#beard=stallion

[lifeofloon]

Stallion Springs sunset and evening relaxation, 10/8/23

[thestuffedalligator]

Actually, different fantasy races get their own unicorns.

When unicorns appear to humans, they take the form of horned stallions the colour of whitewater and seafoam. They are the runners, the hunted, easily swayed by maidens to their doom.

When unicorns appear to elves, they take the form of silvery deer with long, twisting beards the colour of snow and moonlight. They are the lion-hunters, the fierce, the beating heart of the wild made manifest.

When unicorns appear to dwarves, they take the form of shaggy mules the colour of hope and daylight. They are the poison-curers, the blessed, banishing firedamp with a touch of their horn and a boon to miners deep under the earth.

Gnome unicorns are the little, pink plastic things that smile all the time. They should not be trusted.

[heauxvibez]

Cognac Queen

Warning: smut (18+)

I'm fucking a baller, we courting I'm making it clap, he record it (damn) And he keep on making them noises (yeah) Damn, fuck, shit ooh (fuck, oh)

With a gentle grip, you tilted his head back with your left hand, feeling the coarse texture of his beard hairs against your palm as you positioned his throat perfectly. In your right hand, you held the glass bottle of cognac, its rich brown color catching the light as you angled it above his open mouth. Slowly, you poured it in a steady stream, ensuring he didn't miss a drop.

"There ya go, baby," you whispered softly, your voice gentle and soothing.

As you watched the liquor cascade into his mouth, you couldn't resist the urge to mimic his actions, your lips parting slightly mirroring him. The drink filled his mouth, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped his throat—a signal for you to stop.

You pulled the bottle back, a smirk playing on your lips as he lifted his head to swallow. His Adam’s apple bobbed with the effort, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he forced down the remnants of the drink. He shook his head slightly and let out a shuddering breath as the liquid burned its way down his throat, leaving a fiery trail that led to his stomach. He could feel the intense heat spread through his chest.

You could feel the bristly hairs of his beard still tingling in your palm. He was never really a cognac person; you knew that. Whiskey was more his style—a comfort drink he rarely ventured out of. Yet, here you were, straddling his lap as he took it to the head on his luxurious, comfortable couch in the dimly lit living room. The soft glow from a few candles cast gentle shadows around the room, highlighting the expressions on your faces. The faint sound of Megan Thee Stallion played in the background, weaving beats through the air and your body.

A wave of chills coursed through him, starting at his legs and rippling upward. "Jesus," he murmured under his breath, his voice rough and strained.

You couldn't help but gently wipe away the lingering liquid that had dripped from his bottom lip with your thumb. The cognac's rich aroma wafted up as you did so, making your mouth water. Without thinking, you quickly brought your thumb to your mouth, savoring the taste that you adored. Cognac, specifically E40's 'Typhoon VSOP', was your favorite type of liquor— smooth and spicy, with a warmth that spread through your body and a depth of flavor that lingered on your tongue. It always got the job done, providing a special something that other drinks never could.

Unlike dark liquor, clear spirits always seemed to sit heavily at the bottom of your stomach, their sharpness leaving you with the worst nausea in the world. The unpleasant aftereffects were a stark reminder of why you preferred dark.

You leaned over, carefully placing the bottle on the small table next to the couch. As you did, his hand found its way to your hips, steadying you with a firm grip. Once the bottle was secure, you straightened up, turning your attention back to him.

With a tender gesture, you placed both of your hands on his face, your fingers threading through the black and gray hairs of his beard. Your thumbs traced soothing circles on his flushed cheeks, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin. You could tell he was already feeling the effects of the drink—the telltale signs were all there.

His lips curved into a lazy, contented smile, and his heavy-lidded eyes flickered with intoxication. Soft, wavy tendrils of hair dangled from his loose ponytail and around his temples and forehead as he gazed into your eyes, his look lingering before dropping to your lips, then back up to meet your eyes again. The feelings were deep and you both couldn't help but fall deeper with each other in moments like this.

Your pulse quickened as his hands slowly slid from your hips, slipping beneath the shirt you wore—a shirt that happened to be his. The fabric, soft and familiar, was a comforting reminder of him. You were dressed only in his oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties, your skin exposed and sensitive to his touch. Despite his hands typically being roughened from hard work, they felt surprisingly gentle as they explored the smooth skin of your back.

He traced a path up and down your bare back, you moaned softly, the sound escaping your lips involuntarily as his fingers moved with tender pressure. The warmth of his hands heated up your body the same way the alcohol did.

"You really are the Cognac Queen, ain't you?" he teased. He licked his lips and shifted his hips subtly, the motion causing the growing bulge beneath his sweatpants to press against your wetness through the thin fabric of your panties.

"Yup, Megan Thee Stallion ain't got shit on me," you teased back. He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. His laugh was just as intoxicating as the liquor coursing through both of your veins. The combination of his laughter and the lingering effects of the drink made your head spin slightly but in the best way.

His hands traveled slowly from your back down to your ass, his touch a bit possessive. Your hands moved to his shoulders, gripping them for support as you lifted yourself slightly, giving him better access. He took the opportunity to grasp your cheeks firmly, his hands squeezing and massaging them. The sensation of his strong hands kneading your flesh made you weak. Your pussy began to pulsate against him.

"Her knees don't got shit on yours either," He lifted you up slightly signaling for you to plant your feet onto the couch. You popped yourself onto your tippy toes and continued to steady yourself using his shoulders.

"You ain't ever lied," you replied while eyeing him mischievously. You started to move, popping your ass to the rhythm of the music that filled the room. Your movements were fluid and sensual, each motion perfectly timed to the beat.

Soft grunts escaped his lips, now flushed red from the blood rushing to his face. His low, half-lidded eyes remained fixed on you, observing your every move with admiration as your hips worked against him. You were completely in your element, your body moving with the same confidence you had when you were out with your friends.

He enjoyed watching you, it reminded him of the way Megan Thee Stallion did when she squatted down to her knees, rocking her hips back and forth. You embodied that same energy, and he couldn't help but be entranced by the sight.

"Can you do that with it in you though?" he challenged with his voice low and provocative while watching his bulge only grow bigger. Slowly, he looked up at you, one eyebrow raised. The question hung in the air, daring you to respond.

You paused your movements, the stillness making the tension thick. Your eyes locked onto his playfully. You raised your own eyebrow in response. The corner of your mouth curved to the side as you were ready to meet his challenge head-on.

"Baby..now you know I can do that.." you stated with pure confidence. With his hands still gripping your hips firmly, he responded without words, thrusting his hips upward once again. The sudden movement pressed his bulge directly against your throbbing wetness for the second time, the friction eliciting an immediate moan from your lips.

"Then show me," he whispered huskily. His wish was immediately your command. Without question, you stood from his lap, slipping out of your panties with a graceful motion. He wasted no time, quickly pulling his black sweatpants and briefs down to his ankles, his dick springing free.

You got back on the couch, straddling him once again, your bare skin pressing against his. The tension between you was almost overwhelming. You reached down and grabbed his hardened member, feeling the warmth and firmness in your hand. A small groan escaped his lips at your touch.

He pulsed in your palm, his dick throbbing with need, begging to be enveloped by your walls. You could feel your pussy reacting with the same desperation, the slickness of your arousal making it clear how much you craved him. You were both ready to lose yourselves in each other.

You began to tease both yourself and him, sliding his dick back and forth against your slit with a slowness. The sensation was damn near torture, each glide sending you to the moon. His hardness pressed against your slick folds, the friction driving the both of you insane. You could feel his pre-cum mixing with your own juices.

As his tip brushed against your throbbing clit, you could see him struggling to maintain control. His breathing became ragged, and his chest heaved with each breath. His tip was already drowning in your essence, slick and glistening from the contact. The sight of him so close to losing himself made you almost do the same.

He threw his head back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut as a whispered string of curses escaped his lips. The guttural sounds of his moans resonated through the room, each curse followed by a sharp breath. His neck muscles tightened, and veins stood out against his flushed skin as he struggled to maintain control.

"Uhn uhn, baby, you better look at me while I put it in. I wanna see that handsome face," you demanded with a soft rasp. He let out a breathy chuckle at your words, finding it cute how you tried to exude the same confidence that came so naturally to him. He had half a mind to be disobedient, to assert his dominance with a stern "No," but the situation was different now. The warm buzz of liquor flowing through his veins, combined with the intoxicating sensation of your juices dripping down his dick, had softened him. At that moment, he was ready to do anything you asked, completely captivated by the power you had over him.

His eyes flickered open, dark and intense, locking onto yours as you slid down his length. You wrapped around him so tightly, his grip on the decorative couch pillows couldn't compare to the grip you had on him. He clung to the pillows, his knuckles white with the effort, but it was clear that your pussy had the stronger hold. His eyes never left yours, maintaining the intense eye contact just as you had demanded. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips parted as moans and gasps escaped him.

Your stomach fluttered at the sight, a rush of butterflies adding to the dizzying arousal. Your heart skipped a few beats, the rhythm stuttering under the weight of the moment. Although this was what you had asked for, you could barely handle the sight yourself. The intimacy of watching his every reaction, knowing you were the cause, was almost too much to bear.

"I can't. Fuck, wait baby." he moaned out. Roman couldn't believe the words tumbling from his mouth. Was he really tapping out on the first stroke? The pleasure crashed over him in powerful waves. Maybe if you allowed him to throw his head back and close his eyes, he'd be able to push through, to regain some semblance of control. But he was so entranced by you, by the way you moved, the way your body enveloped his, that he felt completely vulnerable in more ways than one. Your presence, your gaze, held him captive, it left him utterly exposed. He fought to hold on, to not lose himself entirely.

You also found yourself melting at your own request. You had never had him begging like this before, and the sight and sound of his desperation was different for you. Your knees wanted to give in, and your pussy pulsed around him, gripping his dick tighter and eliciting another deep moan from him. The liquor had a completely different effect on you than it did on him. It made him weaker, and more vulnerable, while you felt a surge of power.

With a slow lick of your lips, you wrapped your hand around his throat. You began riding him, moving up and down with nice strokes. Your titties bounced in time with your hips. You couldn’t help but use your free hand to grab one of your breasts, pinching and twisting your nipple while you watched his face intently.

He remained obedient, his eyes fixed on yours, filled with awe. They didn’t stray from your gaze, except for the occasional moment when they rolled back in sheer ecstasy, only to quickly find their way back to yours. The sight of him fueled your confidence even more. His moans grew louder, matching your movements.

"Mmm, but you can baby. You can take it.. you're doing so good.." you praised, your voice a sultry murmur. As you spoke, you shifted the movement of your hips, no longer lifting and dropping but instead rocking back and forth. The change in pace earned a very faint whimper from his lips.

You were stunned at how you were able to take him, his thick length hitting your most sensitive spot repeatedly with each roll of your hips. The sensation was almost too much. Your moans reverberate through the living room and with the soft strains of music playing in the background. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex as you loved on each other.

Your knees began to burn, a dull ache that was overshadowed by the feeling building in the pit of your stomach. The signs of your orgasm were unmistakable, and the feeling grew stronger with every thrust. Your movements became more frantic, more desperate, each rock of your hips driving you closer to the edge. You could see the intensity in his eyes, feel the tremors in his body, and you knew he was right there with you.

"Fuck, look at us baby. Look at what you make me do.." you murmured. Slowly, your hand trailed up his throat, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin until you reached his jaw. You tilted his head downward, forcing him to witness the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your slick, swollen folds.

The visual was mesmerizing. His eyes widened as he took in the view of your bodies joined together, the creamy ring of your pussy forming at the base of his length, glistening with each thrust. The sound of your wetness grew louder, filling his ears with the sound he loved the most.

"Only you can make me feel this way, baby," you moaned softly as you slowed your pace, allowing him to savor every sensation. You wanted to make sure he could see and feel the tugs and pulls your pussy caused around his dick. You wanted him to see the effect he had on you, to witness the power of his touch.

In the background, Megan's music continued to play. The beat motivated you to continue, urging you to ride in time with the music, each thrust synchronized with the melody. He couldn't hear anything but the soft, sensual moans that slipped past your lips and the soft gushy sounds of your pussy.

"Baby, if you keep talking me like that, I'm gonna nut," he confessed, his breath still in ragged gasps as his eyes remained fixed on him fucking you.

You made him look back at you, locking eyes with him, a mischievous smirk on your lips. "Then I guess I'm gonna keep talking, baby,"

"Whose dick is this, baby?" you questioned. Your orgasm loomed on the horizon, but you were going to make sure he came first. There was no way you were going to let yourself finish before him.

He threw his head back once more, a low groan escaping his lips as he surrendered to you. "It's yours," he whispered into the air. In that moment, there was no doubt that you owned him completely, body and soul.

"Aht, look at me, daddy," You could see his jaw clench at your words as his orgasm approached. He exhaled deeply, a sound that echoed through the room, before reluctantly lifting his head back up, his hands still clutching onto the pillows with a desperate grip.

"Whose dick is this?" you asked again as your hips rocked faster, urgently driving you both toward the edge of ecstasy. You felt his dick stiffen up beneath you, he was on the brink of release.

"It's yours, it's yours, fuck, it's yours," he groaned, his voice filled with need as his orgasm coursed through him. "Fuck, I'm cumming," he moaned, the words torn from his lips as you continued to ride him through his orgasm. His hands abandoned the pillows, reaching instead for your hips, holding onto you as his climax washed over him, his body tensing and trembling with the force of it.

You didn't let up, still working to chase down your own release, feeling yourself getting closer with each thrust. The sensation of him filling you up only added to the moment, pushing you ever closer to the brink as well.

Now it's his turn.

With a firm grip, he gathered your hair, pulling it back into a ponytail with his right hand, while his left hand remained steady on your hips, guiding and supporting you through the waves of pleasure.

"You gonna nut for me, babygirl?" His deep voice resonated through your ears, igniting something deep in your core. With sweat trickling down your forehead, your body responded tirelessly to him.

You nodded eagerly, your breath hitching as you felt the tension building in you. Every movement, every thrust, brought you closer to the edge, and you were determined to let go under his touch. His hands worked perfectly, one guiding your movements while the other maintained a firm grip, grounding you.

As you continued to ride him, he met your thrusts with his own, his hips rising to meet yours almost in a dance against the music. His movements were deep, each one grazing your G-spot, sending you into a frenzy.

"Daddy's hitting that spot, ain't I?" he questioned watching you tremble on his lap. "There you go, that’s it baby. Cum for me." As your body responded eagerly to him, your essence flowed freely along his dick, creating a trail down it and pooling onto his thighs. The orgasm brought a constellation of stars behind your eyelids.

As his thrusts increased, your trembling knees struggled to support you, eventually succumbing to ecstasy. He showed no signs of stopping, his need driving him to ravish you with endless strokes.

Your head found solace in the curve of his neck, and your fingers tightened their grasp on his broad shoulders, desperately seeking an anchor.

“Please..” you begged, eyes watering as the torture continued. His hips felt like the pounding of a machine, driving deeper and deeper into the depths of your soul.

"Nah...", his fingers stayed entwined firmly in the curls of your hair, with a gentleness that still demanded your attention, coaxing you into meeting his gaze again. He was ensuring that there was no escape from his eyes.

"Since this dick belongs to you," he continued, his tone filled with a possessiveness that sent a thrill coursing through your veins, "you gon take it like it belongs to you."

-----------------------------------------

Shoutout to @caramelcleopatraa for being my inspo for actually pushing this out💐🩷

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @sortudademais @empressdede @alichesmi

@msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80

@headoftheetable @trashbin-nie @tshepisho @mzv11 @sheyaish

@saintmagx

[octuscle]

Full investment

Martin had been very lucky in his life. He founded his first start-up at the right time, sold it at the right time and invested the proceeds wisely. Of course, it wasn't just luck; Martin was clever, hard-working and charismatic. And with this combination, he was bound to succeed. The fact that he was extremely good-looking didn't necessarily hinder him. Martin was at every party, Martin knew everyone and Martin was at least one of the first followers of a new trend. If he didn't set the trend himself. That's why he was very annoyed when he got talking to a cool, masculine and sporty-looking guy at a party at the Turkish Embassy. The young stallion turned out to be a rising star in the mixed martial arts world and ran a gym in one of Stockholm's hipster neighborhoods. And in the course of the conversation, Mete asked Martin why he wasn't investing in the fitness sector. Martin was fascinated by Mete's engaging manner. And they shook hands on Martin's entry into Mete's gym.

The press conference was a date to Martin's liking. He was in his element. Not that Mete was not photogenic, but Martin loved the camera. And the camera loved him. One of the reporters present asked if Martin would now train here too. Martin was taken aback for a moment. He hadn't expected that. Normally, he trained with his personal trainer at his gym at home. But this was the moment Mete had been waiting for. He threw a bag with a pair of sports trousers and a pair of gloves to Martin and said it was time for them to train together. Martin hesitated only briefly. He looked good in a suit. But he also knew that he looked at least as good with his shirt off. The pictures of the sparring session were amazing. The success for the gym was overwhelming. And Martin had to admit: this kind of training was something completely different from training at home.

Martin's daily routine changed soon after he joined Mete. Mete regularly picked him up in the morning to go jogging. Martin and Mete often had breakfast in a Turkish café near the gym, and Mete created Martin's new nutrition plan. Mete provided Martin with food supplements, the contents of which Martin did not question, especially since the green packaging only had Arabic writing on it. Mete created a training plan for Martin that required a lot of time in the gym… But Martin was happy to have a real physical balance to his otherwise very stressful job. And at the moment he was only active as an investor, he didn't have to run his own company. So why not give it everything you've got in sport? And he gave it everything. Running with a lead vest, weight training, sparring, technique training… At some point, Martin was practically living in the gym. And Mete and Martin also spent more and more time together. So much so that Martin moved into the apartment above the gym, which he had originally only intended to use as a second home. So much so that at some point he went with Mete to his Turkish barber. And so much so that, out of curiosity, he went to the mosque with Mete on a Friday for the midday prayer. Mete and the Imam spoke a lot and quickly with each other. The two of them smiled a lot. They said goodbye warmly. Martin hadn't understood a word. But for some reason it felt right to be here.

At the beginning, Martin's short hair was the most obvious sign of his change. His increasingly athletic body was also impossible to miss. Martin grew a beard. Martin started wearing a prayer cap. And more and more Turkish and Arabic words crept into his speech. And while he was only sporadically in the mosque at first, a Friday without the midday prayer and without an exchange with the imam soon became unimaginable for him.

Of course, his change did not go unnoticed. There was unrest in his network of companies. Mete advised him to withdraw from the public eye. His social media accounts were dormant. Martin withdrew from most of the supervisory boards of his holdings. This task was taken over by a few guys he had met at the gym, in cafes or in the mosque and whom he had come to trust. Martin enjoyed the freedom he gained as a result. He had more time to prepare for his next fight, more time to learn Turkish and Arabic, and more time to devote to his prayers. Even though Mete had to spend more and more time managing the prospering gym and the other businesses Martin had entrusted to him, he made sure that Martin, who he increasingly called Mehmet, continued to receive optimal training and nutrition plans. And, above all, with the right nutritional supplements. The side effects of the pills and injections were becoming increasingly obvious: a dark fur was growing on Martin's chest and his beard was getting darker and darker.

MMA shorts and thobes… At some point, there was nothing else left in his wardrobe. At most, when Mehmet helped out at the gym reception or when he was supervising at the gym or training customers, he wore a tracksuit. But basically, he no longer felt comfortable in it. Fortunately, Mete gave him quite a generous allowance after Martin had given him and Iman extensive powers of attorney. This allowed him to get through the month without having to work. However, Mehmet still had to work from time to time as a temp at the gym to pay for the expensive nutritional supplements. He didn't have to overcome any great obstacles to do this: he was at home at the gym and he was proud to be part of this gym. And as a trainer, he had close contact with the hottest guys in the gym. Even though Mete was the only one who was allowed to fuck Mehmet, there were enough holes that Mehmet's cock could fill after the wounds of the circumcision had healed.

Hardly anyone recognized Martin at Mehmet's new appearances on social media. If you looked closely, you could have seen Martin's blue eyes in the otherwise more masculine features of Mehmet's face. But hardly anyone looked at Mehmet's eyes. There were other body parts that attracted the public's attention.

Ole had been following Martin's latest investment closely. Martin's new CEO, Mete, was very active in the Swedish startup scene and Mete and Ole met regularly at various events. Mete needed more capital to finance the planned aggressive growth of the gym chain. And Ole was ready to get on board. The business figures were simply too tempting.

The press event to mark Ole's entry into the gym empire was a great success. It was accompanied by the opening of a new gym in Martin's former house. And by the victory of the Swedish MMA heavyweight title by the star of the gym, Mehmet. At the photo shoot, Ole was surprised at Mehmet's good Swedish. Actually, he would have expected less from such a monkey. But never mind, Mehmet wasn't there to speak. The photo shoot with Ole and Mehmet was followed by a training session in which the two men demonstrated their skills. Mehmet did everything he could to make Ole look good. But at the end of the session, he said that Ole could do a little more to improve his fitness. After all, he was now a figurehead for the gym. Mehmet had already prepared something: a training and nutrition plan. And Mete had also already procured a few dietary supplements.

[blond3ang3l]

Reiner is the biggest thigh and ass man. He’s obsessed with them, especially on bigger people. Constantly grabbing at you and trying to keep you pressed against him. Especially in front of Eren and Jean. He knows they had a thing for you before you two got together, in all honestly they probably still did.

There had been moment he’s caught them staring at you, at your body when you weren’t looking. Immediately he uses his big hand to engulf your thigh. You may be big but Reiner is BIGGER. He’s naturally been that way but being with you only led to going out for dinner as dates, cooking meals for each other, ordering takeout so you guys can just relax together, no matter what that man is making sure you and him are fed.

That also happens to include when he’s in between your legs. Time is flying and he still won’t let you get up. Your hair sticking to your face. Face red while you’re panting. And he’s just having the time of his life. Slurping noises coming from him as he happily laps at your clit/tip. He’s just as red as you are. Your cum all over his beard. He’s just all around messy and doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon🎀🍒

[acknowledge-reigns]

"He got a beard, well, I'm tryna wet it..." 💦🤭

Credit to gif creators 💖

[the-fiction-witch]

Caraxes

Media House of The Dragon

Character Daemon Targaryen

Couple Daemon X Reader

Rating Sweet + A bit flirty

Daemon slowly climbs down from his black stallion he gives his clothes an adjust before he turns back with a smile to his soon-to-be bride Y/n, sat on the horse in her black gown, He takes her in his arms and helps her down from the horse gracefully before He began to walk off with her hand held tightly in his, until they arrived at the entrance to the Dragon pit. Before entering, however, he stopped.

"Before we go in my love, I must ask you to remain calm. Would you be able to do that for me?"

She held his arm the whole walk rather excited even if she was clearly nervous, she nodded and smiled trying her best not to show her fears, Daemon found her so adorable, an innocent sweet girl, and he wanted to protect her at all costs.

"Then come on, my love."He smiled kissing her hand before he began to walk in,

First was the smell of the scent of dragon, The warm reptilian scent with burnt flesh and stone.

Second was The noise of the Dragons echoing through the large caverns of the dragon bit,

"Now. You must remain calm as I introduce you. I know that it may be difficult, but I ask that you please try not to show your fears,"

"I promise to do my best Daemon" She blushed,

"Your best is more than enough, my love." he cooed kissing her forehead,

"thought I admit Imagined them having a bigger house.”

Daemon chuckled as she spoke. "The Dragon pit here are much smaller than the space they have back at Dragonstone. Back home they have hundreds of acres only for the Dragons to roam. Here we are limited to the cavens,"

“Ohh… poor things,”

“I never like keeping him here long, and even when I do I make sure to take him out alot.”

“That’s very sweet of you,”

"Do you want to meet my most beloved dragon?"

she nodded hiding her eyes behind her hands to be surprised

Daemon smiled wrapping his arms around her waist and giving her a kiss, The dragon keepers brought Caraxes in from a smaller caven to be admired in his full glory as Caraxes lifted his head and looked down at the two of them already the dragon was tense as he knew his master and bonded Targaryen but did not know Y/n. Daemon could already see this would be a beautiful moment that would forever be burned into her memory.

"My love. I want you to open your eyes, and I want you to look up now."

y/n moved her hands and her eyes began far lower but then she quickly corrected from her expectations of the dragon being far smaller than he was and immediately she gulped, fear washed over her for a moment but she did her best to be brave, as she looks up at Caraxes the dragon tall with fiery red scales, bright yellow eyes, a beard of horns and wings large enough to strange a ship, his body long and serpentine like with a neck that slithers and slicks,

Daemon smiled and watched her reaction as she took in the sight of his dragon.

"My dragon, my oldest and most trusted companion, Caraxes." He said,

"he's...big,"

Daemon laughed at her comment as he spoke. "He is indeed very big, but he is a gentle dragon. Come on."

He began leading her to Caraxes, The dragon did not seem happy about this woman approaching but given she was still being held by a daemon he seemed to accept her… for now.

“How uhh how old is he?”

“No one knows for sure, my uncle Aemon rode him as a young dragon all the way until his death,”

“So he was your uncle’s?”

“He was, dragons can only have one living rider. So when Aemon died by crossbow. He was riderless.”

“And then… You?”

“And I found him, after all riderless dragons are often ignored. I was merely a boy but he gave me structure, and purpose at a young age.”

“That is very sweet,”

“Come on, you can touch him,”

She slowly moved closer clearly nervous, "will he eat me?" she whispered her fears already overwhelming her,

"He wouldn't dare try such a thing. Caraxes would never even dream of harming you. Come, he wishes to meet you." Daemon could see how nervous she was, and it only made him want to protect her more.

she moved maybe two more steps closer "...can he hear me?" She whispered

Daemon raised an eyebrow at her question and then nodded as he spoke. "Of course he can my love. He can hear everything we say." Daemon chuckled, and looked to her. "He is a gentle soul really. You see, I have trained him well. He even understands me, come closer, you are nothing to fear my love."

She moved closer now so close caraxes could investigate her with Daemon still behind her protectively Caraxes sniffed at her, his nose rubbing slightly against her. Daemon could see his eyes narrowing as he studied her, and as she remained in place.

Daemon smiled, and gave her hand a tight squeeze. "He likes you. See? Caraxes is quite a sweet dragon."

"I suppose so... Uhhh... Thank you for not eating me caraxes..."

"You see!? Such a nice dragon... Would you like to try and touch him now?"

She was clearly still full of fear as she moved her hand closer and touched the dragon scales for maybe a second, if that. Before she moved her hand away as quickly as she could. Daemon chuckled and took her hand resting it against Caraxes scales his hand ontop of hers as the dragon shifted accepting Y/n as an extension of Daemon,

Daemon smiled, quite impressed by her calm demeanour around such a large beast. "See? You're doing great, he certainly likes you my love."

"he is very nice, very sweet. And a very handsome dragon" she smiled as she began to stroke caraxes by the nose with both her hands

Daemon smiled wide as he continued to watch them, feeling a sense of pride in her. She was so sweet, and had certainly won Caraxes's heart. Which was more then enough to melt his own to see the woman he loved and was to marry bond so happily with his dragon, "He is quite a handsome dragon, isn't he?"

Caraxes responded to her petting by tilting his head back against her, he seemed quite contented with her attention.

"mhm very handsome"

It made him so happy to see her and his dragon enjoy one another, As she continued to stroke Caraxes, Daemon smiled and spoke. "It seems you have my dragon's heart."

"I do?"

"You have. Caraxes is clearly quite fond of you, I can tell. You won him over, and as such I am quite pleased with you. I have the feeling you two would get along just fine with one another."

"I hope so, hello caraxes your very lovely thank you for being nice to me. I think your a very big very nice dragon" she smiled

"I think he appreciates your kind words my love. I believe he would like you to become his friend."

"awww I'm sure we'll be freinds"

Daemon gave her hand another tight squeeze. "I think he's grown fond of you already. I must say, it is rather nice to see him with a woman who does not scream in fear while looking at him."

"I admit he shocked me I didn't imagine he was so big but he's very sweet and handsome. Just like someone else I know," she smiled giving caraxes nose a kiss and then daemons nose a kiss

"I would certainly say the feeling is mutual." He rubbed his thumb against his caraxes nose too, "See? Even my dragon finds you as irresistible as I do, my love."

"he does?"

"He does, I think your kiss has quite won him over now."

Caraxes nudged his head against her again, and looked up to Daemon with an expectant look.

Daemon smiled, and chuckled before speaking."See. He truly does enjoy your affection."

"awww," she smiled doing her best to hug the gigantic dragon with her tiny arms,

Daemon chuckled at the scene before him "I think it's safe to say the two of you are getting along quite well. Would you like to try and climb on him my love? I believe he would hold you safely if you wanted to try."

"ohh... I don't know, isn't it dangerous?"

"Caraxes would never allow you to come to any harm, and nor would I. I will assure you, you would be perfectly safe."

"well... If you think it's safe. Could I give him something before we go? A treat perhaps... If... Uhh if dragons have treats?"

“A treat?”

“I’m sorry… do dragons get treats?”

Daemon smirked at this, as he spoke."I'm sure he would like a little treat. Would you like me to go and get him one love?"

"Mhm"

Daemon laughed at her answer and nodded slightly. "I shall be back with something in a moment." he gave her a kiss and went to talk to the dragon keepers,

she was a little more nervous now she was alone even if daemon is just across the room, but she smiled and stroked caraxes nose "ummm your a very beautiful boy, I see why Daemon loves you so much"

Caraxes whimpers in response to her words, moving his head against her now that she was alone with him. He seemed to enjoy her words, and after a moment of her caressing him, he began to lean toward her.

she giggled and ran her hands over his scales and gave him kisses softly singing a gentle song like a lullaby

Caraxes seemed to be enjoying the gentle singing and her caressing. Caraxes leaned his massive head against her, his red scales feeling quite hot from her touch. After a moment or two that she spent giving him gentle kisses and caresses, it was quite clear he had found himself quite smitten with her now. After a moment he nudged his cheek against her in an attempt to get her to scratch it, the gentle red dragon wanted all the affection he could get from her. She began to gently scratch his cheek as the dragon nudged her. Caraxes's small yellow eyes seemed to be locked onto hers, and his tongue licked at her hand at one point.

Daemon came back over the keepers having fetched a pig, "I believe Caraxes really likes you my love. I wonder why that might be."

"who knows? Maybe I just smell nice?"

"Perhaps that is it. That you may be filled with a scent that just so happens to attract such powerful dragons." He teased her,

"or maybe... He's just so much like you. You fell in love with me only makes sense a dragon that is such an extension of yourself would love me too,"

He chuckled lightly as he spoke again. “I suppose that could be true,” He nodded, “You think my dragon and I are quite similar then?"

"Umm my big handsome sweet boys"

Daemon smiled brightly. "Really?"

"Mhm, But ones a little more special" she smiled wrapping her arms around daemons shoulders,

"And which of us is more special my dear love?"

"hummm I wonder" she Giggled before she stood on her toes and kissed his lips

Her attempt was quite cute, and his mouth met hers as they kissed. He could feel the passion building, and he couldn't quite contain himself now. He took her in his arms, lifting her body up against him. Their lips locked in an intimate and passionate kiss, Daemon's lips continued to play with her own, as one of his hands found her back while the other hand moved to her soft neck. Their kissing grew more intense now, and he found himself enjoying the moment far more than he thought he would. Daemon's body pressed hers against the wall, and he could feel her curves pressing against him. His hand moved to hold her back while his other hand continued to run its fingers through her soft hair. She was incredibly attractive, and the passion between the two was clearly growing larger and larger. Daemon felt his heart beating faster and faster. And Y/n felt as if she was to faint from the passion, The adrenaline between the two increased as their kisses became more heated. His body moved closer, pressing up against her. He could feel the heat of her body as it pressed against him, it was quite intoxicating to say the least.

they are both suddenly interrupted by the harsh sound of caraxes blowing fire into the roof of the cave they both jumped at the loud noise of Caraxes's fire, Caraxes stared at them both in a disapproving manner.

After a moment Daemon spoke, trying his best to contain a chuckle. "I believe he does not approve."

"I think he might be a bit jealous? Of me or you?"

Daemon chuckled as he spoke. "I believe he is most likely jealous of me." he smirked, "He must be smiutten with you, and now he will want to have your affection all to him self my love."

"ohh I'm sorry I didn't mean to cause any trouble"

Daemon chuckled lightly at her apology. "There is nothing to apologize for my love. You have done nothing wrong. I do believe Caraxes is simply a bit jealous, so I must go back to giving him what he wants. Do not worry about it my dear."

"All alright I do hope I didn't cause any trouble between you" she said nervously

"Don't worry, I admit I got a little jealous seeing him with you too so I can't blame him for getting jealous of you and I?"

"You did?"

"A little my love," He cooed, "Do you think you'd want to ride on Caraxes back with me?"

"Now?" she gulped,

"Not today, another day, with less wind when it's safer for you." he explained, "But? would you want to?"

"I think so," she nodded, "I'd like to,"

"You are just perfect aren't you," He cooed, "I can see it now, you and I riding on dragon back together around dragon stone"

"It does sound nice," 

"And perhaps we will have dragon eggs settled by the cradle,"

"The cradle?" she giggled,

"Umm, Our children will be Targaryens my love. Dragon riders. We could lay eggs in their cradles and have them bond at birth, so we can go riding around dragon stone with our children on caraxes when they're young and then... their own when they are grown." 

"Riding on Caraxes? with our children?" she laughed at what seemed so absurd but she found it sweet at the same time that Daemon wanted his children to ride on his dragon with him,

"Of course," he nodded, "My mother took me to the sky with me in her lap when I was merely three weeks old, as she rode on Meleys," He explained, "Would you deny me giving our children the same?"

"Ohh..." she smiled, "Of course not, I could never deny such a thing. It's very sweet Daemon, I am sorry if my joke of it offended-"

Daemon smiled at her, stroking her cheek for a moment before letting his fingers play with her hair. "There is nothing to worry about my love. come on He likely just want’s his treat." he chuckled

she nodded and cuddled into his chest happily, Daemon wrapped his arms around her body as he held her to his. She was so comfortable, and her being this close felt quite warm to him. His fingers ran through the soft strands of her hair, and he could feel the softness of her skin against him as he ordered the keepers to give Caraxes the pig,

"You are the embodiment of beauty and grace to me, and I cannot help but be drawn to you. The moment I lay eyes upon you I could feel the passion brewing between us, my love. I do believe that the gods themselves must have created you for my own enjoyment, though I would rather have you all to myself and not share you even with my own dragon." he smirked, "you shall utterly be all mine once we are made man and wife. There shall be nobody that can come and steal you away from me, or the gods themselves will hear of my anger my dear."

“I can’t wait till we’re married Daemon,”

“I can’t wait either Y/n,” He cooed, 

[shinynewboots]

The Ballad of Hell Springs: Part 1/5

Guitarspear (Hazbin Hotel) Western/Cowboy AU

AO3

Next Episode

Summary: On his yearly trip to Heaven's Gate, Adam, a forgotten outlaw, crosses paths with Lute, a woman on the run. On their journey, they form an unlikely companionship. However, the secrets of the past don't always stay hidden, and Adam soon finds himself thrust back into a role he had given up long ago. Part 1/5.

Warnings: Violence, gun violence, implied sexual assault, cursing

Notes: Thanks y'all for coming along for the Cowboy hyper fixation. A special thanks to @devastatedloyallute for putting up with Cowboy brain rot and being such a wonderful beta reader💚

Heaven’s Gate had been a paradise for a while. It was a boomtown that grew in the shadow of Heaven’s Arch, a spectacular rock formation that formed long before Adam was born and would exist long after he’d returned to dust. It was cut by red rock that seemed to sparkle under the sun’s rays, begging the weary traveler to continue on their journey. Through the Arch, the trail towards the West continued, along with the promise of fertile lands and gold aplenty. Adam had no use for gold or lands in the beginning. Just the gentle smile of his wife and the laughter of his boys.

Paradise doesn’t last forever. 

He was an older man now. Rode hard and hung out to dry. Long gone was the young man with dreams of a pretty wife and kind boys. Gray hairs had started to pop up around his brown hair and in his beard. His facial hair had grown longer than he’d let it in the past. He knew he needed a clean shave, but the beard, combined with his bandana, protected him from the dust and sun better than the latter alone. 

He laid back against his saddlebag as the light of another day snuffed itself out in the sky. He glanced over at Dick, who he’d tied to a sturdy log that lay nearby. Dick paid him no mind and continued to munch on the prairie grasses. Dick was a copper-colored stallion that had served him well for the past five years. Adam had borrowed him from an innkeeper a few hundred miles away. He’d return him one day. 

He’d set up camp about 50 paces from the banks of Hell Springs, a natural hotspring that emitted a foul egg-like odor that tainted the surrounding air. A thick layer of steam was always present on the water’s surface, along with the occasional bubbling of the rumbling earth. The smell kept most people and predators away.  It was why he always chose to make camp here year after year on his journey back to Heaven’s gate. 

He gazed into the fire, the sweet smoke doing little to ward off the perpetual stink of the springs. Adam had spent ten long years making this journey, every year returning to the scene of the original sin. Aside from new scars and graying hair, he had little to show for his efforts. Petty thievery, sure. The occasional expensive watch he could pawn off for some pieces of gold. 

Very little had proved to fill the decade-long void that filled his soul. 

He reached into his pack to grab a cigar and thought better of it. A waste this time of night. He glanced over at Dick, who paid him no mind, before leaning even farther back onto the saddle bag. He tilted his hat to shield himself from the fire’s light and closed his eyes. 

Adam awoke to a harsh kick to his boot. His eyes shot up to see a person looming over him. They pointed a revolver at him, only about two feet away from his head. The hammer of the gun was pulled back. 

This was not the first time Adam stared down the barrel of a gun, nor would it be the last. 

Adam looked at the figure down the barrel of the revolver. Moonlight washed over them with a ghostly illumination. He smirked, his brown eyes meeting the golden ones only half-obscured by the brim of their hat. “You goin’ shoot me, kid?�� 

“I will.” The figure said. Their voice sounded strained, as if trying to sound deeper and more frightening than it was. Adam looked closer at the figure. Their clothes were ill-fitting. The cuffs of their sleeves brushed past their wrists, almost completely obscuring their small hands. Their dust-covered trousers were tied tightly with a rope at the waist and tucked hastily into their boots. This kid was young and green. “If I have to.”

“Kid, I’d put that down if I was you,”  Adam warned, holding up steady hands. 

“Or what?” Golden eyes narrowed at him. Their finger was tensed at the trigger. They tried to hide it, but their posture showed a slight tremor. “I’m the one pointing the gun.”

Adam took that tremor as a cue to act. He moved his hands so that they pushed the gun up and away from any meaningful path towards his brain. The kid gasped in shock and pulled the trigger. 

A shot rang out. Dick whinnied at the noise, pulling against the rope that tethered him. Adam felt the bullet breeze over his head, the boom ringing in his ears. His hat was pushed off his head by the force of the bullet ripping through it. He had liked that hat. 

The person looked at him with wide eyes. They began to place their thumbs on the hammer of the gun, their small stature forcing them to grab it with both hands. Before the click indicating the gun was ready could be heard, Adam had already lunged on top of them.

The softness under him as he rolled on top of the stranger, pushing both of their arms above their head and forcing the gun from their grip, told him that this person was definitely not a kid. The woman fought against him, trying to kick and fight back. But Adam was a large man, and she was no match for him. Her eyes were filled with a true fear as she searched his face. 

One hand still holding her wrists into the dirt as he leaned over her, he grabbed at the bandana that obscured her face and pulled it down. She bucked at the movement like an unbroken bronco. He narrowly avoided a headbutt. She heaved under him, her ribs flaring up against his body.

“You shot my hat.” He finally said as he took in her soft features. She looked young, early twenties if he had to guess. He’d always been shit at guessing ages. She was fair, as though untouched by years of sun. Her eyebrows were dark, a sharp contrast to the white hair that framed her face in the struggle. His eyes immediately went to the ugly purple and green bruise that bloomed over her right jaw. 

“It should’ve been your head.” She spat, struggling against his grip. He pushed down farther onto her with his torso. 

“I’m hard to kill, darlin’.” He grinned, shaking his head so the strands of hair would move from his eyes. She dropped her head back into the dirt and looked towards the bubbling spring. The moonlight gave the spring a more infernal look than usual, something that mothers told their babes to beware of lest they be lured into its depths. 

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you up if you promise you’ll behave.” Adam offered, a mischievous look on his face. The woman still didn’t look at him, her face blank as she continued to stare towards the spring. He grabbed her chin with his large hand and forced her to face him. 

“Go to Hell,” She cursed, hatred and fear in her eyes. 

“Hard to go somewhere you’ve never left.” He replied. She furrowed her eyebrows at him, her gaze softening slightly. “Now, you are gonna behave darlin’?”

She let out a deep breath. He could feel her ribs compress beneath him. Her heart was beating fast like a rabbit. She looked at him with those golden eyes and nodded her head. 

He didn’t trust her. So he wasn’t at all surprised when the second he pulled his weight off of her, she tried to kick at him, her small legs packing a larger punch than he had anticipated. She wriggled free from him and began to belly crawl towards her gun. 

“Goddammit, bitch,” Adam exclaimed, once again throwing himself on top of her. She let out a gasp of surprise and grew still like a squashed bug, limbs splayed out around her. Her hand continued to twitch towards the revolver. 

“Let me go!’ She raged, building up the energy to finally thrash against him. He’d broken stallions with less fight than she gave him. 

“I tried that, and you took me like a damn fool.” 

“Bastard.” The word was weak coming from her lips. 

“It’s actually Adam.” He said cheekily. While the disruption of sleep was less than desirable, he found himself enjoying the moment. “And what sorry bastard do I have the pleasure of crushing this fine evening?’

He heard her mutter something under her breath that sounded suspiciously similar to ‘fun of a pitch’. 

“What was that?” He asked again, pushing his body down harder onto her. He couldn’t deny that the feeling of her soft body beneath him was affecting him. It had been weeks since he last laid with a woman. He feared pushing against her was teasing him more than it was teaching her a lesson. 

“Lute,” She said quietly.

“Lute,” He repeated, feeling the word around in his mouth, fiddling with it through his tongue and teeth like chewing tobacco. “Now, Miss Lute, where were you heading in such a hurry that you thought it was a good idea to point a gun in a man’s face while he was sleeping?”

“Pride’s Peak.” She spat out like a spooked kitten. “I was gonna steal your horse.”

“I don’t think Dick would have liked that very much. He’s a mean son of bitch,” Adam said. He and Lute turned to look at Dick, who happily whinnied at the attention. 

“How ferocious.” She said dryly. Adam gave Dick a reprimanding look. The horse didn’t notice. He turned his attention back to the woman beneath him. 

“Where’d you come from?”

“That’s none of your business.” She said slowly. Adam narrowed his eyes. Though he knew Lute couldn’t see his expression, he wanted to make sure he got his meaning across clear as crystal. 

His voice dropped low. Dangerous. He leaned his face close to her ear, his warm breath and beard ticking at it. “You point a gun at me, you make it my goddamn business.”

It was quiet for a few moments. Both stopped breathing. Adam heard the faintest reply. “Heaven’s Gate.” 

“You live there?” He asked. She didn’t seem like she recognized him. He had been gone a long time. His face was more weathered, more covered with hair. A decade was a long time to be away. He didn’t recognize her either. He would’ve remembered pretty eyes like that. 

“I did,” Lute responded curtly.

“Why you leaving?”

“Do you always ask so many damn questions?” She huffed. He chuckled at her. Perhaps he had tortured her enough. 

“Only to would-be horse thieves who try to shoot me.” He responded. He lightened up on the pressure he was putting on her. She didn’t resist or try and wiggle free this time. 

“There’s nothin’ left for me there,” Lute said. Her voice sounded hollow, with no trace of that spitfire he’d heard earlier. 

“Well, except maybe some clothes that actually fit you. What, you steal those from your pa?” He asked, feeling her tense up beneath him.

“Will you let me up?” She said quickly, avoiding the question on her appearance. There was also little chance in Hell he imagined she would tell him where she got that shiner on her face. Adam, however, had always been great at wearing people down. 

“That depends. Can I trust you?” 

“No.” She said without hesitation. Adam couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips. 

“Good, ‘cause I wasn’t gonna.” He pulled himself off of her and was pleasantly surprised she didn’t immediately reach for the gun, instead opting to wipe the dirt from her face and body.  He’d enjoyed this; it would be a shame to put a bullet between those pretty eyes. 

He walked over to the revolver and grabbed it, turning away from her. He opened the cylinder and let the bullets pour into his hands. They glistened in the moonlight overhead. He held the empty gun out at her as she wiped the dust from her trousers. 

“Here’s your gun back.”

She snatched the gun from him and looked at the empty cylinder with disdain. “What the hell is this?”

“We’ll call it your collateral.” He said, shrugging. He walked over to behind his saddle bag and picked up his black hat, a bullet hole clean through the middle. He rubbed his finger over the frayed fabric and could still feel the heat from the bullet on the edges. “I really did like this hat.” 

She begrudgingly shoved the empty gun into her rope belt so that it hung at her side. Moonlight bathed over her pale features, making her look more ghost-like by the second. 

A howl rang out in the distance. Adam added sticks to the fire to build up the low glow into a broiling flame. Anything to keep the nocturnal predators at bay. 

“It’s a wonder the coyotes didn’t catch you.” He said, poking at the fire with a stick. The shadows and glows danced in a frantic rhythm across his face. He looked up at Lute and noticed her golden eyes aglow. She didn’t respond. She stood there awkwardly, wrapping her arms around her body. 

“I have a proposition for you, Miss Lute,” He said, emphasizing the Miss so that it made her feel even smaller and weaker than she already did. “You promise not to aim for my head again, and I’ll get you to Pride’s Peak when I head that way in a few days.”

“Or I could just head to Pride’s Peak myself right now.” She said, her resolve steely. 

Adam gave her a hard look and pursed his lips. “You could. But I promise you that howling you hear? They’ve been tracking you all night. Coyotes don’t have any problem bringing down a full-grown doe. You wouldn’t stand a chance.” 

Lute narrowed her eyes at him. “Why would you want to help me?”

Adam winked at her and settled back down against the saddle. “I’ve always been a sucker for pretty eyes and wild women.”

“I don’t trust you.” She said quietly. She got on her knees before the fire and began to warm her hands. The button-down shirt she was wearing looked rather thin for the cold desert air. It was a wonder she hadn’t trembled more from the cold as she pointed the gun in his face. 

“Good, you’d be a damn fool if you did. But I promise you now, darlin’ I’m too old and too tired to try anything on you, so why don’t you settle down for the night and we’ll continue this little game in the mornin’.” 

Adam shrugged off his duster and threw it towards her with no second glance. The cool air nipped at him now that he didn’t have the protection of the worn leather, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about hearing her teeth chatter throughout the night. 

Lute didn’t sleep a wink that night. Between the putrid stink in the air and incessant snoring from her unwelcome acquaintance, she couldn't find even a moment of respite. The duster he’d given her was warm, though. A lingering scent of smoke, sweat, and tobacco on the jacket was welcome, if only to keep the smell of the springs at bay. 

She laid close to the fire and watched it die as the night wore on. She was grateful the man, Adam, had thrown her the jacket even if she would never tell him such a thing. 

This was not how things were meant to go. When she’d run, she had no clear plan. Lute was meticulous; she didn’t like surprises, but she did plan for them. This? This was no surprise she could have ever been prepared for. 

She’d decided to head to Pride’s Peak a few hours into her run. It was by sheer dumb luck that she had happened upon Adam. The plan, if it could even be called such, was simple. Point a gun at the man’s head. Make him piss his britches. Steal his horse. Easy.

It was a terrible plan, of course. She blamed it on the adrenaline; she still found herself running on it even hours after she escaped from Heaven’s Gate. There was a small piece of her that hoped she hadn’t actually killed Valentino. There was a larger, more powerful piece of her filled with hatred and strife that hoped that son of a bitch was rotting in Hell. Regardless, she wasn’t gonna stick around in Heaven’s Gate to learn which one occurred. 

Her jaw ached. The punch she had received from Valentino had shaken her to the core. No wonder her first instinct had been to pick up the shovel. The blood had stopped filling her mouth a few hours into her run. The swelling remained. 

Sleep finally found her in the wee hours of the morning. The ground was hard despite the sparse grass. She could feel bugs crawl around her; there was no telling what she would find in her hair when she eventually could clean it. She had only had her eyes closed for what felt like a few minutes when she felt a sharp kick in her left boot. She opened her eyes to see Adam grinning over her, a cigar between his teeth. He cast shade over her like a giant, unwelcome tree. 

“Don’t feel too good now, does it, darlin’?” Adam asked, taking a big inhale of the cigar. He closed his eyes as if in prayer. He looked peaceful. Reverent.  The peace was short-lived as he blew smoke from his mouth directly into her face. She coughed and turned her face away from him.

“I got coffee in the percolator and dried beef if you’re hungry,” Adam said as he backed away from her with a grin and turned his attention to the fire. 

She threw his duster off her and tossed it to the side. The stink of the springs seemed even worse under the rising sun. She felt her nose twitch at the offending smell. Even the smell of Adam’s cigar smoke was a more welcome start to the morning. 

She grabbed a coffee cup and poured a serving. It had been a few months since she’d had coffee. The General Store had raised the prices on coffee grounds, as well as most things they sold. Coffee had become a luxury she could do without. 

She took a sip and found herself at home with the bitter taste on her tongue. Coffee stuck between her teeth, and she found herself chewing at the grounds. She found herself back in time, sitting at the kitchen table with her father, coffee in hand, as he taught her how to clean a gun. She smiled to herself. 

“It’s good, ain’t it?’ Adam asked, his mouth full of jerky and cigar long discarded. Lute was pulled from the memory and scowled at the older man. 

“It’ll do.” She replied. She took another sip. It was heavenly. He didn’t need to know that. 

Adam shook his head and grabbed the duster she had discarded and threw it on. Lute watched him, getting a better look at him in the daylight. He was handsome, if not a tad rugged. He had a mop of ashy brown hair that showed the faintest hints of gray scattered throughout. His mouth was covered in a thick brown beard that was (shockingly) well-maintained. Brown eyes and the faintest beginnings of crow’s feet added a welcome maturity to his otherwise boyish nature. Faint dark circles shadowed his eyes. 

He couldn’t be older than early forties, if not younger. 

“What son of a bitch are you running from?” He asked, pulling her from her thoughts. She shook her head and glanced up at him. He grabbed a purple bandana from his pack and began to tie it around his neck. 

“What?” She asked, startled. He pointed first to his jaw and then to her. She mirrored his touch and felt the tenderness of the bruise. She thought for a few moments.

“I got it from a bad man.” She finally said. Adam looked at her with an emotion she couldn’t identify

“Your husband?”

She laughed, the sound hollow. “Hell no.”

“Then who?” 

“You really don’t quit, do you?”

“Persistence is one of my better qualities.” Adam shrugged, putting his hat on his head. It was rather absurd looking with the hole that sat right in the middle. 

Lute let out a deep sigh and thought for a few moments. She felt an odd ease with the man. All her caution and planning had been thrown out the window. What did a few more confessions matter, in the end? She chewed at the stray coffee grounds she found in her mouth. “There’s this bastard in town who, uh, tries to get with young girls and ruin them. Then he offers them a position as whores or dancer at his saloon.”

Adam remained quiet and crouched down in front of her, his hat shielding his brown eyes.  

“You’ve been to Heaven’s gate?” Lute asked. 

Adam gave a rueful smile, like he was the only one in on an inside joke. He tipped his hat up and looked at her head on. “I’ve been a few times.”

“You know Miss Sera’s orphanage, right near the post office?”

“Miss Sera? She’s gotta be getting up there in age.” He replied, thinking to the last time he’d seen the old broad. She was of those people who, even in his youth, had always seemed old . A good heart and intentions but was as mean as a snake when she wanted to be. 

“You better not let her hear you say that,” Lute said, looking over at him. She looked calmer. More at peace with his presence. 

Lute continued, “One of the saloon owners likes to snoop around there, talking to some of the older kids, close to aging out. Trying to convince the girls to be dancers or whores at his saloon. Most of the boys he likes to refer to the Sheriff to join their Regulators.”

“Sheriff?” Adam asked, his voice void of emotion. 

“Yeah, Sheriff Vox.”

“ Sheriff Vox?” Adam asked, standing up from his crouched position. There was a growl when he said ‘Sheriff’, like a slur leaving his lips. 

“You know him?” Lute asked cautiously. She knew nothing about this man or his past. He could be a bounty hunter or outlaw for all she knew. On the run from law, perhaps? Sheriff Vox did not let anyone who crossed him get away. If Adam had, he was likely more dangerous than she realized. 

Yet, even in his arrogance and mischief, he had offered her a kindness. He could have raped her or left her fend for herself in the wilderness with the coyotes. Instead, he had offered nothing more than mild annoyance and his duster to keep off the chill. A strange man, to be sure. 

“I did, years ago. Keep going; tell me about the bastard who hurt you.”

“I help Miss Sera out with the kids sometimes. She was good to me when my father passed a few years back. I caught Valentino trying to—”

“Valentino?” Adam interrupted. He ran a hand over his face, his tan complexion fading into an ashy, pale pallor. “You’re telling me that Vox and Valentino are still running large in Heaven’s Gate.”

Lute squinted her eyes at him. He looked shaken. “You said you’d been to Heaven's Gate before.”

“I’ve not truly been into town in almost a decade. I didn’t realize those sons of bitches stayed.”  He said, his voice low. Dangerous. He turned back to her with wild eyes like a madman. “What exactly did Valentino do to you?”

Lute searched his eyes, fear pooling in the pit of her stomach. “H-He was trying to pressure one of the girls. He had one hand over her mouth and another in her dress. She was only fifteen.”

Adam grabbed her chin firmly and took a long look at the bruise on her jaw. “Tell me what happened.” 

Lute felt the nausea building as she was taken back to the moment. He was bigger than her and Mary, the girl. Even though Lute was sturdier than she looked and her father had been meticulous in teaching her fighting and shooting to make sure she’d stay safe, she was still no match for a grown man. “I started yelling. He threw Mary, the girl, aside. It gave her time to run away.  He laughed at me, and then he slapped me.”

Lute let out a shaky breath. She didn’t realize she was crying until Adam wiped a gloved finger over her eye. Crying was a weakness. Crying in front of a man she didn’t know felt like a death sentence. The tears kept falling, anyway.

“I hit at him back. That’s when he punched me. I fell to the dirt, and I could see him towering over me. I grabbed the closest thing I could to try and defend myself, which happened to be a shovel. I grabbed it and turned, hitting him square on the side of his head.” 

“He just fell. Stone cold. I didn’t look to see if he was dead. I just stole his gun and ran.” She let out a shaky laugh that didn’t meet her eyes. Adam released his large hands from her face.  “I got a little sloppy after that. I got the clothes from a friend of mine to get me out of town in case anyone realized. Her father’s pretty small, we thought they would fit a little better. Then I got the hell out.”

“And then you tried to steal my horse,” Adam asked, attempting to calm himself and her down. 

“And then I tried to steal your horse,” Lute repeated with a nod. She wiped at her eyes, banishing the last tear. The last sign of weakness. 

“These Regulators, do they go by the ‘Vees’?”

“How’d you know that?” 

“I’ve had, uh, ‘run-ins’ with ‘em, once or twice,” Adam answered, his tone becoming even if not slightly uncomfortable. “Can I see that gun of yours again?”

Lute grabbed the gun from her makeshift belt and wordlessly handed it to him. Adam took a long look at the gun and sure enough he found exactly what he was looking for. Three Vs had stamped into the side of the gun. He’d not seen that stamp in years. Not since the last time he’d had a revolver pointed at his face. He handed it back to her. 

He let out a deep breath. “I’ll pack up, and we’ll head out in the next hour.”

Lute nodded. Suddenly, the coffee and jerky no longer sounded appealing. 

“Need some help getting up there?”  Adam asked as they stood beside Dick, the horse standing impatiently and loaded with Adam’s pack and saddle. Adam’s mood had brightened since Lute bared her soul to him. She didn’t know what kind of history he had with the Vees, but whatever it was, there was obviously bad blood. She wanted to ask, force him to spill his guts the way she had. Later, perhaps. 

“I can climb on a goddamn horse,” Lute replied. She grabbed the horn of the saddle and lifted her foot to place it in the stirrup. Before she could lift herself, however, she felt two large hands place a firm grip on her hips. In a fluid motion, Adam picked her up like a small child and threw her onto the saddle. Dick let out an indignant whiny as Adam dropped her. She looked down at him, her face flushed. 

“I said I could do it myself.” She seethed. Adam only smirked at her and climbed up on the saddle, careful to avoid kicking her with his leg as he swung around.

 He glanced back at her with a lazy grin. “Maybe I wanted an excuse to put my hands on you.”

“Well, keep your hands to yourself.” She shot back. That seemed to encourage him more. She looked around the saddle and noticed a rifle scabbard strapped to the right. 

“I’d hold on tight if I were you, darlin’,” He said. He made a clicking noise and tapped the spur of his boot in Dick’s side. The horse let out a huff and began to trot forward. Lute felt herself jolt unsteadily at the sudden movement and found herself grasping at the closest thing for stability. Unfortunately, that happened to be Adam’s waist. Her hands barely met back together at his stomach and settled right above his large belt buckle. 

They rode for a while until Lute realized the landscape was looking oddly familiar, especially once they escaped the distracting smell of the spring. 

“I thought we were going to Pride’s Peak.” She called out, the wind whipping her hair and making it so her hat wouldn’t stay on her head, but instead hung limply behind her with the strings pulling at her neck. 

“I told you we'd make a detour.” He yelled back, glancing behind. 

“We’re headed towards Heaven’s Gate!” She yelled. Dick trotted along at a steady pace, whipping up dust behind them. “I can’t go back there!”

“You and me both, Sweetheart! We won’t be going into town. I promise.” 

She huffed. There was very little she could do to change his mind, lest he leave her in the plains to fend for herself. Maybe she could still kill him, later at least. 

They continued at a steady pace, and despite the uneven landscape, Lute found herself beginning to doze. She begrudgingly had to admit that Adam was a good rider and Dick obviously trusted and listened to him well. 

Her eyes were closed, and she rested her head against his back as the sun shone high above her, beating down on them and coating her in a gentle warmth. She could almost forget her worries. 

Almost. 

A shot rang out and whizzed past them, spooking the horse and them. 

“Shit!” Adam yelled, kicking Dick hard in the side and urging the horse to run faster. Lute turned to see a masked rider quickly gaining on them, a rifle in their hand as they aimed to take a shot once again.

Adam reached for the pistol at his waist.

Boom

Another shot rang out, this one more precise than the last. Lute didn’t think. She acted. She grabbed the rifle from the scabbard. She pulled the lever, readying the rifle. She hoped to God that Adam had loaded the gun. She turned and took her aim. 

One moment. 

She held her breath. She could hear her father’s voice in her ears, telling her aim true. Breathe with the shot of the gun. Adam was yelling something she couldn’t make out. He had turned to look behind. 

Two moments. She breathed out. 

Boom. 

The gun kicked in her hand, pushing her back with more force than she was expecting. She felt an arm wrap around her waist, the hand holding a loaded pistol. The arm kept her steady. Grounded. 

The masked gunslinger fell to the ground and lay there, unmoving. His horse kicked and bucked at the sudden loss of rider. 

Adam brought Dick to a halt, his arm still holding her steady. The horse stopped, and Adam jumped from the saddle, grabbing the rifle from Lute’s oddly steady hands. He looked up at her, the sun catching in his eyes. 

“Where the Hell did you learn to shoot like that?” He asked, his breath escaping in shallow pants. She seemed to return to reality at that moment. She gazed down at him from his horse, her pretty, golden eyes ablaze. 

“My father taught me.” She said slowly. She grabbed the revolver from her rope belt and opened the cylinder, handing him the gun. “I think I’ve paid my collateral.”

The sun seemed to form a halo around her features. He looked at her in awe as he took the gun from her and loaded the bullets back into the cylinder. “Anything you say, Sweetheart.” 

[warwickroyals]

INTRODUCTION - DRAMATIS PERSONAE - FAMILY TREE - LOCATIONS - PART ONE

SUMMARY: The prologue to my long-awaited prequel series, this focuses on King George I, who reigned for over sixty years—the longest of any monarch in Sunderland's history.

WARNINGS: References to pregnancy and child loss, substance abuse, domestic abuse and colonialism

WORD COUNT: 2.9k words

MENTIONED CHARACTERS: King George I, King Louis II, King Louis III, Queen Alexandra, King James II, Prince Arthur (Duke of Albion), King Louis V, Queen Anne, Prince James (Prince of Danforth)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, here it is. The introduction to the long-planned prequel series. This little introduction is completely prose, something I'm getting into more and more, but don't worry: this series will mostly be traditional story posts, with screenshots and everything. I don't want to give too much away, but I will say it's extremely important that it's James writing this prologue. I hope you all enjoy, please tell me what you guys think, huh?

DOCUMENT VERSION

It seems the whole country breathes at George’s command. — Sarah, Lady Turner, Dining Room Notes, 1860, “For the King” Devilish little brute. — Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich, Statement during the wedding of King George to Grand Duchess Alexandra Alexandrovna (April 1861), quoted in Brig. Bernard Sidney’s The Life of King George, Vol. II (1922), p. 164

HE WAS THE tallest man in the room, although he was also the youngest. Below festoons of velvet, he cut the image of a stoic young general, but every now and again he would trace a hand up his neck and tug impatiently at his mustache. It wasn’t as thick as he would have liked; spindly at the ends and connected to patchy sideburns. He had considered shaving, but there wasn’t a chance he would appear bare-faced. Not on this day, not in front of this audience.

Thousands had lined the streets of Woodbine the night before, hopeful to steal a glance of the young man who would be their new king. The previous king had been just as young but sallow and sickly and the one before him a crispy-haired, shrivelled old prig; now the grim, bearded faces of Sunderland’s parliament stared and were stared back at by “the image of virile, fervent masculinity”. At twenty-one Prince George of Glencairn stood at five-foot-ten; he was muscled like a draft horse but had the temperament of a stallion.

Like his predecessors, George wore no crown, although the jewelled medals sewn into the breast of his uniform made up for it. His thighs ached, the hour’s long procession had been unforgiving on horseback, and his feet—crammed into knee-high jackboots a size too small—would need to be iced later. George’s crown advisers were in no better shape. They could hardly stand, evidently weakened by age and exhaustion, covertly blitzed on opium and whiskey. Propped up on walls and chair backs, they were a stark contrast to their young sovereign; a half-dozen gout-ridden and barrel-bellied statesmen with an average age of forty-eight. From the peanut gallery, elected members of parliament swayed impatiently. One octogenarian senator dozed off. George’s prime minister merely looked bored. This was the third enthronement ceremony in just under a decade.

There was no crown, no orb and sceptre, no archbishop, no holy oil. There wasn’t even a Bible. Yet it was undeniable that the figure perched before them all was . . . king. Not king through holy ordinance, but secular, constitutional law. When he spoke his voice was strong, maybe a bit high, but determined. Determination had carried him this far, it had carried him to the throne—well, determination and luck. Luck that his intrepid father had sailed to England and fallen in love with the daughter of an earl, luck that his mother hadn’t died giving birth to his sister, luck that said sister hadn’t been a brother.

For many in his sprawling family, George’s luck had translated to tragedy: a fatal bout of tuberculosis, countless stillbirths and miscarriages, an ocean liner swallowed by the sea, the death of a son, and the birth of a healthy baby who’d done nothing wrong but be born female. Secularism aside, it felt like fate, the line of succession had branched off, meandered, and sometimes split, but now it led solely to him, the eldest surviving grandson of Louis II. King George.

There were tragedies on George’s end, too. His sister resented him, his mother had been a smothering, oppressive force for most of his life, and his father had died within a year of his birth. Aunts and uncles plotted against him the moment he left the nursery. George had come into the world red and roaring, shrieking so hard the doctors feared he’d suffocate. It had been a hellish August morning, during a heatwave so intense candles melted from their sockets. George recognized the circumstances of his birth, he believed there was an inherent fire in his veins that would never bleed. As he grew the anger stayed with him and he channelled it to set his determination and wrestle for the throne. Now, the baby who screeched throughout the night, the boy who threw his toys about and stomped his feet, the young man who told off his professors was king, sitting on the throne, trying not to tug at his mustache, trying to look the aloof commander-in-chief.

Despite himself, George wondered about his mother. He longed to see her but could not. She was not at his side or even in the audience. She was back at Woodbine Castle. George’s uncle Louis III had banned women from the enthronement ceremony over forty years prior. He’d wanted to rein in his flighty, obsessive mother, his corpulent sisters, and his loathed second wife. Prevent his enthronement from looking like something “imagined by Christine de Pizan.”

It is often forgotten how much George relied on the women in his life. On the throne, he may have embodied a red-blooded machoism, but he was raised almost exclusively by women. His temper he accredited to his mother. His wife Alexandra served as his secretary for over fifty years. Of all his children, his “pocket self” and protégé was not his first-born son, but his eldest daughter. Yet we give these facts little thought. For that, George himself is partially to blame. To walk the streets of Warwick, now and then, is to be reminded of how obsessively George propagandized throughout his reign. Exit out the rear of the Royal Alexandra and there he is in bronze, seated under an ornate ciborium, flanked by the Virtues. He’s planted square in the middle of Wellington Street, standing proud on his pedestal, gazing sternly into the horizon. At Greensboro Park, his muscular figure is on horseback, sword hanging at his side, reins gripped by kielbasa-sized fingers. The grandiosity was clear, and perhaps some of the mysticism, George was still erecting monuments of this nature well into his seventies. Self-aggrandizing, yes, but George was a fervent believer in his own cult of personality. When he injured his leg in 1903, he declared that he would rather be shot than appear in public with a walking stick. If the king was weak, so was the whole country.

However, the Cult of George has allowed myths to pop up, so many that they often blot out the facts. Perhaps the most damaging, yet pervasive, is this: George stood alone; he was the infallible strong man who single-handedly dragged Sunderland out of the dark ages and into modern times, and that he implemented a form of harsh, but ultimately necessary, Caesarism in the name of collective good, not only as head of state but also as the head of a family, as a husband and father. The idea that strong, fearless men are needed to induce prosperity is a long-standing one, often repeated and associated with many world leaders, from Shaka Zulu to Winston Churchill. Yet it has attached to George with particular vigour; so much so that basic facts about him—his alcoholism, his proneness to tears, his bouts of jealousy—seem unbelievable. Alongside George, the man who lived and breathed, is a second mythical George, one that dominates this country’s pop culture and political discourse, fitted with nationalistic imagery, waiting to be rolled out at just about any crisis. He is astoundingly resilient: the real King George died in 1921, but Mythical George seems to be immortal. We have all been subject to his skewed memory, and it will take a great deal of work to cut through the hyperbole and reach the real George.

It is important to understand that Mythical George did not spring up by happenstance, he is there by design. Even in the decades following George’s death, the task of promoting his image did not stop, it was simply transferred into the hands of his descendants. No greater example of this can be found than what occurred in the spring of 1970. That April, the Americans launched the unsuccessful Apollo 13. Times were changing abroad. The previous month, Rhodesia had cut ties with the United Kingdom to become a republic. Big changes on the horizon at home, too: the same day Apollo 13 splashed down into the Pacific, James II of Sunderland was diagnosed with an aggressive form of lung cancer. And just two weeks later, on a tiny plot of grace-and-favour land, a ninety-eight-year-old man prepared to commit one of the most grievous acts of censorship of the twentieth century.

Prince Arthur, Duke of Albion was the last surviving child of George I. Save for a small retinue of servants, he lived alone. His wife, a Danish princess, had died twenty-five years prior. His younger son had sided with the Nazis during World War Two, a shameful scandal that still cast deep divisions within the royal family. Arthur lived on the fringes of upper-class society, his refusal to denounce his Nazi son made him an outcast, but James II didn’t have the heart to cut his great-uncle off entirely. The old duke received a “generous” allowance from the crown, one “befitting a veteran and Prince of Sunderland.” The rest of Arthur’s income came from the Royal Archives. In the last half-decade of his father’s life, Arthur was his unofficial secretary, a job no one else wanted. Throughout World War One and a bit afterwards, Arthur had directed his ailing father’s communications. Outgoing letters were written in Arthur’s hand, and official correspondence passed through Arthur before being handed off to government ministers. In his spare time, Arthur took on the arduous task of organizing his father’s extensive dairies, under George’s direction, Arthur edited, translated, and revised, but most importantly, he omitted. Arthur continued this effort after his father’s death; throughout the interwar period, huge swaths of George’s diaries were rephrased or completely removed. Ultimately these amended documents were shipped off to the Royal Archives for preservation, and the originals were stowed away.

Now, in the early 1970s, Arthur was a weak old man sitting on a mountain of historical documents, shaken by the announcement that James II was dying, and contemplating his own mortality. He knew what he had to do, but there was one lingering wrinkle. So, for the last time, Arthur took to his desk and wrote. In a move that could only be described as calculated, the old duke did not address the letter to James II. Jimmy was a “lame duck,” as Prime Minister Randolph had called him, so Arthur wrote to the next in line. The twenty-four-year-old Prince of Danforth, the future Louis V, although Arthur addressed him as “Loo”:

You may not know that I am my Father’s library executor & as a result I have in my possession a great deal of his documents. Most of them I have transcribed and passed along to the Royal Archives, but a select few remain. They are in his own hand, written mainly in English but also German & French. A long time ago, before you were born, I compiled these papers into a book & I have looked after it ever since, but I can no longer deal with it given my most recent illness. The book contains sensitive personal details; intimate letters between my Father and Mother, his more melodramatic diary entries, and even jottings of his sexual proclivities, if you can believe it. All this to say, they are of little historical or biographical value. No one has been as devoted to protecting my Father’s memory as I have been, and I can assure you the archives have done a thorough job of accurately preserving his legacy. Everything of importance has long been accounted for. I beseech you to grant me permission to destroy this troublesome book. I’m deeply worried it will fall into the wrong hands once I’m no longer around.

The letter never reached Louis. It was intercepted by the Woodbine Castle librarian who, alarmed, passed it on to the Keeper of the Royal Archives, who in turn forwarded the “inflammable letter” to Louis’s grandmother, Sunderland’s Iron Matriarch, Queen Anne. Appalled, Anne motored to Arthur’s estate and begged him not to do “this terrible, terrible thing.” She was too late. By then Arthur had suspected the foul play and he’d quickly burned the book the previous night. This hasty decision forever warped George’s historical image.

Arthur died later that year, but his portrayal of his father has stayed with us. Some glimpses of George’s original writings exist in a handful of biographies that pre-date Arthur’s stint as secretary. The truth of the matter is that through his editing Arthur revealed more about himself than he did his father. The George found in Arthur’s revisions is less emotional, less vulgar, and overall more rational than the real deal. This George didn’t have any pointed thoughts about foreign leaders and all his political opinions were sanitized, perfectly neutral. Arthur scrubbed away paragraphs that made his father seem “indecisive, delicate, or depressive.” Gone are George’s insecurities about his masculinity, his yearning for a father-like figure, and his paternal hardships. Correspondence with his male friends was wiped away, with the excuse that it wasn’t historically relevant. Left behind is an aloof, vague, husk of a man, one that could affect the image of stern, robotic patriarchy, but is otherwise devoid of emotion or personality.

Mythical George shifts and changes from person to person, be they a monarchist or republican; critic, or admirer; or even George himself, the function of Mythical George changes drastically. To one person he might be a genocidal imperialist who sought to expand his blood-thirsty regime, and to the next, he’s a brilliant innovator who detested violence and criticized the horrors of American slavery. For the royal family, however, the role of Mythical George is simple: mass approval. With every bolstered myth and half-truth, every omitted paragraph, the royal family becomes flawless, the perfect family. George was a strong, capable protector and Alexandra was Aphrodite reincarnated. Their marriage was harmonious and their children were dutiful and well-behaved. No one acted selfishly, everyone was a philanthropist, and everything they did was for the benefit of “the country.” Members of the royal family were polished porcelain figurines, unswayed by money, sex, or vice. All of this was, and continues to be, bull.

Novelist Leonard Kane believed three dominant world leaders shaped the nineteenth century: Napoleon, Queen Victoria, and King George I. George was certainly dominant, sometimes to the point of being overbearing: he was a bully, prone to emotional outbursts when things didn’t go his way. He was often rude towards people he didn’t like and at the very least brusque towards those he did like. He treated his children like possessions and manhandled his wife, reducing her to tears on more than one occasion. He dissolved parliament, censured MPs, and threw out prime ministers once they became too bothersome. He scoffed at the suffrage movement and loathed over-zealous social reformers for their rabble-rousing. Millions died during his reign through war, disease, and famine.

Yet behind these glaring faults was a man with a keen sense of duty and justice. He loved his family and defended them passionately, with his brusqueness came an unwavering sincerity and dedication. He educated his daughters as thoroughly as he did his sons. The King abhorred racism and championed civil liberties so fiercely he was considered a radical by stiff-necked European conservatives. He survived four assassination attempts, three strokes, and one world war. He remained on the throne while his ruling relatives were toppled by unrest and revolution. By the end of his reign, no other figure was as universally loved. The infirm and elderly believed he could heal with a touch, enlighten with a word. One Saanich woman travelled over 3,500 kilometres across fifty-two days, from Vancouver Island to Warwick, to speak with George for half an hour. Under George’s watch, the industrial wheel got spinning. George was five years old when the first electrical telegraph was sent, by his death telephone lines were slung across the access road leading up to Rockcliffe Palace. The soggy bogland that surrounded the palace would become dominated by skyscrapers lit up by electricity, flanking bustling streets packed with pedestrians, automobiles, and streetcars. From his momentous reign sprung feminism, populism, communism, fascism and a profound rethinking of social norms and the balance of power.

George was the most famous working man of his generation, equal parts flawed and accomplished. When we allow him to be buried under a mountain of myth and nationalistic sentiment, we are unable to accurately assess his reign. The accomplishments become indistinguishable, a mass of congratulatory propaganda that serves no purpose outside of peddling the Cult of George and Sunderlandian national pride. Worse, the flaws become permissible, a footnote that can be glossed over. Further, we also forget the man behind the legacy, the husband, the father of nine and grandfather of forty. George struggled with issues many modern men face; he grappled with bouts of depression alone, drowned out his innate anger with alcohol, suppressed sexual frustration under the gaze of an emotionally distant spouse, struggled with work/life balance, and felt confined by social expectations that are now forever associated with him, embodied by the everlasting sceptre of Mythical George.

George’s life was embodied by love, loss, and crushing perseverance in the face of family conflict, personal illness, and political strife. Above all, his life was characterized by defying the odds. What we truly forget is that George wasn’t born to rule. He was first a lonely orphan born in a rundown and understaffed palace, named George, after a British monarch, only because he was denied Louis. He had to fight for the throne, and then bend it to his obstinate, fiery will. It was George’s determination and resilience that moulded the modern world.

His Royal Highness Prince James, The Prince of Danforth August, 2015

[drieddpetals]

modern things the crows would love

(based of the reference of them being in the victorian era)

(also, i've seen a couple people do this so full credit to them for inspiring this)

kaz:

* (secretly) card shuffling asmr/those asmr videos where they teach you card games, even tho he knows how to play them already

* (when he was a kid) those diaries where you have to have a code to get in with a speaker to record messages in

* ^^ also diaries with locks on them

* combination locks

* hard swing jazz

* mean girls (movie & musical)

* "dark acadamia" literature

* making sure everyone in a fifteen mile radius of him knows that frankenstein was the DOCTOR and the monster was frankenstein's MONSTER

* making up conlangs/ciphers for fun

* ^^ getting the crows to memorize them so they can communicate secretly

* gloves with pads on the fingers that let you use screens

inej:

* tumblr aesthetic moodboards

* taking hyperspecific uquiz personality quizzes

* crystal jewelry

* competitive gymnastics & tumbling

* claw clips & french pins

* colored eyeliner & mascara

* midi skirts

* making boards on pinterest—sharing those boards with jesper & wylan

* ^^ having massive joint pinterest boards with all the crows

* leg warmers

* ballet & "ballet aesthetic"

* any movie with natalie portman

* birkenstocks but specifically the ones with a holder for your big toe (idk if this makes sense)

* phantom of the opera

* oil diffusers

* american girl dolls

jesper:

* laser tag

* rollerskating & roller derby

* plato's closet

* tourist jewelry

* volleyball

* colored & funky shaped sunglasses

* just dance 2

* bruno mars

* fall out boy

* cargo shorts

* hamilton

* finding obscure fashion inspo on pinterest

* showing everyone how he can run barefoot on gravel

* gyaru fashion

* sour candy

* mt. dew

* saying, "i'm just joshing you" ironically

* sneezing extremely loud on purpose when it's dead silent

wylan:

* papa louie arcade games

* laufey

* asmr

* flute beatboxing

* green and brown colored converse

* tumblr aesthetic moodboards

* magnetic puzzle tiles

* percy jackson

* moisturizer with sunscreen in it

* the great comet of 1812

* dr. pepper

* accidentally dropping really traumatizing memories bc he genuinely thinks they're just funny stories from his childhood

* watercolor pencils

* shazam & the google "hum a tune" feature

nina:

* forever 21

* lush

* those mommy baking blogs that post their whole life stories before the recipe

* french tip manicures but in any other color but white

* ^^ also charms on nails

* gel manicures

* megan thee stallion

* lip gloss

* juicy couture

* the met gala

* amy winehouse

* duolingo/memrise/babbel

* panera bread

matthias:

* ^^ also, those mommy baking blogs that post their whole life stories before the recipe

* volunteering at animal shelters

* carhaart & patagonia

* those massage chairs at malls

* apple watches

* buying those massive bottles of ibuprofen at costco

* ^^ buying bulk protein powder from costco

* ^^^ generally he just likes costco & buying things in bulk

* colored fairy lights (HATES LED light strips)

* those big tubs of aquaphor

* vera bradley blankets

* gallon water bottles with the motivational time checkpoints

* at home gyms

* the classic white boy flannel over hoodie combo

* jacuzzis

* massage guns

* steel toe boots

* yawning and sneezing like a dad

* hair and beard oil

[perfectlysafeandhealthy]

laughter is ALWAYS the best medcine, and the only one i will take and you to😭💀

[cowgurrrl]

Literally any Joel and reader dancing to “you’re so good when your bad” by charley pride. I know he slow dances like a mf

You’re right and you should say it

You’re So Good When You’re Bad

Pairing: no outbreak!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author's note: OH IM SO HOMESICK

Summary: "He looks like he works with his hands and smells like Marlboro Reds." — Our Lord and Savior Ethel Cain aka this ask [1.8k]

Warnings: June pushing her Texas agenda, Joel gets both his daughters in this one because I said so, flirting, alcohol, i think that's it??

Contrary to popular belief, it's actually pretty easy to love Texas. The longhorns grazing in big green pastures while the sun shines on a clear summer day is enough to capture anyone's heart. An outsider might find the ten-gallon hats and sturdy cowboy boots obnoxious or strange, but you've grown to love them. Maybe because with that acceptance, you've found your own cowboy to love. One part of Texas culture you haven't grasped yet is the dancing. Your boyfriend, Joel, however, loves it.

You met Joel when he and his brother came to do some work at your father's ranch. Honestly, it could've been anything from cutting down a tree to trying to tame a rowdy stallion. You ended up in the garage with him hunched over your car's engine as you worked together to identify where the weird sound was coming from. Joel came in to ask a question about a tree, blueprint, or something when his eyes fell on you. "Oh, 'm sorry, ma'am," he took his hat off in a true form of Southern manners and held out his hand. You met him halfway and introduced yourself before you looked back at your car. "Got a problem?"

"It's just making some noise. We're trying to figure it out, but Dad's eyes aren't as good as they used to be."

"Watch it." Your dad teased, and you and Joel laughed. He stepped a little closer to look under the hood, too. With him that close, you spotted the freckles that dotted his skin and the patches of grey in his beard. When he met your gaze, you felt caught and suddenly way too hot, like a teenager with a crush.

"Mind if I take a look? Might be able to help."

"I thought you were a cowboy, not a mechanic."

"I've done my fair share of both. Thanks to Tommy, we've run through almost every engine problem in the book," he said. "Unless you want to rely on your old man's vision." He was the right amount of teasing and kindness that the sentiment didn't offend your dad. It only made him laugh. He encouraged Joel to take a look and went inside to catch the last half of the UT game, leaving you and Joel in the garage.

You explained more of the problem, handed him tools when he asked for them, and tried to ignore how his biceps flexed when he maneuvered around the machinery. You noticed he was a little bit older than you, but the crow's feet and the salt-and-pepper hair did nothing to deter how your heart pounded when his hand brushed against yours or the way he said, "Thanks, darlin'" when you got him a glass of sweet tea.

"It looks like just a loose part," he said as he leaned away from the open hood and wiped his stained hands on the red bandana hanging out of his pocket. "Go 'head and try it now."

"That's all it took?"

"You don't believe me?" He smirked, and you shook your head.

"I just can't believe it would be that easy."

"What? Your boyfriend couldn't figure it out for ya?"

"Do you really think I'd still come running to my daddy's house if I had a boyfriend?" You raised your eyebrows at him in a silent challenge, knowing you made an opening for him, before walking to your driver's side door and sliding into the seat. Sure enough, when you turned the engine over, the sound disappeared, and everything ran as it should've been. "Alright, maybe I underestimated you." You said as you turned off the car and got out. He gave a faux bow and closed your hood, his big hands lingering on it before he turned to look at you.

Without the hood's shadow in your way, you could fully take in his full lips, messy brown curls, and the oil stain on his cheek. You giggled and pointed to your own face. "You got somethin'," you said, and his hand shot up to the opposite cheek, somehow smearing more on his face. You laughed and grabbed a clean rag from your dad's workbench. "Do you mind?" You asked, raising the cloth halfway to his face, and he blushed.

"Not at all." He said. With a shy smile, you wiped the black marks off his face. A gentle hand on his jaw helped you turn his face this way and that to make sure you got all of it. You remember thinking he was surprisingly pliant at your touch and almost leaned into how your fingers held him. You didn't realize how close the two of you were until your knee bumped against his, but neither of you jumped away.

"There you go," you murmured in a raspy voice, your throat suddenly dry. "Good as new." You lingered there for a few more seconds before you stepped back and threw the dirty towel back when you found it. "So, what do I owe you? For fixing her up?"

"Don't worry 'bout it." He waved you off, and you gave him a look.

"What? No. I can't let you do that."

"It was really nothin'. A loose part, like I said."

"But you still fixed it. I can't let you walk outta here without paying you."

"Tell you what," he said, stepping into your space again. "Let me take you out to dinner, and we'll consider it settled." His eyes twinkled with something mischievous, and you couldn't look away.

"You ask all your client's daughters out?"

"Just the pretty ones." You laughed at how quick he was with it.

"Alright, cowboy. I'll get out with you, but you better make it worth my while."

"Yes, ma'am." He promised. Of course, Joel made good on his promise and treated you to one of the best dates you'd been on in a while. That was six months ago, and somehow, he's still finding ways to give you amazing dates even in between cattle driving and fixing old Mrs. Calahan's rickety porch swing. And, of course, his beautiful teenage daughters, Sarah and Ellie. He hasn't let you down all these months, but you have to admit you were a little skeptical when you first walked into the bar/dance hall. A live band is playing on the stage, and a crowd of people is dancing before them, clad in leather cowboy boots with belts to match. It smells like tobacco, and the warmth from the kitchen makes everything a bit too hot and sticky.

"I don't know about this, Joel." You say when he settles in the seat across from you with two drinks in hand. He gives you a sympathetic look before glancing at the couple's two-stepping around you.

"Look, we don't have to dance. I just thought it'd be good to change things up. We always go to the same places." He reasons.

"Because we like those places." You're a little whiny, but he leans over and kisses your pout away anyway.

"A little adventure never hurt anyone, baby." He's right, but it doesn't make you feel any better. He sighs when he sees how unconvinced you are, but he doesn't give up. "I'll make you a deal. We'll have a drink here, and if you still don't like it, we'll go anywhere you want."

"Okay." You agree, almost certain you'd be able to drain your drink and go somewhere you were more familiar with. But if there's one thing Joel Miller is not, it's a quitter. He distracts you with affection, sweet words, and entertaining stories that he's already up and ordering another round by the time you realize your glass is empty.

Your next two drinks settle your nerves and make the room spin pleasantly around you. Joel, as usual, gets extra clingy when he's had a few and needs to have some point of contact the entire night. His hand roams from yours to your knee to your hair, but you love it. The only time he's willing to let you go is when you get up to go the bathroom, and even then, he pouts until you kiss him and scurry away before he can snatch you back. When you return, Joel is right where you left him with a smirk on his face, and you smile as you step between his knees.

"What're you so giddy about?" You ask. His hands find your waist, and he shakes his head.

"I just like lookin' at ya." He says, and you roll your eyes at him.

"You're drunk." You accuse, but there's no malice in your voice. He shrugs and pulls you closer.

"Now, this one goes out to a friend of ours who requested a very special song for a special lady. Hope y'all enjoy." The guitarist of the country band announces into the microphone. You could be just as drunk as Joel, but you swear he's looking in your direction. There are a few more seconds of silence before they break into the melody, and you immediately recognize the tune. "You're So Good When You're Bad" by Charley Pride was one of the songs you and Joel danced to at Tommy and Maria's wedding. You hadn't heard the song in forever and practically dragged Joel to the dance floor, and it, somehow, became your guys' song.

"Was this your doing?" You ask, and he shrugs as he stands and takes your hand.

"Must've been luck." He says simply and walks you to the dance floor. You're aware of all the eyes on you two and get a little anxious, but when Joel pulls you to his chest, it all fades away. He's sturdy against you. His calloused hand holds yours, and his other hand guides your waist while your fingers rest against the fabric covering his broad shoulder. He chuckles when you step on his toes but doesn't complain. He just redirects your footsteps and quietly sings the words into your temple, his lips brushing your skin in the process. He smells like pine wood and leather, and you find yourself pressing closer to his warmth.

Slowly and like you're the only people in the world, you guys dance in your own little circle, with Joel throwing in an occasional spin or kiss. You remember him telling you stories about getting dragged into quinceañera courts and debutante balls when he was a kid, but you never expected all that dancing to rub off onto Joel. You realized it when you first danced with him at Tommy's wedding but didn't think much of it. Now, as he holds you firmly and helps guide your drunk feet, you see it so clearly. He's a perfect partner, and all you want to do is stay wrapped up in his strong arms like this forever.

So, maybe you could master the art of Texas dancing if Joel's there to help. You think you could do anything with your cowboy and his heart of gold on your side.

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha

[piosplayhouse]

do you think luo binghe has body hair as a stallion novel protagonist? pros: it would be one of his protagonist masculine qualities vs cons: pidw is an airbrushed fantasy story? i think based on shen qingqiu's beard growing power compared to other people he probably has above average

I think binghe would probably have like average body hair growth. Not super thick but still visible. As sqh canonically tried to make him more feminine for the fujos. I don't think he could grow any facial hair though just my intuition. Sqq I think would also have relatively avg growth naturally BUT at the time of canon shen jiu has done so many dubious bikini waxes that it's just super thin and fair. The reason why peerless cucumber can grow a beard is because he doesn't have the follicle damage sqq does.

[octuscle]

Gold and coal

Johannes was a passionate influencer. When he felt like it. Actually, he only called himself an "influencer" because it sounded better than "slacker" or "professional son". He actually made a good living from his parents' money, which he spent at parties, shopping and traveling.

"So, what do you think of my cute new hat? I found it at this very cool market here in Ankara. It goes well with the necklace, doesn't it?" There were fewer likes on the picture than usual. Comments instead. Critical comments. Why he suddenly has such a beard. Johannes grabbed his chin. He had no beard, he had no beard growth at all. And he had carefully retouched the picture before posting it on Instagram. There had been no beard. But still: the photo above the caption clearly showed a beard…

He would have to deal with it later. Johannes had a full schedule. Working out at a gym, which surprisingly enough actually wanted to pay him, a visit to a Turkish bath and cocktails and dinner at a trendy rooftop bar in the evening. Even though Johannes was a hedonist, he was usually well organized and punctual. But at the gym, his schedule started to slip. He trained harder and longer than usual. He felt full of energy. And the traditional Turkish bath and hammam were fantastic. He met super interesting people there. Surprisingly, in the two weeks he had been traveling around Turkey, he had picked up more Turkish than he thought he would. He struck up conversations with people and they got on with each other using their hands and feet. Actually, he should have been up on the roof terrace, styled and with a gin and tonic in his hand, when he left the Turkish bath with a real Turkish stallion. The two of them had shagged like Johannes had never shagged before in his life. Johannes' hair was still oily from the scalp massage. He was sweating. His stallion asked him if they wanted to have another cup of tea and a shisha. They did. And then Johannes was fucked again in the stallion's apartment!

"as-salāmu ʿalaikum, brothers! Today will be a great day. I'm going on a tour of the insider tips in Ankara with my brother Hakan today. But now it's time to pray. salla Allahu 'alaihi wa sallam."

There was a hail of question marks as comments. Friends asked whether he had gone mad. But he also received positive feedback. Because of his style. Because of his faith. These comments were mostly in Turkish or Arabic. Both languages that Johannes (or Yahya, as he called himself here) understood more poorly than well. But he recognized praise in every language!

Hakan and Yahya had a great day. In public, they were the typical machos, but Hakan knew the places in Ankara where there was good, hard sex. Yahya sucked a minister's cock in the station toilet. And got 200 US dollars for an obviously good performance. Enough money for a good evening in the hammam and a good shisha afterwards.

The apartment that Hakan and Yahya shared was small and stuffy. The housing shortage in Ankara was no different to anywhere else in Turkey. But thanks to their small extra income, they at least had three rooms. Pure luxury for two people.

For Yahya, Instagram and other social media were actually just full of sin and Western decadence. But of course they were important media for receiving news from his brothers. His own account existed. Nothing more. He followed a handful of fellow believers who posted frequently, but he didn't really have any followers himself. He still had an old account from his school days. His name was still Johannes. But he hadn't looked in there for years.

Working at the bazaar as a porter was hard and exhausting. But the bazaar was full of niches where you could earn money with services that his sheikh shouldn't know about. Although Hakan thought he had shagged the sheikh before. But Yahya didn't really believe that. But he didn't really care… The main thing was that he and Hakan had enough money and fun. They prayed for that. Not necessarily five times a day. But about ten times a week. If they sucked more cock, they prayed more often. And Yahya sometimes had to pray very often. He was grateful that he didn't stand out too much with his hairy body and bushy beard. But the blond hair was exotic. And many customers were willing to pay a lot for sex with a blond Muslim.

Yahya and Hakan were minor celebrities in the bazaar. Firstly, because they were oil wrestlers on their way to competing against each other for the title of national champion. On the other hand, because they were only simple porters. But they knew every corner, every trader and always knew everything. "Ask Yahya or Hakan!" was a common saying if you wanted to know anything. Or if you wanted a special service. But they didn't talk about details in the bazaar.

Pics made by @ki-kink

[genderqueerdykes]

Different anon, but can you explain what a bullydyke is? I figure asking someone who seems to know a lot about this stuff is better than getting 10 different conflicting answers off of google

that's a great question!

"bulldyke" is an even MORE aggressive form of dyke that is generally speaking weaponized against black people, but has in more recent years come to be weaponized against very masculine lesbians, trans women, trans men, or women interpreted this way. it has a similar history to the black lesbian term "stud" in that black people, queer or not, have been compared to and called animals in areas that have been colonized by white europeans with black slaves for centuries.

we have been compared to livestock such as horses- black men were called "studs" and black women were called "stallions" so it was only natural for colonizers to begin to start using even harsher terms. bulls, as in the animal, are viewed as hyper aggressive, dangerous, mean animals. ugly. unwanted. unlikeable. this is how white colonizers view black folk, so to them, comparing masculine black women to bulls was natural, as white colonizers view black women as too masculine, violent, angry, and aggressive.

part of it comes from how white europeans view the facial and body features of black women as "too masculine". white colonizers became absolutely disgusted at how women of color don't look like white women and began literally dehumanizing black women strictly because they do not find them attractive. language evolved over time, and while i can't tell you exactly when and where bulldyke first became a widely spread term, but i can tell you that even Leslie Feinberg was encountering this term in the 50s, 60s, 70s and so on.

"bulldykes" are seen as the most 'masculine' lesbians, women and people- it's often reserved for people who are so masculine (or perceived to be masculine) that it causes rage and disgust beyond the base level hatred for lesbians, masc women, trans women, trans men, and others who are affected by just the term "dyke". it is also generally targeted toward bigger people, fat or muscular, it doesn't really matter. nowadays it's been broadened to affect all "masculine women", regardless of race, though it still is heavily targeted against black women and people of color in general.

my own (white) mom weaponized this slur against me when i was a kid- and i know part of her reason for doing so is because i'm mixed (dad is black). she would get upset at how i dressed and presented myself, angrily calling me a bulldyke whenever i refused to dress feminine or act feminine. she hated how my face looked, how big my nose was, how strong my jaw was, my hooded, deep set eyes, my heavy brow. she hated that because i was intersex, i started growing a beard.

she would tell me not to look, act or dress the way i did because people would start assuming she was a lesbian, because she "let" me be a big ugly bulldyke. my mom was a closeted lesbian- she constantly told me about how she wished she could sleep with, date and marry women. she projected a lot of her trauma and fear on to me, especially her trauma with being called butch due to how masculine she looked and dressed.

it didn't help that my best friend was a feminine girl who spent most of her time with me. it was to the point where both of our families were calling us lesbos, dykes, and so on. my feminine friend never got called a bulldyke, though. it was only me. because i was mixed, big, fat, never wore makeup, didn't dress feminine, and acted "like a guy". i could not escape the terms bull/dyke and butch all throughout my childhood and teen years and as such these terms are all extremely important to me to reclaim.

especially bulldyke. it's a term that i never expected my own mother to weaponize against me- i was used to being called a dyke, a lesbo, and a butch at school, but not at home. i never really heard other kids call me a bulldyke- it was only my mother who used it against me. it stuck with me

i hope that helps! i know it's hard to find the roots of queer slurs, when they first started being used, and so on. if you have any more questions feel free to ask~