogs with medically concerning gait issues and start focusing on breeding dogs that can run around a ring without causing even the most casual of onlookers to realize “something’s not right there”
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elodieunderglass · 3 months ago
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And one amang, an Iyrysch man,
Uppone his hoby swyftly ran…
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WAIT HANG ON - slamming the brakes on drawing this stupid picture - do you nerds even KNOW the etymology of the word “hobby”? The thing you do for pleasure? The thing you have too many of? The thing you spend too much money on and share with your friends? The thing tumblr probably is to you? Those hobbies?
It comes from a now-kind-of-extinct breed of Irish pony-horse. It was called the Irish Hobby. Supposedly the hobby got its name from the Gaelic word obann, or swift. They definitely were. They’d obann your pants clean off.
Fast tough little bastards, built for rough terrain and renowned for their speed and stamina, hobby horses belonged to the Celts, and their highly annoying style of mounted warfare. but their conquerors liked hobby horses a lot, kept them, used them for themselves, and found them useful enough, despite the fact that they also had famously useful things like mounted knights or horse archers. A lightweight Irish warrior, mounted on a hobby horse, was called a hobelar.
Reportedly and in depictions, hobelars rode without stirrups. Or saddles. Or bridles. Or - well - this is all sounding very improbable, because the hobelars COULDNT have just been charging around basically bare-assed on naked ponies, screaming, and somehow in the process undoing the composure of actual mounted armoured knights. Knights who, I remind you, had stirrups. Stirrups are useful! It’s quite likely the hobelars had some gear. And clothes. and weapons. And the ponies probably had some tack - I am picturing a bellyband that you could at least hang a saddlebag on, and a neck rope for catching the bloody thing, even if not a saddle. But the overall impression, somehow created by people on darling little ponies, was apparently quite striking and fearful.
I mean. God Forbid People Have Hobbies.
Anyway after a while, whatever people became the British had eventually conquered all of the rough terrain that hobbies were best at, and horse archers just got sexier, and mounted knights became aristos, and all the bog and forest people had been subdued, so it was time to sunset the hobelars. but WAIT! Hobby horses are still tremendously fun and appealing! They’re so fast! and you can ride them without a saddle! Sure, they’re not up to the weight of a mounted knight, or indeed a lot of guys… but surely we can still find a use for a hobby or two? In the back garden? Somewhere?
At which point an English king decided to keep hobby horses just for fun. No military application. No further development of the technology. Not for fun. Just as expensive, pleasurable, pets. Just for the joy of the thing.
And that is how hobby (activity done purely for pleasure) comes from hobby horse (small horse) possibly from obann (swift.) they’re very interesting and you should look all this up for yourself! because it sure sounds like Elodie doing a bit, doesn’t it?
Today, Irish Hobbies are functionally nonexistent. References for drawing include the Kerry Bog Pony, the Connemara, and (I personally think) Dartmoors and Exmoors. They’re said to have lent their speed to the Irish Hunter/Sport Horse and from there to the Thoroughbred, but every damn horse in the world claims relation to the Thoroughbred, and they can’t be THAT thoroughly bred.
At any rate - you can never have enough hobbies. Just be glad that yours aren’t expensive beasts with minds of their own, eating their heads off in the pasture! …Unless they are. In which case, you’re part of a proud tradition.
#Killie#this is Killie’s ancestor who occasionally turns up in hallucinations with various ghost horses#like all elements of magical realism in the killieverse he does absolutely NOTHING useful.#your ancestor is neither proud of you nor disappointed in you. he’s riding alongside explaining some thoughts he had at breakfast#performing weird fuckin feats of equitation outside the window while you’re trying to sit through school or waiting in the queue at Greggs#if you wake up in a hospital bed in a bleary moment before consciousness he’s perched next to you chattering complete fucking nonsense#about. like. the stupidest stuff. like he’s just free-associating his thoughts based on a pattern in the ceiling tiles. incredibly annoying#his dialect just close enough to Irish that you can pick out a few words here and there#enough to tell that it’s complete nonsense. but also he’ll just say things like BASED. (possibly he is also visiting miles?)#and occasionally he points out that he did everything you do in your job but barefoot. no stirrups. in the snow. uphill both ways.#which is quite hard to do in a bog since they’re notably quite distinctively flat usually so sometimes he’d have to find a hill and ride up#and down it a few times just to build character. no saddle no bridle no shoes and the Romans were there maybe - and when you object to that#thinking there seems to be a lot of collision of timelines and historical accuracy - he doesn’t speak Irish suddenly . and why would he.#anyway he doesn’t exist and never did. but he’s fun#occasionally turns up to ride alongside you in a race apparently just to prove he can keep up with modern breeds#usually he can surprisingly well but tbf his horse is a ghost. and when he can’t he says well. I’m not a professional like you.#this. is just my hobby. ahahahahahahahahahshahahahahasha#and with that I get back on my hobby horse and ride away
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serpentface · 2 months ago
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Couya as a 16 year old Odonii initiate with a temple lion.
Young Odonii initiates spend the majority of their time in schooling, and the remainder of that time performing basic upkeep of temples (most often duties that are just Slightly too ceremonial or secretive in nature to be given to servants). Tending to captive lion populations is one of very, very few of these tasks that can be classified as 'cool'.
This is a young adult male, but very close to full size. The subspecies of lion found west of the Blackmane mountains is quite small in general (with males maxing out at ~300 lbs), and the captive stocks tend to be even smaller. The sparse mane shown here is also typical of both captive and wild populations, with full manes extending around the entirety of the throat being extremely uncommon. The pale coloration is a product of captive breeding- leucism occurs semi-regularly among the wild population and is selectively favored in captivity.
These semi-domesticated lions are bred and raised almost exclusively to be sacrificed and used for their hides/hair, as well as being killed as funerary guardian animals for Odonii and high status individuals. The living animals serve functions in the priesthood's internal rites, but they are rarely seen by the public when not in the process of being sacrificed.
They typically have Relatively okay lives in captivity (for a setting without concepts like 'enrichment' and 'animal welfare'), with most being kept in open (walled) outdoor temple grounds which happen to provide sufficient space to carry out basic natural behaviors and derive some degree of enrichment from their environments. They still experience significant background stress from their confined habitats and inability to flee conflict, and often spend most of their time pacing the walls. Captive populations also tend to be very heavily inbred, and introduction of wild stock and altogether fresh genetics is very rare.
They have experienced some selection for tameness and will be routinely handled by humans from birth. Many show interest in human company for socialization and develop attachments to handlers, and most are unaggressive. Maulings and deaths are known to occur, though predatory (rather than fearful or food-guarding) attacks on human handlers are very rare. Caution is, if anything, Especially important around docile and human-friendly lions, as these are still huge fucking big cats with sharp claws and no comprehension of how comparatively squishy a human body is. Most Odonii who have ever experienced regular Lion Duty have at least a couple scars to show for it, if only just from a lion playfully batting the shit out of them.
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linkedin-offficial · 11 months ago
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hymnheart birds, better known as "hymns", or "travel mount" birds, are a genus of bird derivative from todays common flocking birds of sky (doves), and the less common nightbirds.
during the days of prosperity, these birds were bred to be large and capable of carrying many passengers, as skypeople flight was not a common form of travel. similarly, it wasnt uncommon to find a smaller version of these birds (usually bred by hand, and not by known breeders), meant for single person travel, that was also often used in racing. these lesser travel mounts are known to have sparked the use of mantas for racing and speedy travel, as mantas were faster and smaller, and functionally better for the same uses.
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in modern day, these birds are considered to be extinct. after great technological advantages like flying boats becoming mainstream, and soon after the modernization of 'caped' flight, hymns numbers had begun to dwindle due to simply no longer needing them for their main purpose. unlike hymn travel however, manta riding remained persistent as a practice, as the species was abundant, and did not need skypeople aid to continue to breed.
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few individuals, like those of the nester families, continued to breed these birds, but eventually discontinued the practice as it became laborious and took too much time.
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wheelsgoroundincircles · 2 months ago
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1970 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28
The 1970 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28 is one of the most iconic and revered muscle cars ever made, built to excel on both the street and the racetrack. Under the hood sat a high-revving 302 cubic inch V8 engine, designed specifically for Trans-Am racing, delivering a spirited 290 horsepower with a balanced combination of power and handling.
The Z/28 featured a sport-tuned suspension, heavy-duty front and rear sway bars, and a close-ratio 4-speed manual transmission, making it incredibly agile and responsive. Its aggressive styling—highlighted by racing stripes, a functional cowl induction hood, and bold front grille—gave it a commanding presence.
Inside, the Camaro Z/28 offered bucket seats and a driver-focused dashboard with rally gauges, emphasizing performance and control. Revered for its race-bred performance and timeless design, the 1970 Z/28 remains a symbol of Chevrolet’s muscle car mastery and a favorite among collectors and enthusiasts.
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ivyfox-illustration · 10 months ago
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cocker spaniel Clipboard red parti American cocker, colorful dog stationary supplies, cute dog lover gift office supplies, cocker gift Your favourite breed art print - head or body conformation - groomer gift - Other Breeds Available - dog breeder gift - regional specialty or national specialty prize gift idea Artwork by Ivy Fox Illustration Follow Ivy Fox Illustration on social media https://m.facebook.com/IvyFox.illustration/ https://www.instagram.com/ivyfox.illustration/ Find your dog breed: Personalized Pet Portraits: https://ivyfoxillustrates.etsy.com/ My website: https://ivyfoxillustration.com/ Art Prints Merch Original PaintingsColorful samoyed clipboard featuring pastel watercolor splatter and a samoyed, making it a unique gift for breed fanciers, ethical breeders pet owners, and dog groomers. The vibrant colors and all-over print make this clipboard stand out, perfect for those who love stylish and practical accessories. Ideal for dog lovers, groomers, and show dog owners. Relevant for birthdays, holidays, and appreciation gifts for dog lovers. bring some extra character around the office, the dog show, your next dog sporting event, the classroom, the upcoming event, or anywhere in between. This clipboard is made in the USA and has a double sided design. original artwork created and designed by the very real, living, breathing artist, Ivy Fox Illustration! Product features - Polished chrome clip for holding standard letter size paper - Built-in hook for easy placement - Vibrant colors with latest printing techniques - All over print design on both sides - Fiberboard base for durability Care instructions - Gently wipe the dirt or dust off with a clean, dry microfiber clothContact Email: IvyFoxIllustration@ gmail(dot)com ———— Tags and other miscellaneous info: ———— Ivy Fox Illustration Ivy Fox dog art Museum of the Dog American Kennel Club Showsight - Where Champions Are Celebrated American Dog Fancier InfoDog Best In Show The Canine Chronicle AKC Gazette best pet portrait artist watercolor fine art unique art Akc meet the breeds Westminster kennel club dog show national dog show crufts grooming intergroom superzoo petquest groom expo dog sports well bred dogs purebred preservation breeders ethical breeders breeder of merit akc grand champion Ch – Champion of Record – earned by gaining 15 points in conformation wins. Points awarded is determined by the number of other entries the winning dog defeats. A dog must win at least two majors (by winning at two different shows under two different judges where there are enough entries defeated to equal 3-5 points by the AKC point system. OTCh – Obedience Trial Champion To earn an obedience title, the dog must have a passing score of 50% of possible points or better, and an overall passing score at three different competitions under three different judges. CD – Companion Dog (First Level Obedience Competition, basic obedience exercises) CDX – Companion Dog Excellent (Intermediate Level Obedience Competition, more advanced obedience work) UD – Utility Dog (Advanced Level Obedience Competition, difficult obedience work, including hand signals) UDX – The highest obedience degree AKC presently awards TRACKING TD – Tracking Dog TDX – Tracking Dog Excellent VST – Variable Surface Tracking HERDING HIC – Herding Instinct Certificate HT – Herding Tested PT – PreTrial Tested HS – Herding Started HI – Herding Intermediate HX – Herding Excellent HCh – Herding Champion AGILITY NA – Novice Agility OA – Open Agility AX – Agility Excellent MX – Master Agility Excellent NAJ – Novice Agility Jumper OAJ – Open Agility Jumper EAJ – Excellent Agility Jumper AKC Unofficial Titles CGC – Canine Good Citizen ROM – Register of Merit – A dog or bitch must earn a number of points specified by the DPCA rules, and also meet the numbers of champion and major pointed progeny required by DPCA. The requirements for bitches are less than the requirements for the dogs because males have the opportunity to produce a far larger number of offspring. ROMC – Canadian ROM ROM/C – designates that the dog has earned an American and a Canadian ROM. TT – Temperament Tested TC – Temperament Certified AOE – Award of Excellence-A dog must meet qualifications in conformation, obedience, and also be OFA´d to earn this award. New competitions are being added and rules for competitions change, for the most up to date rules and regulations, check with the AKC and the DPCA. Miscellaneous American titles often seen on pedigrees and in advertising. BIS – Best in Show at an All-Breed Show in conformation. BISS – Best in Show Specialty (where only dogs of the same breed are competing in conformation) BOB – Best of Breed BOS – Best Opposite Sex BOW – Best of Winners (best between Winners Dog and Winners Bitch in breed conformation class competition) WD – Winners Dog – the winning dog overall of the regular classes of his sex. WB – Winners Bitch – the winning bitch overall of the regular classes of her sex. RWD/RWB – Runner up to the winners dog and bitch, if the winner becomes ineligible for the award then the runner up will receive the points awarded from that show. Special – A dog that is already a Champion that is competing for Best of Breed only. A Champion cannot compete in the classes where points are earned (because a Champion has already earned them!) RTD – Registered Therapy Dog TD I- Dog has passed Therapy Dog International´s testing HEALTH CERTIFICATIONS OVC – Ontario Veterinary College OVC Hip Certification – A dog may be preliminary screened at a younger age, but will not receive a certification unless the dog is at least 18 months old. It was told to me by a tech in the radiology department of OVC that they consider hips to either be bad, in which case they are rated on a scale from 0 – 4, with 4 being the worse, or they are “good” in which case the animal will receive a certification number (if 18 months or older. Therefore they do not follow the U.S. rating system which includes “FAIR”, Good, Excellent”. Their exact words were “the hips are either GOOD or they are NOT. OFA – Orthopedic Foundation for Animals OFA Hip Certifications – dogs within a specified range of normal hip x-rays are certified OFA-Excellent, Good, or Fair OFA – Elbow Certification – Certified by OFA for normal elbows on x-ray, only one grade recognized as normal. Check with OFA for proper procedures and positioning for hip and elbow x-rays. A dog may be preliminary screened at a younger age, but will not receive a certification unless the dog is at least 24 months old. OFA is also now doing certifications for other canine health concerns such as normal thyroid levels, check with OFA for accurate data and rules concerning these. CERF – Canine Eye Registry Foundation-dog is certified to have normal eyes. Re-certification must be done annually. vWD – Von Willebrands Disease free-meaning the dog has been tested and found free of vWD, a bleeding disorder, vWD free ratings also are often given with a percentage listed. For the best information on Von Willebrand´s Disease, contact Dr Jean Dodds, who is the leading research specialist in blood disorders. Dog show prize idea
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idkyetxoxo · 5 days ago
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Ten | Sugary Kisses | The Ruin
Pairing - Rhysand x reader (Mafia Boss Rhysand x Nurse Reader)
Word count - 2.4k
Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)
<- prev || series masterlist ||
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Rhysand's POV - 
"So... how do I look?" she asked, voice laced with nerves and mischief as she twirled in front of me. The air was promptly knocked from my lungs.
She looked like sin wrapped in silk.
The dress was the colour of twilight—a deep, lustrous violet that clung to her curves like it was painted on, shimmering as she moved. Off-the-shoulder sleeves dipped low, exposing the soft, bare skin of her collarbones and shoulders. 
The kind of skin I'd memorised with my lips and tongue. The kind that tested every ounce of my self-control.
"Bunny..." I breathed, jaw tightening as I tried and failed not to stare. "You look... fucking stunning."
She beamed, and I was a man undone.
"You know," she said, looping her arms lazily around my neck, her voice dipped in warmth, "I matched the dress to your eyes. Took me four shops to get the shade just right."
My heart, usually a cold, careful thing twisted in my chest at that. That she'd noticed the colour of my eyes, remembered it, hunted it down. 
Just for tonight. Just for me.
The violence I was bred for, the empire I'd built on shadows and silence none of it could have prepared me for her.
"Bunny," I murmured, mouth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath her jaw, "how much time do we really have before this reservation?"
Her giggle lit the room like starlight. Then she ducked out of my grip with a squeal.
"No," she said, wagging a finger at me. "We are not missing this. I don't want Lucien to be there alone."
I groaned, half-hearted. "Cass and Az will be there."
"Exactly what I mean," she said with a pointed look. "You three circling Luc like wolves? I'd never forgive myself. He's good, Rhys. I know who his family is, but he's good. He's always been there for me."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. I respected Lucien, even if I didn't trust easily. But for her? I'd try. 
"Fine. But if he even looks at you sideways, I'll—"
"You'll smile politely," she said sweetly, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the door. "And pretend to be a functioning, not-at-all-possessive member of society."
"I don't have a functioning, not-at-all-possessive setting."
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. "Then fake it. For me."
"For you," I said, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Always."
The drive was warm and easy. My hand on her thigh, her voice dancing through the air as she pointed out landmarks and sang along to the radio, just a little off-key. 
And gods, I'd never loved a sound more.
By the time we arrived, the others were already seated at a corner table bathed in low golden light. A private room, naturally. We didn't do "public."
She greeted Lucien first, a kiss to his cheek that made his copper brows lift and his face soften with quiet gratitude.
Cassian, of course, made a dramatic noise of offence. "Oh, so he gets a kiss first, huh? I see how it is."
She rolled her eyes and promptly kissed his cheek, then Azriel's, who looked like he'd rather die than react. But his shoulders twitched at the edges like he appreciated it.
We sat, and dinner unfolded like a well-rehearsed dance.
The food came in courses. So did the banter.
"Lucien, tell me," Cassian said, swirling his wine. "What's it like knowing she's now under our very protective, very watchful eyes?"
Lucien didn't flinch. "You mean the eyes of a six-foot battering ram, a shadow assassin, and a mafia prince? Charming."
Azriel cracked the faintest smile. "You forgot the part where she regularly wipes the floor with all of us when it comes to actual decision-making."
"She is the most dangerous one here," I added, not bothering to hide the pride in my voice.
She leaned into me, warm and pleased, taking a sip of her wine. "My greatest weapons."
Lucien looked around the table, thoughtful. "You all terrify me slightly less now."
"I'll take that as high praise," I said dryly.
There was something electric in the air. Not tension, not tonight. Just... something whole. Something healed.
Later, when dessert came, a platter of cannolis and pistachio gelato she reached under the table to lace her fingers with mine. She didn't look at me. Just let her hand settle over mine, thumb brushing gently.
I glanced over at her and saw it in her expression. She had chosen this.
Not out of fear. Not because of danger. But because, in a world full of chaos and darkness, we'd become each other's constant.
My empire. Her light.
And now, finally, our life.
Reader's POV - 
Dinner had ended, the lingering taste of wine and something sweet still on my tongue. 
The city had begun to quiet, shadows stretching longer beneath the amber glow of the streetlights. 
Rhysand hadn't taken us home—not yet. 
Instead, he'd driven us through winding back streets until we pulled into what looked like a forgotten car park.
We were alone. The hum of the engine cut off, and the silence that followed was intimate, thick with anticipation.
"You brought me here to murder me, didn't you?" I teased, arching a brow as I turned toward him, my voice low and laced with amusement.
He laughed, dark and soft, the sound curling in the space between us. 
"Bunny," he murmured, his fingers ghosting across the steering wheel, "if I killed you, I'd have to follow you right after. Doesn't seem very practical."
I smiled and climbed over the center console, settling on his lap with practised ease. His hands found my hips the moment I touched him, grounding me. 
He looked up at me like I was the only thing he'd ever see again.
"You're ridiculous," I whispered, leaning in to kiss him. His lips were warm, sure, hungry. 
There was something about kissing Rhysand when we were alone like this, like the world could burn down around us and he'd still only care about the taste of my mouth.
"You're so pretty," I murmured against his lips, threading my fingers through his dark hair, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply.
"Mmmh, says the woman who's literally straddling me in an abandoned lot like a fever dream," he groaned, his voice gravel and silk all at once.
I could feel him beneath me, hard and insistent, straining against the confines of his pants. My hips shifted instinctively, pressing down. 
He sucked in a breath and tilted his head back as I nipped at the delicate line of his throat.
"Keep that up," he warned, his voice rough and edged with desire, "and I'm going to have to take you right here. Right now."
"Maybe I want you to," I whispered into his ear, dragging my lips along the shell of it before grinding down harder, slower, relishing the way he cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on me.
"You cruel, beautiful creature," he said, rocking up into me in response. I gasped, the contact electric, my body already aching for more.
"I can be quick," I promised, though the need simmering between us was anything but patient.
Rhysand leaned back slightly, the leather creaking beneath us, and with one hand, he unzipped his pants while the other slid up under my dress, tugging the fabric up my thighs with eager urgency.
"Take as long as you want, bunny," he said, voice low and rough. "Do your worst."
So I did.
I rose up on my knees, breath catching as I reached between us and guided him to where I needed him most. 
And when I finally sank down onto him, a groan tore from my throat—the world narrowing to the feeling of him filling me, stretching me, grounding me in this moment and nowhere else.
I let myself move at my own pace at first, savoring every second of it—his hands, strong and reverent, gripping my thighs like he was grounding himself, the low, broken sounds he made with every slow rock of my hips, the way his eyes never left mine, like he was watching something sacred.
"Fuck, you feel like heaven," he groaned, head tipping back against the headrest, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the seat. "Every single time."
I pressed my palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his shirt—fast, chaotic, mirroring mine. 
"And you talk too much," I murmured with a smirk, lifting my hips before slamming back down onto him, drawing a strangled gasp from his throat.
"You love when I talk," he growled, one hand flying up to tangle in my hair as he pulled me down, crashing his mouth to mine in a bruising kiss.
We moved faster after that, more desperate, less teasing. 
I lost track of everything outside the fogged-up windows and the heat building between us. 
The only thing that existed was him. His hands, his mouth, the sweet agony of being filled so perfectly I could barely think.
"You're mine, bunny," he panted against my neck, thrusting up to meet me. "Mine."
"Yes," I gasped, clinging to his shoulders as I felt myself coming undone, stars blinking behind my eyes. "Yours."
When it finally overtook me, I shattered with his name on my lips. He followed a moment later, body tensing beneath me with a strangled moan as he spilt inside me, the car filled with the scent of us, the windows now fully steamed over.
I stayed there for a beat, both of us breathing hard, chests rising and falling in tandem, the world slowed down to silence and warmth.
After a moment, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to my collarbone, his lips reverent now. 
"You're lethal," he whispered, nuzzling into me as if trying to catch his breath against my skin. "Absolutely fucking lethal."
I laughed softly and leaned back, brushing the hair out of his eyes as I caught my breath. "You're not so bad yourself."
He adjusted me gently in his lap, helping me sit upright again with a surprising tenderness that always caught me off guard in moments like this. 
Then he reached down, tucking himself back in and zipping up his pants with practised ease.
Just as I started to fix my dress, Rhysand reached over to the glove box and popped it open. I tilted my head, curiosity piqued, only to see him pull out a sleek black silk blindfold.
I blinked. "Um. Should I be worried?"
He smirked, that familiar devilish gleam lighting up his eyes again. "Not at all. But don't get too tired on me, bunny."
He leaned forward and brushed his lips over mine again, slow and possessive.
"I still have something to show you." He held up the blindfold between two fingers. "Put this on."
And gods help me—I did.
Darkness fell, but not the kind that frightened. The kind that made your heart pound in anticipation.
Rhysand took my hand, lacing our fingers, and began guiding me through the cool hush of the night. I could feel him glancing back at me with every few steps, making sure I wasn't stumbling, that I was okay.
Even blindfolded, I trusted him.
His steps slowed, then stopped completely. He exhaled against my ear, the sound sending shivers down my spine.
"Ready?"
I nodded.
The blindfold came off gently, the silk sliding away like mist and suddenly, I was bathed in golden light.
A storefront stood before me. Only it wasn't just any storefront. 
It was the storefront.
Whitewashed brick, large glass windows framed with wildflowers in baskets, and etched into the glass, delicate and perfect—was my name.
My bakery.
The one I'd dreamed of since I was a teenager. The one I never thought I'd have, not really. Not after life had swallowed me whole.
"Fully licensed. Staff hired. Oven warm," Rhysand whispered, his voice low and smug behind me.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I just stared.
"Rhys..." My voice cracked around the word. "This is just—this is everything."
He stepped beside me, hands in his pockets like this wasn't the most heart-shattering gesture anyone had ever made. Like it was casual. Like it was easy.
"You dreamed it," he said simply. "I just made it real."
Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them away because I wanted to see this. Really see it.
"You terrify me," I whispered, turning to him, still trembling from the sheer weight of it all.
He smiled, soft and devastating. "Good. Because I'd burn cities before I let you be unhappy."
Then, as if he hadn't just given me the world, he pulled a small ring of keys from his pocket and tossed them in the air, catching them with a flourish.
"Come on in, Bunny."
I didn't even make it to the door.
I launched myself into his arms and kissed him like I needed him to breathe. He caught me instantly, hands gripping my waist, lips answering mine with a desperation that felt like worship. 
We stumbled into the shop together, all teeth and laughter and heat. My back hit the counter and I was ready to climb him like a ladder when—
"You know," a familiar voice drawled. "You could smuggle explosives in here. Just saying."
I jolted, my head snapping toward the kitchen.
"Cass?" I gasped, half-shoving Rhys back as I caught sight of him crouched beside one of the industrial ovens, peering inside like it was a puzzle box.
"You really should label the knobs," he said without looking at us. "Also, your hair's a little tangled, princess."
Rhysand growled low behind me, pulling me behind him instinctively. "Cass, I swear on the Mother's name—get out before I shove you into that oven myself."
Cassian straightened with a shit-eating grin. "I'll leave you lovebirds to christen the countertop. Don't break anything. This place just opened."
He strolled past us, whistling as he exited, tossing a wink over his shoulder.
The moment the door closed behind him, I burst into laughter—laughter so sharp and full and real it nearly knocked me over.
Rhysand turned to me, still scowling, but his lips quirked at the edges.
"You okay?" he asked softly, cupping my face with one warm palm.
I leaned into his touch. "I've never been more okay."
We stood there for a long moment in the center of the bakery, wrapped in sugar and silence, the air between us thick with emotion.
Then I looked up at the glowing sign one more time. My name. "I don't deserve you," I whispered.
He kissed me like that was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.
"No," he said. "You just finally let yourself have something good."
And this was good. Better than good.
This was the beginning of something we'd both fought for. Something we'd bled and cried and clawed our way toward.
Love, yes, but more than that.
A life. A future. A home. Right here. Beneath the soft golden light. In a bakery that smelled like vanilla and dreams.
In the arms of the only man who'd ever truly seen me.
And loved me anyway.
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A/n - Final part!! So emosh. So bittersweet (not really... but let me be dramatic x)
I did flirt with a sad ending because hello, it's called 'The Ruin' but ultimately I wasn't in the mood to be completely heartless!
Instead, we got soft, smug, Rhys gifting her an entire damn bakery, as one does (a few of yous guessed this and it took all my self restraint not to just blurt it out) Just mafia boyfriend things :)
Honestly, this isn't my favorite fic I've written. A few parts got lost in translation and didn't come out exactly how I envisioned, that said, I don't hate it—I'm just biased because I like my Azriel mafia AU (still need to post it) more I think.
Next fic is an Eris one called "Fire and Ice" and the masterlist for it has already been posted!!
Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had fun <3
The Ruin tag list - @queenoffeysand @sttvrdustt @wedonttalkaboutvoldemort @coeurdeveea @maltemp @sillyfreakfanparty @justtryingtosurvive02 @bosssliv5g @hyruledemigod20 @sstrohma @zoeisdreaming6 @shellsarepretty @moonlitlavenders @sherlockholmes08 @lou-diaries @acourtofbatboydreams @talesofadragon @blueeclipsepaperstudent @coffeebooksrain18 @lilah-asteria @bbontenswhhore @thisfireheart @sheblogs
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followthebluebell · 9 months ago
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So please excuse my ignorance but I've never seen one IRL and the last few scottish fold pictures you've posted have me curious. What exactly is going on with their ears? They just look like they don't? Have ears??? Are they like fully formed normal ears that are sticking flat to their head? Are they floppy like floppy eared dogs? Are the ears actually deformed in some way that there is less... ear flap?? Like??? huh???
Yep, their ears are deformed!
so the mutation that causes their ears to flop over is called osteochondrodysplasia, a word that I absolutely did not have to google just to figure out how to spell. It's a very big and fancy word for 'fucked up cartilage syndrome'. In this case, it means very specifically that their cartilage doesn't really... function properly. It flops.
This leads to very small ears (in this case bred to be even smaller by crossing to Persians, a breed known for having very tiny ears) and floppiness in the ear tips.
IF that was all this meant, it'd be fine. A bit more ear-cleaning because, like floppy eared dogs, scottish folds are prone to ear infections, but that's fine.
Unfortunately, it means ALL of their cartilage is a little fucky, including the bits that are really important like in their joints. So all Scottish folds with folded ears have impaired mobility, early onset arthritis, skeletal deformities (especially in the joints and spine), and generally have a short, thick, and inflexible tail.
These cats are in pain. Make no mistake of that. The scottish folds in my care are receiving pain management drugs to mitigate that (solensia, for those who are curious). These cats are quite young--- from 7 months to approximately 1 year old--- and they already have arthritis in their paws.
This is not an ethical breed to buy and adopting one needs to be done with caution, simply due to the degree of medical care they'll require.
Now, there are Scottish folds with STRAIGHT ears (called Scottish straights). These come from the same litters as folded ears, because the gene that produces the fold is autosomal dominant and is deadly if the kitten inherits two dominant genes. So it's safest to breed a fold to a straight and just deal with having a litter with straight and folded ears.
I used to endorse Scottish straights as the 'healthy' folds. And that's... not entirely accurate. Like I said, they are from the same litters. I have not run into any breeder that produces ONLY Scottish straights.
I no longer endorse Scottish straights as a result.
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reformhim · 21 days ago
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He never signed up for this. Not really. Not willingly.
The clipboard had been shoved into his hands during intake, the jargon too dense to make sense of, the fine print deliberately microscopic. A study. A population crisis. Volunteer compensation. Hormonal realignment. But what they meant—what they did—was far darker.
They grew a womb inside him.
A uterus, ovaries, a fully functional reproductive system. Not just surgically placed—grown. Synthesized. Engineered to mesh with his male anatomy and override it. There was no surgery scar, just the ghost of pain… and then a new kind of aching.
The adjustment was brutal. He could feel it inside—like roots spreading through soil, except the soil was his body, his identity. Something deep in his gut cramped and twisted. He couldn’t keep food down some days. On others, he wept for no reason. At night, he would lie curled in the fetal position, hands on his stomach, crying softly as heat bloomed behind his belly button.
Then came the first period. It destroyed him. Blood. Cramping. Hormonal overload. Still fully male—flat chest, strong jaw, scruffy stubble—but everything inside screamed female. That contradiction tore at him. Shamed him. Shattered him.
And that was when the thoughts started.
He would see men—walking past him, talking, stretching—and feel something in his new organs yearn. Not in the way he used to. It wasn’t lust. It was need. A hollow ache inside his core. An urge to be filled, bred, claimed. He loathed it. But he wanted it.
And then it happened. Impregnation.
The scientists called it a success. But he could barely look at himself in the mirror. His lower belly swelled, round and taut. Fat crept onto his frame—softening his waist, widening his hips. His ass inflated, pushing against the seams of his joggers. He wept the day his body hair began receding, vanishing from his chest and thighs. “Temporarily estrogen-dominant,” they said. “It’ll grow back after delivery.” But it felt permanent. Like he was fading.
The only one who stayed by his side was the man who betrayed him.
Evan.
His closest friend. The one who'd convinced him to sign the form. “It’ll be good money,” Evan had said. “You’ll help people.”
He found out later—Evan knew. Evan had been part of the Program for months. He was already a donor. The father. His father.
When he found out, he screamed at Evan. Threw a plate. Collapsed into tears. Evan just held him.
And strangely, that’s when the shift began. He started craving Evan’s scent. Leaning into his touch. Waking up thinking of Evan’s smile. It disgusted him—how much he wanted his betrayer. How his body flushed when Evan laid a hand on his swollen stomach, whispering, “You’re doing so good.”
Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe… it was love.
He didn’t know anymore. All he knew was this: something was growing inside him. Something he never wanted. And yet…
…he was starting to believe it might be the most meaningful thing he’d ever carry.
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gav-san · 21 days ago
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“No Takebacks" 3
Masterlist here
No Takebacks Masterlist
One Piece Masterlist Here
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How it began Word Count: 4K
Previous / Next
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You are, to put it mildly, a spectacularly clean and deeply informed person.
You bathe regularly. You organize your notes. You have backup plans for your backup plans. You do not cause public scenes unless they are worth it. Unfortunately, this one was.
Because apparently, telling the truth about Lord Velcot’s very unfortunate incident with a spiced pear, a stolen wig, and three goats has consequences. 
Who knew nobles were so sensitive?
The guards chased you down cobbled alleys, and your beautifully polished boots are caked with harbor mud. You duck into a quieter corner, heart hammering, and come face to face with a man leaning against a stack of crates, chewing a toothpick, and watching you like you’re a particularly interesting card game.
"You're in a bit of a hurry," he says. “Ex-boyfriend?”
You eye him warily. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet. But I hear you know a lot of things. And I'm in the market for information."
You don’t have time for this. "And you’re offering what, exactly?"
He jerks his head toward the ship just past the dock. “A ride. Quiet. No questions, except the ones I ask.”
You study him. Weathered. Sharp-eyed. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words or tolerate lies. You make a split-second decision and nod.
“Fine.”
You make it to the ship without being seen. You narrow your eyes at the size. It is beautiful. Stunning, even. A grand silhouette against the horizon, red sails snapping proudly in the wind. You expected something stately, maybe even majestic.
It’s too dark to tell.
“So,” you say, brushing dirt off your sleeves, “you the captain?”
He barks out a laugh. “Me? Hell no.”
You freeze. “Wait. What?”
“Captain’s below,” he says, grinning. “He’ll want to meet you once I tell him I brought aboard a high-value gossip with nice hair and good boots.”
You blink.
“You’re not the captain?”
“Nope. Name’s Benn Beckman.” He offers a hand. “First Mate to the Red-Haired Pirates.”
And that’s when you hear it. The laugh. Low. Friendly. Infuriating.
Shanks.
Your blood runs cold. You know that bounty. You’ve stared at the poster enough times to curse the smile.
You whirl on Benn. “You brought me aboard a Yonko’s ship?!”
“Careful,” Benn says, clearly amused. “He’s fallen for worse attitudes.”
“Worse than me?”
He shrugs, grinning. “You’ll fit right in.”
Frankly, you don’t care. You’ve had a very long day of being chased, betrayed, and slandered over what should have been a hilarious and harmless anecdote involving a pear and a powerful man’s poor choices. You accepted Benn Beckman’s offer because he looked capable, unbothered, and most importantly, clean.
And to his credit, he was.
He helps you up the gangplank without ceremony. You think maybe, just maybe, you’re safe.
The ship, however, is something else entirely.
You step aboard the Red Force and are immediately met with what can only be described as a deeply committed level of nautical chaos. Not the kind bred from incompetence; no, this is curated, almost artistic. Like someone had taken the concept of a functioning pirate crew and given it a bottle of rum, three chickens, and a head injury.
There’s laundry—actual dirty laundry—hanging from the rigging, flapping proudly like the sails of domestic surrender. A pair of polka-dot boxers snaps you in the face as the wind changes. You look up. They wave at you.
Near the helm, two shirtless crewmates are locked in what appears to be a very serious swordfight.
With baguettes. 
They parry with the grace of seasoned warriors and the idiocy of men who have not tasted fear since puberty. One of them shouts “en garde!” in a terrible accent before taking a bite out of his weapon mid-duel.
You catch sight of a chicken. It’s wearing an eyepatch. You blink. It’s still there. It stares back, solemn and ancient, as if it has survived battles you’ll never understand.
The scent of rum hits you next. Not just a scent. A presence. The rum is in the air. The planks beneath your feet creak with the ghost of spilled drinks and bad decisions. You swear the wood itself is tipsy.
You stop mid-step, overcome by the visceral assault of sight, sound, and questionable life choices.
“It’s a pigsty,” you whisper, horrified. Then you blink again, gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched deck, the howling laughter, the chaos woven with joy and freedom. You swallow, shoulders slumping.
“A beautiful pigsty.”
Benn strolls past you like none of this is strange. “Home sweet home.”
You gape at a mug crusted with something you pray is not jam. “You said quiet ride. You said no questions. You did not say I’d share air with feral pirate frat boys.”
“Mm.” Benn eyes the deck. “They’re housebroken. Mostly.”
You side-eye him. “Why does it smell like aging citrus and despair?”
“It’s lemon oil,” he says. “Someone tried to mop. Once. In 2003.”
You inhale slowly, then blink at the sheer volume of abandoned teacups, rum bottles, and suspicious socks.
And that’s when he appears. Barefoot, laughing, and wearing a half-buttoned shirt like it’s a lifestyle.
Red hair. Ridiculous grin. No concept of personal space.
“Oh?” he says, clearly amused. “New passenger?”
You freeze.
This man is everything you go out of your way to avoid. Loud. Disheveled. Ridiculously charming. Probably sticky.
You look at Benn in betrayed silence.
He shrugs. “That’s the captain.”
You point at him in slow horror. “That thing is the captain?”
Shanks beams. 
“Don’t worry, I’m mostly socialized for indoor behavior.”
You almost jumped overboard.
Benn claps you on the shoulder like this is fine and mostly to keep you dry. “Welcome to the Red Force.”
You murmur, “I would like to go home now.”
Too late. Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks if you’re the new quartermaster. The chicken clucks approvingly.
The ship sways.
So does your patience.
You sigh. “At least I’m not the one who smells like cheese.”
“Yet,” Shanks adds brightly.
You stare at him. Then at Benn.
“This is your fault.”
Benn lights a cigarette like he has all the time in the world and no reason to rush. The smoke curls slowly between his fingers as he leans against the rail, watching the chaos unfold across the deck with the kind of patience that only comes from long exposure to nonsense.
“Yeah,” he says, casting a glance in your direction. “But you’re not boring. So I’d say we’re even.”
You blink at him. Then at the ship. Then at the man dueling with a mop while wearing a long coat and absolutely no pants. You look again at the chicken. It’s still wearing the eyepatch. You could swear it gives you a nod of recognition.
You should leave. That would be smart. Logical. Strategic. But the guards are still combing the port for you with the zeal of men promised a bonus, and your name is now traveling on the wind with the kind of scandal usually reserved for pirates, murderers, and bad poets.
The Red Force may be a mess, but it floats. Which is already more than you can say for your reputation.
Benn doesn’t try to convince you. When you hesitate near the gangplank, he exhales and raises one eyebrow.
“If you’ve got something worth trading,” he says, voice even, “I’ll make sure the captain lets you stay aboard until the next island.”
You weigh your choices. Running into town would be suicide. Turning yourself in would be stupidity. That leaves you with pirates.
“I have information,” you say at last, slowly.
He doesn’t react much, but the air around him seems to still. “We like information.”
“But I want terms,” you add, folding your arms.
His mouth curves, the faintest twitch of a grin. “Let’s hear them.”
You gesture toward the ship, nose wrinkling as someone swings past on a rope, yelling triumphantly while wearing only one boot and a sunhat.
“If I give you something valuable, I want a ride. A clean bunk. And someone has to mop something. Or bathe. Or both.”
He tilts his head, amused. “That’s a bold list.”
“I’m flexible on the mop,” you say, voice even. “But I will not negotiate on the bathing.”
Benn’s hand extends again, steady and solid.
There’s a pause.
Then he laughs. Not mockingly. His laugh is warm and low, edged with honest amusement, like you’ve said something no one else had the guts or sense to say. Like you’re the first fresh breeze to hit this deck in years.
“You want to trade intelligence for soap and a mop?”
“Yes,” you reply flatly. “I don’t care if I’m surrounded by pirates, but I refuse to live like a damp sock in a locker room.”
Behind you, a voice cuts in, cheerful and far too comfortable.
“What’s this about socks?”
You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.
The barefoot, red-haired disaster. Wearing yesterday’s shirt and today’s grin, looking like he just woke up from a nap he didn't plan and liked it anyway.
You lift a hand and gesture vaguely in his direction without turning. “That one. He’s not allowed near my quarters until he can pass a smell check.”
Shanks sounds delighted. “You want to trade for hygiene? That’s a first.”
You finally turn to face him.
His smile could outshine the sun, and unfortunately, he knows it. The hair is tousled, the shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and there’s a suspicious smudge of ink or possibly rum on his neck.
You meet his eyes and don’t blink.
“You’ll thank me when your crewmates stop losing dice to mold.”
Shanks looks like you just proposed marriage.
Benn exhales smoke and mutters under his breath, “Oh no. He likes you.”
You frown. “Is that a problem?”
Shanks leans forward slightly, eyes bright. “It’s only a problem if you plan to survive.”
You stare at him.
He smiles wider.
You already regret everything.
Benn, in true first mate fashion, steps in before your brain can start planning escape routes. He leans in, clearly entertained.
“And what are you offering?”
You raise a brow, unimpressed. “How about Lord Velcot’s shipping ledger? The one that proves he’s funneling sea stone under a fake spice route.”
The grin on Benn’s face drops half an inch. His posture doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens like a blade being quietly unsheathed.
Shanks lets out a low whistle. “You’re just full of little treasures, aren’t you?”
“I am. And if you don’t clean that table,” you say, pointing at the sticky wooden monstrosity near the helm, “I’ll find another pirate crew. Preferably one with working soap.”
There’s a long pause.
Then Shanks laughs. Loud. Bright. Borderline offensive.
“Done,” he says. “Ride, bunk, and someone will mop. Hell, I’ll mop myself just for the story.”
You stare at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m absolutely not.” His grin spreads like a man daring the universe to top this moment. “Benn, get this woman a mop. And someone to fight over it.”
Benn sighs like a man who has already seen his future, and it includes too many suds and not enough peace.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
You tuck your notes back into your coat and follow them onto the deck.
Later, you sip tea in the sun and watch as Shanks dramatically splashes soapy water across the boards in what could only be described as a barefoot, interpretive dance about the concept of cleaning. He’s shirtless. There are bubbles on his nose. It’s unclear whether any actual cleaning is happening, but morale is up.
You smile to yourself.
You may be trapped on a ship full of chaos gremlins, but for once, you are in charge of the mop.
The crew likes you immediately.
Unfortunately.
You hadn’t planned on charming them. That wasn’t the goal. You were just trying to barter your way out of political fallout and away from the kingdom of cursed pears. But apparently, sarcasm, a visible disdain for clutter, and the ability to identify seven kinds of mold growing under the deck planks is downright hilarious to pirates.
They howled when you called the crow’s nest a sweaty crypt. They applauded when you slapped a dirty plate out of someone’s hand with your notebook. One of them tried to give you a chicken as a sign of respect.
You had no idea what to do with that.
They start calling you Doc, even though you’re not a doctor. Or Boss, depending on the day. Someone tries “Mom” once. You draw a knife without breaking eye contact. It never happens again.
You wish you liked them.
Truly.
But they’re filthy. Every last one of them reeks of salt, stale liquor, and the ghosts of forgotten laundry. You’ve seen things. Unspeakable things. A cup being rinsed and reused without soap. A man blow-drying his armpits near the lantern. Someone—probably Yasopp—eating something he dropped on the anchor chain and declared “still good.”
You considered setting the ship on fire once. Just to start over.
The only one who seems halfway civilized is Benn Beckman.
And he can’t be trusted. Because he listens to Shanks.
You learned that the hard way after you sat Benn down and politely explained your list of basic human decencies. Clean linens. Sealed storage. A fireproof filing system. You even wrote it out on proper stationery. Benn nodded with grave understanding, the picture of cooperation. Very calm. Very reasonable.
Five hours later, you opened the door to your freshly “cleaned” quarters.
Shanks was inside. Shirtless. Reclining across your cot like he had personally conquered it. He was drinking from your emergency rum stash with the smug air of a man who knew he shouldn’t be there and had every intention of staying anyway. In one hand, he held up a mop like it was a weapon, a trophy, or both.
“I mopped!” he declared, proud as sin.
“With what?” you demanded.
He pointed to a bucket. The contents were murky. Brown. Possibly sentient.
Beckman leaned into view from the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was deciding whether to laugh or flee. “He tried.”
You had nearly thrown yourself overboard.
Now you keep a spray bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant on your belt like a sidearm. The crew refers to it in hushed tones as blessed firewater. Some say it burned the sins off their souls. Others claim it just smells like lemon death.
You don’t care. You use it liberally.
You sleep with your back to the wall. You wear gloves when touching anything communal, including dice, maps, and whatever horrifying substance Lucky Roux calls “stew.” You keep an eye on Benn at all times.
But sometimes, when you catch him watching you with that slow-burn smirk, with the sharp glint of humor behind those steady eyes, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos Shanks dragged aboard, you wonder how long you can keep up the wall.
Because even if he is dangerous… He did refill your soap. And label it.
Now you’re drying your gloves over a barrel as the Red Force drifts lazily into port. The sun warms your back. The spray glistens on the ropes. For a brief moment, it almost feels like peace.
Shanks sidles up beside you, barefoot again. Pretending not to stare. Failing.
“You don’t have to leave,” he says.
You don’t look at him. You glance toward the docked ships in the distance, then down at his shirt. It has three stains. One is definitely jam. One might be ink. The third remains unidentifiable and probably deserves its own bounty.
“You’re wearing yesterday’s crimes,” you reply.
“But I smell like today’s breeze.”
“You smell like bad decisions and damp rope.” You flick a speck of something off your skirt and turn away. “I’m staying at an inn.”
“You could stay in my cabin.”
“I’d rather be arrested.”
He laughs, soft and low, like he enjoys the chase. You don’t look back.
You do not stay onboard for long.
Not because of the danger. Not because of the pirates. Not even because someone tied three spoons together and declared it a revolutionary navigation system while two others cheered like they had just solved gravity.
No.
You leave because you genuinely fear contracting a yeast infection from prolonged exposure to whatever biological terror is festering below deck.
You make it eight days. Eight heroic, disinfectant-soaked days.
By then, you have seen things. Terrible things. A sponge used for both boots and dishes. A sock employed as a makeshift coffee filter. Shanks, offering you a drink from a cup that had visible algae blooming like it had dreams.
You had stared at him in silent horror.
He leaned in, entirely too casual, and murmured with that maddening grin, “Don’t worry. I’m naturally fermented.”
That was it.
Something in you snapped. It wasn’t loud. It was surgical.
Within the hour, you were off the ship, pacing the harbor like a woman possessed, armed with a checklist, a full coin purse, and enough rage to fund a small revolution. You did not say goodbye. You simply shoved a note into Beckman’s hand and disappeared like some shadow-born avatar of responsibility and bleach.
The note reads:
Thank you for the ride. Please tell your captain that if he ever tries to flirt with me again while smelling like smoked socks and mystery fruit, I will file a formal complaint with the sea itself.
P.S. I hired a battalion of cleaners. You’re welcome.
P.P.S. Burn everything in the galley. Start fresh.
Two days later, the Red Force is crawling with uniformed, appalled, and absurdly expensive professionals. They come armed with scrub brushes, industrial gloves, and what may or may not be a priest. Holy water is applied liberally. Possibly exorcistically.
Shanks finds the whole thing hilarious.
“She paid for this? Really? That’s so generous.”
Benn doesn’t say much. He lights a cigarette and stares out at the sea. The note remains folded and tucked in his coat pocket, a faint crease at the corners where he keeps unfolding and refolding it. He looks like a man who saw the hurricane coming and let it dock anyway.
Because he knows.
You will be back.
Eventually.
After all, you still owe him information. Unfortunately, he still smells like cedar and is quiet competent.
You and Benn Beckman keep in touch.
Much to your ongoing dismay and your intense, justified distaste for his crew.
It begins with letters. They arrive without ceremony, sealed with a wax stamp that looks like someone crushed it beneath a boot. The pages inside are warm with the scent of tobacco and smugness. His handwriting is steady, economical, infuriatingly attractive. He writes in neat lines, clipped observations, sharp wit folded inside every sentence.
The contents vary. Rumors. Coordinates. Unverified sightings. Sketches of strange devices or ships caught using old, outdated codes. Sometimes, entire pages are devoted to mocking the hygiene rating of whatever new vessel he’s endured.
You write back.
Reluctantly.
Not because you enjoy it. Absolutely not. He is useful. That is all.
Your letters are precise. Waterproof ink, ruled margins, folded into thirds like any rational human would. You include bullet points. You underline statements like “I am not your contact. I am your cleaner.” One time, you enclosed a pressed flower. Labeled it carefully in red ink.
“This is what a normal person should smell like.”
Shanks found it charming. Unfortunately.
He refers you to interesting clients, which is usually code for irritating criminals with good coin and boundary issues. You vet them yourself. Half get rejected outright. The other half are tolerable, for pirates, and pay in full. You survive most encounters with your dignity and your laundry intact.
In return, you occasionally pass along corrected Marine patrol routes. Never enough to be considered a betrayal. Just little timing gaps. Slight detours. Adjusted weather patterns that help a ship slip into a port unnoticed, or avoid an inspection by thirty precious minutes.
It is not treason.
It is practical.
It is efficient.
It is also, depending on your mood, the only reason you haven’t tried to set Benn Beckman on fire.
And the Red Force does have ethics—not cleanliness, not order, not even basic definitions of personal space—but ethics nonetheless. That counts for something.
Besides, you are careful. Those ships you clear? They carry cargo, not people. Medicine, not weapons. And if someone tries to lie, you find out. They do not lie again.
Your network grows. Quietly. Efficiently. Smartly. The sort of network that doesn’t raise alarms, only eyebrows.
One day, Benn sends you a note.
Four words. No signature.
Need a favor. Urgent.
You groan, throw a pillow, pace your clean floor with clean feet and pure, distilled irritation, and then check your map.
You write back.
Is the red-haired one involved?
Unfortunately.
Fine. Send soap first.
He does. Lavender-scented. Wrapped in wax paper and respect. You hold it in your hand for five whole seconds before sighing like someone who has seen the cost of every decision.
You never should have gotten on that ship.
But you definitely should have charged more.
The next favor is messy.
Not morally. That part is simple. Some Celestial-backed trade ships have gone suspiciously quiet, and the rumors whisper about human cargo. You start digging. The maps are faked. The portmasters are bribed. Someone has the audacity to route through a canal that floods with raw sewage every third tide.
You send Benn a letter:
Your next client owes me two things: payment, and new boots. I am never returning to Shitwater Shoals.
He replies with:
Client says thank you. I say sorry. Shanks says ‘what’s a shoal?’
You burn the letter. Then send another.
If I die on one of these jobs, my ghost will mop your deck until it sparkles.
He sends back a bar of vanilla soap and a note that reads:
Then maybe the ship will finally be clean.
You are still not sure if it was flirtation or a cry for help.
Despite your contempt for the Red Force’s ambiance—its filth, its mystery stains, its tendency to celebrate bad ideas with fireworks—Benn never sends you jobs that waste your time. The favors are always worthwhile. Always interesting.
Rare documents. Stolen codes. Forgotten alliances wrapped in noble crests and blood-stained ledgers.
You work in silence. Bill in silence. Live alone. Clean. Far from the roar of drunken singing and the scent of salt-stained leather and over-oiled swords.
Until, every now and then, a new job arrives. Folded into a plain envelope. Delivered by hands that never ask questions. From a port you wouldn’t trust with your laundry.
Your name is scrawled on the front. Inside, there are coordinates and notes in Benn’s clipped handwriting.
No greeting.
Just the rough little BB initials scratched at the bottom like an afterthought. Or a signature.
Every time, you roll your eyes. Mutter something acidic. Stare at yourself in the mirror like you might still choose a different life.
You never do.
You pack your notes. Tuck a vial of disinfectant into your sleeve. And go.
Sometimes, you think about the Red Force.
Not fondly. Never fondly.
But with the kind of exhausted tolerance that allows you to mutter things like, “Idiots. But manageable idiots.”
And when Benn writes again:
He asked if you’re still mad.
You reply:
Define mad.
He laughs.
You never liked pirates. Not really.
But you’re starting to tolerate the bastards.
And that is, undeniably, worse.
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