#geld in bar

[diemarina]

Cash matters - der Blog zum Bargeld-Erhalt

[ranticore]

some more horse guy fashions, specifically historical

erased the mandolin for this one goodbye mandolin i couldn't be bothered drawing you

so my thought process for this is like what would a society of, lbr, british ppl who are horses value and how would that translate into what they wear if they specifically don't have a taboo against nudity. these fashions are pre-florian conversion (florian was the guy who gave them all government-mandated shame) and considered traditional (the full coverage dresses are also traditional but to a post-florian period so those would be called like. idk. classical). they were still in use in the enclaves north of ironwall for quite a while. anyway returning to the point, the answer to 'what they value' is movement. in actual horses, herd hierarchy and social function is based off movement - free movement for animals for whom the flight response is so strong is an incredibly important thing. dominance in horses is expressed and reinforced by controlling and curtailing the movement of subordinates. for these people, free movement was enhanced by kinetic fashion - free-flowing garments like capes, loosely-pinned headgear with feathers and floaty cloth, and noise-generating devices like bells and chimes were all used to elaborate and enhance the appearance of somebody's gait. the overall look was mostly based off of morris dancers (pheasant feathers, bells on the legs, handkerchiefs) because i like the tie-in to suppression of folk dance by puritans. i think these guys would have some great folk dances

in much the same way trainers are just normal everyday footwear now, game kerchiefs/flags were worn in non-sports contexts because it suffused into the mainstream and became Cool. the flags were used in a game similar to tag rugby if you've ever seen that played (where snatching people's flags is used instead of full contact tackling, forcing someone who's been 'tagged' to stand still until the flags are returned). as i said before somewhere, centaur team sports go incredibly hard.

the tail ornaments were status symbols and in appearance a bit like the traditional show turnout of shire horses. woven grass and straw could be used for a temporary ornament like these, but metal or carved wood were really impressive, and very common gifts of favour between romantic partners. more flags could be hung there if you wanted to be really cool

variations of this style of mane décor were also employed (they loved their ribbons)

in the same time period, Ironwall fashion was a little bit different. These expensive caparisons were usually purchased secondhand after a real horse was done wearing them, with distinct front and back halves of different length. The garments would usually have the original liveries removed and replaced by generic religious iconography as few centaurs would ever have their own heraldry. Later, in the Georgian and Victorian eras, full coverage to the pasterns with a single undergarment was the only acceptable option (that's the classical style now) The rest of the picture is self-evident, but centaurs at the time wore additional... equipment on the withers which were called a variety of very colourful names but mostly referred to as gelding bars (as in, they will geld you if you sit on them). they were metal and spiked. these were introduced by the florian government to discourage the grossly inappropriate contact of one person's legs around another. previously there was no great taboo against riding on a centaur's back, it wasn't super common but nobody was like "this is basically public sex" until our pal centaur cromwell i mean florian came along and decided this was the work of the devil. young people were also made to wear these to discourage the homosocial behaviour very common to the mid-20s age groups of both sexes, and they also had a place in preventing stallions from wrestling (ironically increasing the danger of their fights because well now all we can do is stand back and kick). the wearing of these devices was mandatory. headcoverings were not strictly necessary, and neither were fully-wrapped tails, but some especially devout citizens took to it quite well.

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Reunion - Aftermath

Masterlist

Pairing: Dick Grayson x (f)reader

Tags: slight NSFW, angst, toxic, you cant fix him, smut, grad school, halloween, Dick is the reader's friend's ex's best friend, reunion, oral, penetration, praise, heartbreak, heartbroken reader,

It took some time to get over your initial jealousy after seeing Dick with the girl at the bar. You excused yourself and left your things with your friends, then headed to the bathroom. You held it together surprisingly well, that is until you saw yourself in the mirror and let out a quiet sob.

Damn you. You fell for it again. Visions of that night replayed in your mind. His kind words, the gentleness of his hands on your body, of his lips on your neck, the way his eyes geld yours - it all meant nothing!

You wished you were a like that. Wished you could indulge in intimate activities without being emotionally attached or vulnerable. That you could just have fun and feel nothing the next day.

"Asshole," you cursed under your breath.

Your mascara was smudged at the sides, giving you away despite your attempts to calm your emotions. You ripped a couple of pieces of paper and tried your best to wipe off the tear smudged eyeliner and bring yourself back to normal.

A knock at the door interrupted your thoughts.

You sniffled, calling out, "Just a minute!" And collected your things.

Opening the door, you questioned if the universe was testing you today because you came face to face with the same girl you had just been mentally cursing. She was pretty, dressed in a simple sweater and skinny jeans, tucked into high leather boots. The outfit slapped. It actually mirrored yours, and you almost laughed at the thought that Dick had a type. Speaking of, he was right behind her, his face nuzzled between her ear and her shoulder as the couple giggled to each other.

His gaze registered you, and then a look of surprise took over his face. His smile dropped, and he straightened up, clearing his throat.

You blinked, partly in surprise, partly to clear a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. Swallowing uncomfortably, you moved out of their way, pressing yourself against the wall in the narrow hallway and trying to escape.

"Honey," the girl took you gently by the wrist. You squeezed your eyes shut at hearing her kind voice. "Are you okay-"

"I'm fine, thanks." You rushed without meeting her gaze. Then you made a mistake. As you walked past Dick, your shoulder nudged his - more aggressively than it needed to, for a random stranger passing by.

You knew your evening was positively ruined. To avoid ruining the mood of your fellow interns, you offered them a made-up excuse about a headache and took your bag on your way out.

"Y/n," the last voice you wanted to hear right now called our behind you.

You didn't turn around, instead holding your eyes closed and sniffling quietly under your breath. "Why, god?"

"Y/n," Dick prompted behind you. "What happened?"

"Oh, shut up." You said, stopping yourself too late.

He paused in front of you, leaning back as if ti assess you. "You're mad at me..." He observed.

Too tired to argue, you took out your phone and checked the bus schedule.

"Why are you mad at me?" He asked.

What a stupid question. You glared up at him from your phone. "Dont you have a face to suck on in there?"

A knowing smile spread across his face, and he shook his head. "I see."

"Good for you." You snapped, murmuring to yourself, "Go after her." You said, feeling your cheeks heat in embarrassment and began walking towards the bus stop, grasping at your coat as you shivered.

"She can wait." He took you by your hand and turned you to face him, nearly dislocating your shoulder in the process. You tore your arm away, only to be backed up against the wall of the bar, caged in by his frame.

You lifted you chin, challenging him with your red eyed gaze. You sneered, "Aren't you worried she'll see us?"

"Not really." Dick gazed back at you with equal challenge. This close you could smell the mix of his skin with his cologne, a painful reminder of how close you let him get to you. "At least she knows the meaning of 'no-strings-attatched'."

"Oh yeah?" You shot back at him "Well at least -" Your shoulders rose and fell as you searched for a retort, only to come up empty-handed. "At least..."

Giving up, you felt your shoulders sag along with your gaze as you let out another sob you'd been holding back. You sniffled, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

Something in him shifted. The vision of you crying? He never saw that, nor had he wanted to see that again.

He let go of you, feeling his own shame rise in his throat. His voice lowered to an apologetic tone. "I'm sorry. That was... uncool. Had i known you would see us... I would never have done anything in front of you."

Shaking your head, you admitted between sniffles, "I wish I was like you."

His brow furrowed. "Why?"

"I wish I could..." He swallowed. "Not get attached."

"I don't... not get attached -" he attempted half heartedly.

"Please," you rolled your eyes, taking out a napkin to wipe them. "I'm still covering up hickeys you left two days ago -" You pulled down your turtleneck to demonstrate "-and you're already shmoozing with someone new."

"I..." He swallowed thickly, studying to purple marks on your neck. Ones he left there. They had even begun to fade. It was like he branded you. But now that brand was disappearing. That image summoned a possessive flash to course through him.

You noticed his expression shift. Nostrils flared as his breathing begame heavy, and his gaze was scorching, you could almost feel where his eyes looked on your neck.

Quickly, you covered back up, putting some distance between the two of you. You didn't know what that look meant, but you knew you were just going to end up sad again. "I have to go,"

"Wait," he said, you stood, waiting for him to speak. "This isn't right."

"What?"

He ran his hand through his hair, the action causing his leather jacket to lift, revealing the gun and handcuffs on the belt of his jeans. Your eyes narrowed. Was he out on the field today? Was that how he ended up in the bar?

"Damn it, y/n," he let out in a quiet frustration. "I dont like this, you being mad at me. Our night was good. It was fun. I didn't ever wanna see you hurt. Please believe me."

"I believe you." You said, grasping at the strap of your back.

He met your gaze, searching.

"I believe you." Air left your mouth in a cloud as you repeated yourself. And you did. Truly. You didn't think his actions were in any way deliberate to hurt you. That was just... the way he was. "I'll see you around."

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Yeah... he fucked up.

Not in his decision to have sex with you. That was great.

No, what he fucked up in was not picking up on the clues that you were not the kind of girl who had casual sex. The women he usually slept with were all looking for the same as him. No attachment, no feelings, just a good few rounds.

And you had him convinced. How early you got up and got dressed the next day, ready to leave quickly. You didn't even wake him up. So he'd assumed you two were on the same page.

He assumed wrong.

No, he had you all wrong. Back in sophomore year, you'd always carried yourself with nonchalance. You underreacred where others overreacted. You prefered to listen rather than speak. You always appeared so... conservative of your energy. That's what made seeing you cry for the first time, which is much more shocking. Dick felt like he'd ended years of inner peace.

What was worse is that that night when he brought home the girl from the bar, he'd closed his eyes, imagining he was with you he was in bed with.

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"Hey, I'm not like a... bad person, right?" He asked out loud, eyes wandering off behind his mask as he finished dragging a perps unconscious body to the corner of the hangar.

"Who cares?" His youngest brother, Damian, spoke into his comm unhelpfully. The kid had just started the eighth grade, and his voice began to drop. Sometimes, when he spoke over comms, Dick found himself asking who that was.

"What?" Jason asked behind his own mask a meter from him, kicking the limp body of another henchman.

"Where's this coming from?" Tim asked over the comm. He was currently on lookout on the warehouse roof. "Also, you got two perps coming into the warehouse - no, hold on, one."

"Copy that." Dick nodded. "And for the record, I care, you heard me, and -" Dick put up a gloved finger as he listed his answers, then shrugged. "Just curious."

"Nightwing," Jason sighed in annoyance. "There is nothing you could do that would make you a bad-"

Another henchmen ran in, just to be knocked out with a single punch from Nightwing.

"-person." Jason finished.

But Dick wasn't so sure.

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The morning rain poured against the gym’s windows as Dick landed another punch against the bag, harder than necessary. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus, on his stance, his core, anything except the remnants of that night that kept slipping into his mind.

The memories were relentless. Flashes of you beneath him, the feel of your skin on his hands, the way your breath hitched when he kissed a path along your collarbone - they crept in despite his efforts to shove them away. The warmth, the breathiness of your voice, the way you looked at him like he was more everything to you. He shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of it.

He threw another punch, this time more controlled, as if he could hit the memory right out of himself. But even now, he couldn’t ignore the way his stomach twisted, that irritating rush of excitement mixed with something he didn’t want to name. You’d thrown off his rhythm. All it took was a couple of tears. And he hated it.

Hell, he was Dick Grayson. He was supposed to have his heart compartmentalized by now - no strings, no lingering thoughts. Just one night and done. So why did the thought of you keep pulling at him, driving him back to those damn memories? It wasn’t like him to get distracted. Yet here he was, haunted by the way your lips had felt against his skin, the softness of your touch. Fuck.

A curse slipped from his mouth as he gave the bag one final hit, feeling the pain in his knuckles. He’d have to get over it, right? But no matter how many times he told himself he’d forget you, he knew the way you’d laughed, the way you’d looked at him like he was worth something real, had left its stupid mark.

Yeah, he fucked up.

[violettwrites]

the fence is white. the lawn is dead. 🏹 daryl dixon

a/n: hi guys !! sorry i haven’t been super active lately but this popped into my head tonight and i thought i’d post it for y’all !! i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻

if you enjoyed, please don’t forget to like, reblog, and/or comment !!

this is my masterlist

and my ask box is currently open !

summary: as the greene farm falls, reader reminisces on her time growing up at the farm. a certain southern male comes along to make sure she gets away safely.

pairing: daryl dixon x greene!daughter (middle child)

warnings: angst !!?

word count: 670

— — —

there was nothing more you hated than the apocalypse. because all it did was take. it took the people you loved the most: your mother, step brother, friends, and now, the place you had grown up in, where you called home.

standing there in the distance as you watched the flames take over the barn, reflecting in your eyes. it could be seen for miles— and to you? it looked like the end of the world. you continued to watch, frozen in place as the place you grew up was overrun by walkers.

that’s all this world did now. it took, and took, and took. and it would continue to do so until everything was gone. until there was nothing left but the undead.

you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, just wishing that you could go down with your family home— but you knew you couldn’t. because you had to survive. keep the memory alive. because once you were all gone? there would be no one to remember the greene family farm.

pulled from your thoughts by a familiar rumble of a motorbike engine, you turned your head to see a headlight pointed at you; the familiar silhouette getting off his bike and making his way over to you. his pace was rushed, but still steady.

you had grown close with the southern male during his group’s stay at your family’s farm— he had taught you how to use his crossbow, and you had taught him how to ride a horse after he had admitted to you that he was scared of them.

”they’re just too big,” he huffed, arms leaning on the fence of the stables as you stood on the other side, hand brushing over the neck of chestnut, a smile on your face.

“they’re gentle giants,” you retorted, shaking your head as you continued to pat the brown gelding, fingers brushing through his mane.

“c’mon, we gotta go,” daryl called out to you as he neared you, arm immediately wrapping around your shoulders in an attempt to lead you back to his bike.

“it’s gone—“ your voice cracked as you spoke, looking over your shoulders as you let him lead you. you knew better than to put up a fight, especially with a horde that big, but it still split your heart in two. seeing the place you and your sisters grew up just taken away.

you could remember every single little detail about growing up there. the grass between your toes during the summer, how you and beth would take turns on the tire swing your father had put up in the tree, and the many, many arguments between all three of you girls, but you wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

“i know,” daryl spoke softly, his voice low as he moved to stand in front of you, fingers brushing your hair off your face. usually, you would blush. but right now you couldn’t even think straight. “‘m sorry, darlin’. but we really gotta go.”

daryl climbed onto his bike, hands on the handle bars as he looked at you. waiting. you took one more look at the place you called home before climbing onto the back of daryl’s bike, arms wrapping around your torso before he sped off down the dirt road— assuming towards the rest of the group.

you watched the barn in the side mirror of daryl’s bike, your heart crumbling in your chest as you pressed your cheek against his shoulder blade, tears slipping down your cheeks. you could feel him move his hand from the handles of the bike, gently placing it over your hands on his stomach, giving you a gentle squeeze. the gesture was small, but it made you feel less alone in the moment.

with his hand back on the handle, you closed your eyes as you let the wind whip around you, memories flooding your mind as you left your home behind, trying to keep every single memory locked in your mind forever.

[toodelusionalforreality]

Azriel x OC | Chapter 4

Shadow

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The closer he gets to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Previous Chapter: Bastards

Word count: ~6k Warning: None [ROMANCE]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. This is a half-baked version which I may edit later. This was supposed to be two separate chapters which I compiled into one. So the style difference may come off a bit strong, my apologies.

The gelding, as dark as midnight sky, stood with an unearthly stillness under the shade of the stable. Its beady eyes followed Mor as she circled the building for the second time. Grateful for the boots she exchanged her sandals for, she stepped along the edge of the bank. Soil crumbled under her feet setting off ripples in the shallow waters. Pushing the hair out of her face, she peered around. Her fingertips trailed along the stone wall allowing the ragged surface to chip at her skin. No trace of magic. No hint of a hidden room. Not an inch of window on either side. 

Sensing its unwavering stare on her back, Mor turned to the horse with narrowed eyes. She teased the ends of her braid between her fingers. ‘You wouldn’t know of a secret room back there, would you?’ 

The beast didn’t even breathe in response. Mor let out a long sigh.

The meadow stretched for miles in every direction with nothing in sight except for the smithy. Gentle breeze chilled the sweat coating her neck. Thunder clapped at a distance and the scent of impending rain sweetened the air. A single droplet fell on her cheek and she looked up at the darkening skies. Maybe a summer drizzle would be a blessing. It would save her the effort to cloak what she had been up to before Ayla returned.

As she walked back, Mor studied the closed doors again. Painted in blue as bright as the ocean in the west, the carvings seemed to blend and merge into waves, chaotic and restless, as though the rustle of Sidra poured life into them. The longer she stared, the harder it was to break her gaze.

Then she felt it—a quiet call beckoning her forward, promising her. . .something she couldn’t name.

In that moment, Mor knew only one thing. She had to own it.

She inched ahead, and a low grunt warned her. The waves froze. So did Mor’s breath. The horse now stood at the doorstep. She hadn’t seen it move.

‘Hey,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘I don’t want to do this either.’

. . .

Her cousin’s smile vanished as soon as Feyre left the room. Alone in his study, Rhys finally turned to Mor. 

Ever since the three brothers returned from Mother knew where a week ago, none had been the same. Only when Rhys found his mate in front of a fire cradling their babe in her arms that night, his love for them chased the darkness away from his eyes. Creases marked his tunic and his usually impeccable hair was dishevelled. Az didn’t enter past the foyer while Cass stood guarding the door after him. The two stared at each other. Az waited for another minute before he stepped to his brother and hissed under his breath. Shadows wreathed around him. But Mor caught glimpses of his leathers ruined with dirt and splattered blood.

‘It doesn’t feel right, Rhys.’ Mor found his eyes devoid of any emotion.

Perched on a simple leather chair, Rhys radiated the power of a High Lord making a throne for himself no matter where he was. He fixed her with one of his rare stares that left no room for argument. ‘We don’t have the luxury to discuss what’s right.’

Mor didn’t need a reminder of what entailed when Az wanted something. She had seen it for five centuries—the ruthlessness behind those kind eyes, the raging fire behind the cool facade.

‘Do you think she’s dangerous?’

Rhys paused. ‘I don’t know.’

Mor couldn’t tell if he meant the mystery woman or Ayla. Perhaps, both. ‘Let’s wait a couple of days. See what happens.’

There had been no news of a missing fae or attack anywhere in the city. Somehow it didn’t offer comfort to either man as she had expected.

‘Would I be asking this if we could sit and wait?’ His shoulders drooped as he heaved a heavy breath. ‘I can barely hold him off from tearing Hewn City apart.’

‘Then let him,’ Mor shrugged. ‘He’d be doing us a favour anyway.’

She would have done it herself, she should have done it herself centuries ago. But she was a coward. The thought of returning to that place even to reduce it to rubble and dust made her blood run cold.

Rhys dismissed her. ‘She was intent on making a bargain. Sounds like an awful trouble for a simple bladesmith, don’t you think?’

Mor gaped at him. He never ignored her whenever that hell was involved. Never. Not only did he speak the city’s name with carelessness, but his eyes lacked the softness they always held when he approached her on its matters.

She squared her shoulders. Her cousin had a point, though she wouldn’t admit it yet. ‘We shouldn’t be making assumptions. It could be nothing.’

But Rhys pressed on, ‘We were in the next room. She wanted the fae. She hurt Ayla.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m not willing to gamble with their lives.’

Mor hated that Az was caught up in it. She hated it more that she was dragged into it. Az hadn’t been himself the past few days. Damn, he hadn’t been himself for the past few months.

At first, Cass and Mor bet how long his affair with Ayla would last. Az rarely ever shared more than a night with one woman. A few hours at her place, but at the end of the night, he always returned home. Ayla was supposed to be one of his blow-off-the-steam flings. Mor claimed it so, a phase. But Cass was certain it was a mild attraction. I’d never seen Az smile like that at a woman who drew blood from a man, he had said.

Then he returned to the bar again and again. It was a jolt to both of them—at least Cass ended up five gold marks richer. If Ayla had such a hold over Az, if she had meant anything to him, one expected him to tell his friends about his budding feelings. But he kept his escapades a secret, kept her a secret.

Ever since the night, Az had been more distant, more aloof. When everyone went out, as far as going to Ayla’s bar for his sake, he wished to stay home. When everyone stayed the night in River House, he preferred his room in House of Wind. No amount of coaxing convinced him to stay longer than dinner. Nothing satisfied him anymore. 

Since he wished to be anywhere but Velaris, Cass and Mor had planned a whole weekend in the mountain cabin. Yet, Az declared he was going to Day Court on a mission, and Rhys refused them specifics. 

That was before the bond snapped for him. Mor didn't blame Ayla. Still, she couldn’t stop the resentment festering in her heart either. The man she knew all her life, her friend who saved her and brought her back home, was being ripped away from them. Slowly and steadily. She wanted him to be happy. But what if the price was to lose him to a woman they barely knew, to someone who stood to break their family apart? Or worse, break his heart? One day with her had left Az a wreck. What would a lifetime with her do to him? It almost happened once. But Cass and Nesta were one thing.

This was Az.

Getting up from the chair, Mor turned away from Rhys and his hard stare. ‘Didn’t you say the wards are ancient magic?’ Her fingers tugged at the gold chain around her wrist, ‘And Ayla can fight. It will be fine.’ 

She couldn’t go down that road, not even for Az. Let him deal with Ayla and the danger surrounding her. If the worst came to pass, she couldn’t bear to watch it destroy him. She couldn’t get in the middle of his love affairs. But it wasn’t an affair, was it? No, this was his mate. His one true match.

‘Mor,’ called Rhys, kind and gentle that it stopped her pacing. ‘He’s waited long enough. He deserves better.’

There it was, the jab she had been waiting for. Mor kept her breath and voice steady. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means we look out for our friend.’

A lie. A pathetic one at that. She knew what he meant. They blamed her for breaking Az’s heart. They believed Ayla couldn’t do worse than what she did to him. It wasn’t her fault Az held onto hope. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t love him the way he wanted her to.

‘It’s a mating bond,’ she stated calmly, ‘We shouldn’t be meddling.’ Maybe rationality would earn a sway with Rhys. He always put reason first anyway. ‘Besides, Az wouldn’t appreciate you scheming behind his back.’

‘It’s for him I’m asking.’

. . .

‘I only need a peek inside,’ Mor said.

She revealed her open palms to the black guardian in a peace offering. But it stood unmoved. She took a careful step towards the door—that unknown magic summoning her again. 

Another grunt, and she halted.

Damn you, Rhys!

A gentle murmur closed in on them. Mor looked over her shoulder. She had lingered for too long.

‘Don’t tell on me,’ she whispered to the beast and hurried to the stable.

Ayla wore a ridiculously large shirt that swallowed her frame. The fabric swayed in the breeze and clung to her toned thigh and the graceful swell of her hip. Every inch of her body—except for her face and hands—was hidden. She lovingly looked at the mare limping beside her. As it slowed, Ayla grazed her fingers along its neck and followed its gaze. Her pretty, serene smile faded.

Daylight did her justice, unlike the dim glow at the bar. Ayla was attractive, criminally so. But she wasn’t Az’s type—so simple and. . .forgettable. She was beautiful, and yet her face barely left a mark on one’s mind. As if she merged with the very air surrounding them, invisible and intangible. Unless one knew what they were looking for, they wouldn’t spare her a glance.

The night they found Az in the bar alone—Ares or Larus, all Mor remembered was the ugly creature and her incessant knitting—none of them suspected his reason to be a woman, let alone her. 

One had no say in how Mother chose their mate. Still, Ayla was a far cry. Az instead liked women who were. . .Mor frowned. She realised she didn’t know. Her friend was lucrative about his partners, especially with her. Did Rhys or Cass know of his preferences? Something worse dawned on her. Would he have told her about his mate if Cass hadn’t blabbered in his drunken haze?

Without breaking her stride, Ayla walked past the blonde ignoring her friendly wave and smile. She smelled sweet—like cardamom and something exotic.

The gelding finally moved from its spot and approached her as she reached the stable. It stood by the entrance even when its companion sought the shade inside, its beady eyes only on Mor. 

‘You need anything?’ Ayla peeked at her visitor before crouching by the door. Lustrous strands slipped loose from the messy knot at the nape of her neck. She brushed them away with the back of her hand and reached inside a bucket on the ground. She tossed something at Mor, ‘It’s clean.’

Mor caught it before it hit her in the face. Rude!

It was firm and cool and. . .red. She threw an apple at her.

The mare trudged back to Ayla, looking down over her shoulder. A leather brace encased its right forelimb, winding up from hoof to knee. When Mor moved closer, drawn by its beauty, it whipped its head away and backed into the shade. 

Ayla got to her feet with a dancer’s fluidity, an apple in her hand. ‘I got you. You’re safe now,’ she cooed. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’ 

She hushed softly. The mare stilled under her touch. She brushed her fingers through its mane, the hair shifting like spun silver. As she breathed, the horse breathed with her.

‘What happened to her?’

Mor couldn’t take her eyes off them. Over the centuries, she had witnessed many fae and humans alike attempt to tame a beast and waste years to earn its trust. She had never seen anyone so in tune with a creature before. Or rather, a creature in tune with a fae.

‘Her owners weren’t kind to her,’ Ayla held the fruit out. The mare caught a sniff before sinking its teeth into its flesh. ‘When she couldn’t breed anymore, they worked her until her leg gave out. They ignored her when she started showing signs. She was in much pain.’

The creature shuffled closer, eager for her touch and words.

Ayla smiled, ‘But that’s the past. She’s making a recovery now. Brave girl, aren’t you?’

Something deep inside Mor cracked and ached. She swallowed, turning to the male horse. It bore no sign of illness or injury. ‘What about him?’

The silver one wearily made its way to a corner hiding from the stranger. But the darkness couldn’t hide the glow in its watchful blue eyes.

Ayla cared neither about Mor nor the threat her horses seemed to sense. She inspected two more apples between her slender fingers as she carried them to the gelding. ‘You’re not here to discuss horses with me. I know who you are, Morrigan.’

A chill went down her spine. No one called her that anymore, at least not in Velaris. She was Mor—Mor who escaped her father and her fate. Mor who freed herself from the darkness from which she was born.

She opened her mouth, unable to resist the urge to correct the woman in front of her. Distant thunder rumbled above the mountains like a warning. A reminder from Mother herself to speak true. Her words halted. It wasn’t the name that unsettled her. But the way Ayla spoke it, the quiet command in it.

Mor mustered the smile she reserved for the courtiers and nobles. ‘Then I guess it makes this less awkward. Tell me about the fae.’

‘What fae?’ Ayla petted the dark coat of the horse. It shimmered like starry smoke under her fingers, and Mor longed to feel its softness on her skin.

‘The one you’re hiding in a secret room back there,’ Mor pointed at the smithy, though Ayla didn’t bother to look at her, unlike her horses who wouldn’t take their eyes away from her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Seriously?’ Mor snorted, ‘Is this what you want to lie about? Rhys was inside that room.’

‘There’s a room, but it’s no secret.’

Mor rolled her eyes. She regretted not asking Rhys about her first. ‘Fine. Why don’t you tell me about this not-a-secret room and the child you’re harbouring?’

‘She’s not your concern.’

‘Of course, she is. She lives in this court.’

‘No, she’s not.’ She smiled, a twitch of her lips in mockery. ‘Despite what your High Lord believes he heard, that child was never in danger. Regardless, she can protect herself.’

‘Mine?’ Ayla’s chin dipped ever-so-slightly, her gaze shifting. Mor pressed, ‘You said my High Lord.’

‘I’m not mistaken.’

‘Where are you from?’ 

Ayla stayed silent. Mor studied her. Her hair, lighter than a raven’s, a deep brown shone with a tinge of coppery sheen in the sunlight. Her eyes matched her hair, deep and intense. Her skin had a golden hue to it, not tan like the three Illyrians she knew, and not fair like the Archeron sisters. Somewhere in between. Her body showed no hints of other courts’ blood.

Right when she was about to press again, a cool calmness that was the essence of her cousin nudged her mind. 

He’s home.

Keep him busy, she told him. If Rhys were to be believed, Az clung to a delicate thread of restraint from shadowing Ayla day and night. And when that snapped, she wanted to be as far away as possible.

Mor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘So, Rhys says you’re a weaponsmith.’ 

Ayla pursed her lips, resisting a smile. She petted her gelding, running her nails over its glossy coat, and coaxed it to accept her offering. It hung its head low, careening into her hand.

Mor sucked in a breath. ‘You’re going to ignore me?’ 

‘It’s pointless to state the obvious when you came here knowing who I am. And,’ Ayla drawled, ‘you’re standing in front of a forge.’

Mor snapped her mouth shut at the sound of her cousin’s chuckle in her mind. She almost forgot he was witnessing her trial. What did you do to her that day?

I can’t take credit for this. It’s all her. His amusement was loud and clear. Did you get anything yet?

Mor looked down at her hands. She gave me an apple. Does that count? He laughed again.

‘I understand why you won’t work for other courts. But why refuse your own High Lord?’

Ayla shrugged, ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

Mor tugged at the bracelet coiling around her wrist, almost as tight as the words in her throat. ‘Would it hurt you to give me one straight answer?’ 

Ayla didn’t utter a word. Her gaze drifted to the mare at the tone only for a minute. 

Even as a courtier, it had been a while since Mor had to strain every nerve for a simple conversation. Why would Az lose his mind over her? He wouldn’t want her without the bloody bond. For a moment, she pitied her friend. He waited centuries only for Mother to bind his fate with this infuriating woman. 

Then she remembered her thoughts weren’t secure. She took a breath, ‘Fine, hate Rhys all you want. Why do you hate me?’

‘I don’t have a reason to hate you or your High Lord.’

I tried, Mor sighed.

Try harder. Rhys’s response was instant.

Get down here and do it yourself.

Mor, he warned, his power radiating even through their minds. Then his voice was gone, and so was his commanding presence. Mor inhaled deeply at the emptiness, as if her cousin had taken her thoughts along with him. Come home. I think he’s onto us.

You think? She surveyed their surroundings. Lush plains stretched in every direction, providing no cover for a particular shadowsinger if he chose to stake out. Give me another minute.

When she turned around, she met the coal-like eyes of the gelding that peered into the depths of her soul. It watched her like it sensed what she had been up to, that Rhys was watching it back.

Mor knew such beasts well. So she matched its stare. Tiny drops of rain hit her skin, but she refused to bow down. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the mare edging close to the entrance. Its steps were as quiet as the one challenging her. Neither made a sound with Ayla around, only their breaths a sign of their attention when she spoke to them.

‘I know you’re hungry,’ said Ayla, twirling the apple between her fingers. ‘We’ll go for a ride later if you take one bite.’ The beast nuzzled against Ayla’s neck, but it didn’t relent. She tipped her head and a thin veil of her hair blocked its view. ‘For me?’

Mor shifted her weight to her right foot, and it whinnied out a hoarse breath. Its forelimb twitched, muscles pulling taut along its length, warning her of what it wouldn’t hesitate to do if she made one wrong move.

The Truth-Teller strapped to Az’s thigh flashed in her mind. Or was it Rhys?

Ayla spoke softly, ‘I won’t let anyone touch you. You’re safe.’ She smoothed her palm between its eyes, down its neck, through its mane. ‘Easy now.’ 

The horse blinked. Ayla repeated her affirmations. It slowly turned, leaning into her hand, an eye watching its foe. The crunch of the ripe flesh between its teeth echoed in the air.

Mor shuddered. Yet, she couldn’t mask the smile on her lips or her thoughts. Tell me you're seeing this.

Ayla rewarded the gelding with a kiss between its eyes. ‘Good boy,’ she held out the other apple. But the beast pressed its forehead to her cheek and nuzzled, backing her towards the stone building, away from the stranger. Ayla chuckled as she steadied herself. ‘Come now. Don’t be rude.’

Mor ached to winnow back and tease her friend about his mate and her territorial pet. It wasn’t just her who felt that. 

Does Az know his mate already has a shadow? 

Oh, he won’t appreciate this competition. Rhys laughed.

Mor snorted. The beast stilled, its ears perked up. She cleared her throat, ‘He’s adorable. What’s his name?’ 

A minute passed and another. Well, Rhys would have to find some other way to get his answers. 

Mor sighed, though a little of the guilt and doubt in her chest had dampened. ‘If you ever need help, you can come to me.’ 

To her surprise, Ayla looked at her and nodded.

.

.

.

Seven days. Two cities. One woman.

Some spy he was. For five centuries, Azriel hunted men and women across lands. Never had he felt as useless as he did in those seven days.

He scoured every inch of Velaris for the woman who hurt Ayla. Day and night he searched every inn, listened to whispers in the streets, and sent his wraiths to gather news about foreigners. He searched for her in expensive bars and restaurants, to the theatres and landmarks. He went as far as to look into the seedy taverns on the other side of the city, just to be certain. If she had known they were inside the room while she threatened Ayla, she should have been smart enough to keep to the shadows. Even Hewn City wasn’t spared. He spied every courtier who set foot inside the mountain city in the past two weeks to ensure none of them knew of Ayla’s existence. 

He found nothing. It wasn’t a question of how, but who stumped him. All his efforts were futile, for what did he know of this mysterious enemy?

Azriel played the events of that day in his mind over and over again. His instincts had set in the instant he walked out of the hidden room. His shadows crept along the floor and writhed at his feet like serpents waking from each step. There was no trace of that woman—not her magic, not her scent. The only sign of the ordeal lay red on Ayla’s tender neck. He combed through every spoken word, every moment to find one clue that could lead him to her. A name. A court. But all it yielded was the churning rage in his gut at the voice that rang in his ears—her mockery, her threats, her laughter. 

I don’t work for any court , Ayla had said.

His brother wasn't beyond sending someone to test Ayla, but taking him to the smithy on the same day? Rhys could be cunning, but he was no fool. 

The woman didn’t belong to Night. But she knew where to find the city. She walked past the wards unhindered. She recognised them from their scents alone. She had met them before, at the least, been close enough. Why did she want Ayla? Was it to spite him? No, she mentioned Rhys only when she was denied what she came for. She wanted Ayla. And the girl. 

Azriel found only a mild comfort in all this—if she knew them, they knew her.

From the constant fussing and wary glances between the two, he knew his brothers sensed his desperation. So he went to work and pretended to be past it. He employed every spy of his all over the court, but he kept the details to himself. Every crossing past the borders of the two cities and the court was reported to him, irrespective of who and why. It was tedious work and inappropriate use of resources for his personal matters. He had never done that before.

And yet, it didn’t feel wrong.

Fourteen days. Three brothers. One woman.

Azriel needed answers. But he had no leads. Not true, he had three—none willing to help.

Confronting Ayla would be easier than chasing a phantom around the court. She refused to make weapons for her High Lord—fine, Azriel didn’t care. But as citizens of Night Court, she and her friends were their responsibility despite what she thought. If one of them was in danger or involved with other courts, he had the right to demand answers from her. She wouldn’t have a choice but to comply.

Mother above, he sounded like Rhys!

Ayla hated him. Azriel remembered the way she stepped back from the threshold when he reached for her. Her hand remained on the doorknob, but her back pressed into the stone wall with each step he took. Her breath stilled in her lungs as though she couldn’t bear to breathe the very air that touched him. Once he and his brothers were a few good feet away, she released a breath, and it was enough to crush his heart.

Her naked observation when she had him pinned to the floor was lost as soon as she realised who they were. Emotions flickered in her eyes—deep and haunting. They were nothing more than a threat, worse than the woman who almost killed her.

His brothers promised to protect Ayla. They reassured him her feelings would change with time, as they did for Feyre and Nesta. 

But Azriel wanted to disappear and never to return. He might as well do that. Leave her alone and never intrude into her life, even if the bond killed him.

After he found the woman and skinned her alive. 

Each wasted day chipped at his sanity. The horrid mark on her flesh was seared into his memory. Branded on his soul—a reminder of his incompetence, how he had failed to protect his mate. Not with his sheer Illyrian power, not with his shadows.

It was hard not to imagine, not to see so clearly. Shock and panic flooding her eyes before the fear settled in. Or her fingers clawing at the hand to savour one more gasp of air. Or her legs scuffing on the floor as she fought to level herself. Or her head hitting the wood hard to rattle the wards within, her eyes pinching shut at the impact. Every rasp of hers, every strained breath echoed in his ears—the little choke escaping her lips as the hand enclosed around her neck. 

There was no escape, not for him. Not when he had witnessed many in that position—put many in that position.

It was a twisted joke Mother played on him. A fitting punishment for what he had done over his lifetime for his friend and brother, for his High Lord. A punishment for who he was. To stand helpless and hear his mate endure what he had inflicted upon many without mercy. 

She was his mate. She was so close. She was scared and confused. 

And he couldn’t help her.

Twenty-one days. One shadowsinger. One woman.

Stop.

His shadows hissed as Azriel stared at the worn-out door from across the street. He couldn’t bear to face her again, but he couldn’t stand failing her more. One conversation, he told himself, just one.

He wasn’t afraid. He longed to see her face. He longed to hear her voice. Maybe even a touch, if he was lucky. Yet his body wouldn’t move.

Home.

The one time he wanted assurance from his shadows, they disagreed with him. Azriel balled his fists and turned away, only to meet the very eyes he had been running away from.

Ayla looked at him, the bar, and then back at him. A mere second. That’s how long it took for her to decide to ignore him like he meant nothing to her. She walked past, opening the lid of a brown box she carried in her hand.

‘Wait,’ Azriel said. When she didn’t stop, he called out. ‘Ayla.’

He hadn’t spoken her name out loud before. Not with Uri, not with his brothers, not in the privacy of his room. It had always been her. And now that he had spoken it, it was the only word he ever wanted to utter. The only word that held any meaning.

She came to a slow halt and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Azriel held his breath waiting for her to return to him. Instead, she walked to the side of the building and leaned a shoulder against the wall facing him.

Azriel waited a moment before he approached her. For an alley, it was too clean, even in the dark. Behind her stood an iron door leading directly to the office inside. The only shred of light poured down from the streets. And the faelight next to the inscribed plaque of the bar cast an iridescent glow on part of her face.

The usual sternness she carried herself with was replaced with a casual ease. Her legs crossed at the ankles. Her hip jutted out, revealing that sensuous curve of her waist through that large shirt. Locks of hair that never seemed to stay held in her braid spilled around her face. The high collar hid her neck from his eyes. Azriel knew he would only find her flawless skin underneath. Still, he ached to pull her shirt down and see for himself.

The golden rings on her bracelet glinted under the faelight as Ayla reached into the box. Her fingers hovered over the crisp layers of pastries that sat inside. Scratches and cuts littered her knuckles. If the flex of her fingers were any indication, she was in pain.

One made his breath hitch in his throat. One too deep that it split the skin open between and around her knuckles. 

‘Those are fresh,’ he said quietly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dried blood. What did she do? Did that woman return? Did Ayla have to fight her alone?

‘Yes,’ she hesitated, ‘I just bought them.’

Azriel looked at her. As confused as he was, she was staring down the street where she came from, at the bakery she went to every week. The worry that nagged at him day and night lost its hold in a heartbeat. He bit the inside of his cheeks and tapped the back of his hand with his fingers, suppressing his urge to hold her hand and inspect it himself.

The little frown between her brows disappeared. She nodded at his face—his broken nose. ‘So is that.’

Courtesy of his brother during their morning training when he was so distracted that he practically threw himself into the punch. But she wasn’t interested in it. 

Ayla picked up a pastry. The sweet fragrance of chocolate and butter filled the air between them. Better than her scent, for he needed to think straight if he intended to find simple words around her. Her hand froze close to her mouth as she held out the box to him. 

Azriel’s heart stopped. He was sure of it. Did she know what it meant? Did she know how she was tormenting him?

He gawked at the flaky shell of the dessert. He could do it—take a bite, make her his. 

No!

The weight of his shadows curled around his hands and pulled him back. He shook his head, smiling.

‘Let’s hear it then.’ She returned the pastry with a sigh. 

‘And,’ he started carefully, ‘what is that?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Who is the child? Where is she? Why are you hiding her?’ 

Voices floated towards them. A band of faeries headed for the bar, giggling and stumbling before they caught sight of him. Their pale skin shifted and glimmered like fish scales under the faelight. Glancing between his wings and his face, they blushed and whispered to each other. Until his shadows wound around his shoulders and chest. And they hushed into silence. 

Ayla watched them rush through the door.

‘Are you safe?’ The words left his lips in a whisper.

Her eyes snapped to his face. The calm ones, yet so terrifying in the way they unravelled him every time she looked at him. Slowly, she graced him with a smile. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I know you were holding back that day.’ He took a step closer, drawn in by her gaze. ‘You could’ve stopped her. Why didn’t you fight?’

‘There was no reason to.’ She shrugged a shoulder, her shirt shifting over her breast with the movement. ‘She can’t hurt me.’

‘But you let her.’

‘She wasn’t there for me.’

‘Hamra.’ Ayla hesitated at the young fae’s name, still nodded. Azriel asked, ‘Why does she want her?’

‘It’s not my story to share, shadowsinger.’ 

With one simple statement, she quashed the only excuse for a conversation he had. They stared at each other. One more minute of silence and she would walk through that door. One more minute of silence and she would leave him. Azriel couldn’t find any words. But then, he didn’t have to.

‘You need to stop harassing her,’ she said.

Azriel narrowed his eyes. ‘I met with her once. That’s far from harassing.’

‘So you’re telling me,’ she arched a brow, ‘the shadows following her around is not you? Hmm, must be another shadowsinger I’m not aware of.’ 

It was his turn to shrug. ‘Who knows? That one seems to attract a lot of trouble.’

‘And how would you know that?’ She clicked her tongue, ‘You only met with her once.’

Azriel chuckled, and her eyes flicked to his lips. ‘How much do you know?’

‘Your brother came by the shop exactly when I was away. You’ve been asking Uri about my whereabouts. And Hamra threatened to stab you if she saw you again.’ She missed nothing. She continued, ignoring the dark gleam in his eyes, ‘Those are loyal to me, you know? What made you think they would tell you anything?’

If only she knew loyalty had nothing over pain and the will to live. 

Uri was prone to talk, but he swore to secrecy as Ayla's safety was concerned. Orvin was fiercely defensive to let Ayla know the High Lord she despised and his brothers took an interest in her. Azriel only worried about Hamra, but he trusted her to be smart, especially after his warning veiled as a lecture. He sensed wrong.

‘We believed they cared about you. Besides,’ he crossed his arms across his chest, ‘I can be. . .persuasive.’

Idiot.

His shadows flittered over his shoulders. They were right. What was he trying to do—scare her away?

She watched him in silence. His eyes, his lips, his face. His crossed arms, his body. And finally, she stopped at the knife strapped to his thigh before she met his gaze. She leaned her head against the wall and smirked, ‘Not enough.’

Gods, what did she think of him? Nothing good, he knew.

Her eyes burned with challenge, daring him to hurt the ones close to her. She lived in the city long enough to have heard of the rumours about the shadowsinger—Night Court’s torturer. They weren’t rumours if they were true.

‘I don’t intend to harm them.’ Azriel tried to salvage his dignity, ‘I was trying to find some truth.’

‘Is this your High Lord’s way of protecting his civilians?’

Closer.

Azriel wanted it too. But he stayed still.

‘It’s not him,’ he said quietly.

Her smile faltered.

Silence stretched long and tense. His shadows swirled over his arms drawing her attention. When she blinked at them, they skittered between them, daring to reach for her. Azriel took a sharp breath, and they withdrew.

‘Next time, shadowsinger,’ she pushed off the wall holding his gaze, ‘I find any of you following one of us, I will hand over a dagger to Hamra myself and she will keep her promise.’

With that, she left. And Azriel stared at the closed backdoor with a grin on his face.

Next Chapter: Relic

Someone tell me Azriel came off as a drama queen.

[twola]

im just wondering if you could do a short story with arthur getting ‘jealous’ of you at a bar for flirting with other men? 👀 and he later makes you regret pissing him off? *wink wink*

Learning The Hard Way

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

In which Arthur needs to teach you a lesson.

CW: There’s a bit of back and forth in this one… that devolves into physicality. Obviously, I do not condone any type of domestic violence. So we’re gonna go with that this type of play is consensual.

Many thanks to my meowdy pardners - @verai-marcel, @shootybangbang, and @redwritr - for helping me shine this one shot until it gleams!

Your voice rings out in the night through the camp, where Lemoyne’s heavy humidity hangs low. “You ain’t my husband, you ain’t my daddy, you ain’t anyone to tell me how to do my job!”

“You listen here- ”

You burst out of the tent and stomp toward the lakeshore, away from the orange firelight glowing toward the center of camp. Fortunately, the night is loud enough, and your voice doesn’t jar the entire camp, drowned out by cicadas and the rumble of men drinking after dinner.

Not that you’re particularly concerned about making a scene. No, you couldn’t give a shit about that. Your temper flares and your boots slap against the muddy grown as you clench your fists, skirts swishing at the speed of your gait.

But even with your artificially elongated stride, the loud footsteps that follow you eventually catch up to you as you reach the wood line away from the glen. 

You’re yanked back by your elbow and turned around to come face to face with an equally aggravated outlaw, wrinkles set deeply in his frown as his eyes narrow under the brim of his dark hat.

“I’ll damn well tell you when you’re bein’ stupid about a job. Coulda got yourself picked up by the law on that last stage,” he hisses, and you scowl in return as you yank back your arm from his grip, “Ain’t no way you’re doing this one.” 

“No, Arthur. Just because we’re sleepin’ together doesn’t mean you can order me around like some little housewife.”

Arthur Morgan’s scowl deepens. “You ain’t comin’ on this job and that’s final.” 

“Fuck you.” You seethe, turning on your heel before he grabs at your arm again, yanking you backward.

“Get your ass back in that tent, you little-”

He doesn’t see the whip-fast arc of your other hand before it connects with his cheek. It sends his hat flying to the ground and he immediately lets go of your arm, reeling from the blow.

“It’s over. I’ll get my things out of your tent and back to my own. You ain’t gonna treat me like I’m some prissy little thing. I don’t need this and I don’t need you.” You enunciate the last word with venom in your tone, spinning on your heel again to walk in the other direction, along the wood line, skirting the edge of the camp toward where the horses are hitched.

You needed some kind of outlet to quell the hotness of your blood after the fight, and stomping around camp wasn't doing it.

Hiking your skirts, you hurry toward your spry little gelding, dapple coated and one boy you know you could always count on. He neighs softly as you untie his rein frm the hitching post. You run your hand through his black mane.

“C’mon now boy. Let’s get outta camp to blow off some steam, sound good?” 

As if he can understand you, he nudges against your shoulder with his nose and you laugh as you move to pull yourself up into his saddle. You tighten the strap on the holster mounted on his saddle, your repeater at the ready should you need it.

Without a look back, you guide him into the freshly-borne night, at a gallop before you even hit the main road.

-

But alas, breathless riding through Scarlett Meadows can quell your aggravation but so much. As the moon rises in the sky, you slow your gelding down upon the red-dirt path leading into Rhodes - the Parlour House in the distance is lit up, beckoning visitors with its warm glow.

A drink or two. That would certainly help you unwind. 

Laughter and music waft into the warm night as you slide down from your horse, hitching him to the post right outside the main porch. You straighten your skirts before tucking back stray hairs along your temple as you step onto the porch and push your way through the door.

Indeed, the saloon is full of people tonight gaily drinking away their wages. You weave your way through the crowd to the bar, where you order yourself a whiskey from the bartender, tossing him a few coins when he slides the glass to you.

The drink goes down far too quickly to alleviate your frustration. Barely takes the edge off. It’s not the first time you and Arthur have gone at it - but you know, you know you were right. You were robbing stages before Arthur was your bedmate, before you joined the gang. He’s just going to have to learn to give you your space to do your work.

Hell, no one ever told him not to go on a job. Damn double standards.

Though… you can’t lie to yourself too much. There is a corner of your heart that is warmed by the fact he’s concerned for you - that he wants you safe. No one has wanted that for years.

No. You were an outlaw first. And damned if Arthur Morgan makes you some camp filly to warm his bed.

“Why, ma’am, you look like you could use another drink.”

You turn your head toward the man. His cheeks are flushed with drink and the starched collar of his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. A silken waistcoat. Probably a Gray or a Braithwaite cousin. Pomaded dark hair and a clean-shaven face. All of the trappings of a feckless rich boy who had never seen a hard day’s work in his life. 

Completely the opposite of Arthur. 

You give a smile, leaning on your elbow, “Suppose I could…”

He nods to the bartender immediately, and a glass of whiskey appears in front of you at the bar.

You sip at it slowly as he steps closer, his elbows nearly touching yours. A subtle air of fancy cologne; of bergamot and southern jasmine, wafts off of him as he begins to engage you in conversation. 

One drink turns into two. Turns into three.

The man’s arm wraps around your waist, landing on your hip, pulling you to near sit in his lap on the barstool. “Pretty little thing like you - we don’t get that much here out in Rhodes.”

You lean into him. Who knows where this could lead. Maybe you could have a little fun tonight. Maybe you could rob him after. Maybe he was just what you need to get a certain brooding outlaw out of your system.

“What do you say about headin’ upstairs for the night?” You whisper as you toy with the lapel of his waistcoat. The golden chain of his pocket watch glints under the lanterns. A sly smile creeps across your face.

He can barely contain himself, grinning from ear to ear, and leans in to nip at your jaw. You giggle in response. He helps you slide off of his lap and presses his lips to your ear, whispering things he wants to do to you all night as he squeezes your hip.

“Just you wait here, sweet thing - I’ll get us a room and we can continue on.”

You smile a roguish, knowing grin that betrays your intent as you return to the barstool. The bartender pushes another glass of whiskey in front of you, which you down quickly, sucking air between your teeth as it burns on the way down.

You tense up as you feel a body moving too close behind you, a man with a large frame leaning into the bar behind you, crowding you in.

The tang of tobacco and whiskey wafts into your nose before you’re yanked from your seat.

-

By the time you’ve regained your bearings and your footing as you’ve been dragged out the side door of the Parlour House, you recognize what’s going on.

Just like you recognize that black hat.

“Get off me, Arthur.” You yell but are fairly helpless to do anything but be dragged along the path to the empty stable.

The outlaw gruffly snorts in your direction, his large hand clamped on your upper arm. As you reach the stable, your shoulders slam against the wooden wall of the workroom he had cornered you into.

“Your goddamn mouth - I need to remind you who you belong to.” Arthur hisses, groping roughly at your breast with one hand. The other grasps at your skirts and starts hiking them upward. You’re forced face down on the workbench, Arthur’s hand across your back to hold you down, your bucking unable to move against his strength. You squawk indignantly as your bloomers are yanked down your thighs and puddle near your ankles.

“Sure as fuck, ain’t you-”

The loud smack of skin on skin cuts you off, and you yelp in painful surprise at the sting of his palm on the bare, pale skin of your behind.

“Wanna try again?”

Your ass throbs as he removes his large hand from your skin, but with his other placed down hard against the small of your back, you’re unable to move from where he has you pinned to the table.

“I said, sure as fuck ain’t you-agh!”

You cry out, louder, as he swings again, hitting you square across your rear with a searing smack.

“Honey, ain’t making me happy to do this, but you gotta learn your lesson, and seems like this is the only way to get through that thick head o’ yours.”

You hiss at him, glaring daggers. 

Smack.

“Changed yer mind yet?”

“Fuck you.”

Smack.

After the fifth blow, tears start to leak from your eyes as you clench your fingers on the table. You aren’t going to be able to ride for a week at this rate - your ass is red and hot, but you also can’t deny the moisture accumulating just below, starting to trickle down your inner thigh. Goddamnit.

“You belong to that man you were battin’ your eyes at?” He seethes behind you, and you growl in response, unwilling to give him satisfaction.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

The eighth blow makes you cry out in pain, and Arthur falters. When he removes his hand from your rear, he slides his palm down to trail over your thigh for a moment. He pauses, pulling back up and rubbing his palm over your behind almost tenderly. But you know, you know, that he felt your slick as he swept his fingers across the backs of your thighs.

“Y’ready to stop all this nonsense?” Arthur drawls, softly, slowly, as if he were trying to calm a skittish horse. The circles he’s gently rubbing on your sore ass feel almost pleasant, and you don’t clench your fingers nearly as hard on the edge of the table. Your tears have stopped, leaving a drying trail down your cheeks.

You don’t respond - you can’t - because at that moment, he slips his hand down, down between your thighs to caress your glistening folds, and you gasp in surprised pleasure as he presses his knuckle against your clit. You widen your legs without thinking, giving him more access. 

“Think you are…” he rasps, and gently moves his fingers against you, placing one arm on the table next to you to lean over your frame. His large frame smothers yours, clothed hips brushing against yours gently.

You whine and shiver beneath him. You know you’ve already lost.

“What d’ya need, sweetheart?”

“I-I… agh- I need-” You stumble over your words, your knees shaking as he pushes that finger within your cunt, suckling on your earlobe as he leans further over you. You can feel his thickening cock against the back of your thigh as he gently presses his hips forward against you in time with the strokes of his finger.

Arthur presses a second finger inside you and a needy cry escapes your throat, your hand shooting forward to grab his, forcing your fingers through his free hand. His breath is warm against your ear and he chuckles, curling his fingers as you moan. God, his hands are so big, his fingers filling you so much better than your own.

“F -fuck …” you stutter out, pressing your hips back against his hand, “A-Arthur… I need you.”

The outlaw extricates his hand from between your legs and you whine in dismay at the loss. Strong hands encircle your waist and lift you from where you are laid out on the table, and through no small feat, he turns you and winds his hands under your thighs, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist, your arms wound around his neck. 

It’s then that you look at him, for maybe the first time all day, caught drowning in the pools of his blue eyes. You can barely feel him stepping forward, carrying you, his hands firm under your thighs, careful not to touch the inflamed skin of your rear.

Your back is pressed against the wooden wall of the barn, but he doesn’t crowd you in at all. He leans in, and uncontrollably, you do too. When your mouths meet, you give a little sigh, opening your lips and permitting him to enter, his tongue pressing against yours as a rumble bubbles up from his chest.

“Shouldn’ta yelled at you,” he breathes against your lips, and as much as you can, you shake your head at him.

“Shouldn’ta run off,” you whisper in between kisses, the wet sounds of lips meeting nearly drowning out your low reply.

“Shouldn’ta hit you.” 

“You know I liked it.” You whisper with the hint of a smile ghosting across your lips.

“Little spitfire, you are.”

Arthur presses his hips forward into yours, and the long, full column of his cock in his pants presses against your bare folds, and you moan and throw your head back, gyrating your hips against him. He swears under his breath, one hand leaving your leg and furiously working the buttons of his fly as he retracts his hips just enough to work his pants open.

It's only a moment more before you feel the hot head of his cock press against your weeping opening, and he presses his lips to yours desperately as he juts his hips forward, greedily swallowing your moan as he quickly pushes himself inside you.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers interlaced with honeyed locks, and his hand returns to your thigh as he starts to retract his hips and thrusts them upward in a slow rhythm, the wet noise of skin joining loud and stark in the night.

“ ‘M yours, Arthur.” You breathe as your eyes flutter with the slow, languorous rhythm he’s set. He leans in and takes your lips in a passionate kiss as he presses himself deeper within you.

“Was never a question,” he replies with a smirk, as he draws back enough that his forehead still leans against yours as he rolls his hips upward.

You frown slightly, but Arthur leans in for another kiss that steals your breath away. He’s a natural, of course, in the art of stealing. Your breath, your heart. Everything.

“You’re mine, Darlin’,” Arthur whispers against your lips, “You’re mine, ‘nd I’m yours.”

[coochiequeens]

Germany WTF?

By Genevieve Gluck September 23, 2023

A woman in Germany has been warned by a court after comparing a transgender organization’s recently-adopted mascot and a symbol known to be used by pedophiles. Rona Duwe, a women’s rights campaigner, has received an order from the Higher Regional Court in Cologne barring her from further comparisons.

The initial complaint, lodged against Duwe in March, referred to a series of comments she had made online criticizing the distinct pink and blue butterfly being utilized as a mascot by a board member of the German Society for Transidentity and Intersexuality (DGTI – Deutsche Gesellschaft für Transidentität und Intersexualität).

The butterfly, which has been named Fiely, is a mascot of the northern German trans self-help group Fielappers – a low-German word translating to “butterflies.” Trans-identified male DGTI board member Julia Steenken has appeared holding the butterfly in public situations, and, according to Duwe, the mascot has been present in photos taken at several court proceedings, at meetings of the national parliament or Bundestag, in medical clinics, at events with families, and with the police.

The butterfly mascot was designed by Andrea Fleßner, a trans-identified male involved in the founding of Fielappers. Fleßner also has a close working relationship with DGTI.

Fiely is often seen posed amongst other childlike-toys on its dedicated Facebook page.

The butterfly symbol utilized by Fielappers [L], and a list of pedophilic symbols identified by the FBI [R].

See rest of article

By Genevieve Gluck September 25, 2023

The city of Berlin has prompted outrage from locals after offering a graphic picture book on prostitution to children via its official website. The book, titled Rosie Needs Money (Rosi sucht Geld), is advertised as a resource for youth aged 6 to 12 years old.

According to Equal Opportunities Officer Kerstin Drobick, the book is a “helpful tool” for explaining prostitution to children of families residing in a red-light district of Berlin, located in Kurfürstenkiez, known as Kurfürstenstraße.

“In the years in which the Tiergarten Süd and Schöneberger Norden neighborhood management offices dealt with the issue of street prostitution and also had many conversations with residents, this was one of the topics: What do I say to the child? The Tiergarten Süd district management has faced this courageously,” Dobrick says in her defense of the book.

“An order was placed for a children’s book that tried to explain to the children what was happening there. Interestingly, extensive research has shown that educational books for children aged 10 and over avoid this explanation.”

Drobick also explains that the book on prostitution, which features graphic illustrations, was created “with primary school children and other people [in mind].”

See rest of acticle

[wladimirkaminer]

Russendisko-News

Schleichend frisst sich der sinnloseste Krieg aller Zeiten durch das öffentliche Leben Russlands, er vergiftet und zerstört alles. Will jemand wissen, wie sich die Fußballfans in Russland fühlen, von den Fußballspielern ganz zu schweigen? Sie feiern riesige Erfolge. Beim letzten Spiel der russischen Nationalmannschaft hat   sie einen Weltrekord in Krasnodar aufgestellt: mit 11:0 gegen die Nationalmannschaft von Brunei.  Der eigentliche Skandal ereignete sich nach dem Spiel, als die Brunei-Mannschaft sich in einer Shisha-Bar in Krasnodar unsittlich benahm und ein wenig randalierte. Nach einer polizeilichen Ermittlung wurde festgestellt, dass die Nationalmannschaft aus Brunei gar nicht aus Fußballern besteht. Es waren zwei Polizisten darunter sowie ein Taxifahrer und einige Jungs aus der Jugendmannschaft hatten ihre Freunde nach Russland mitgenommen. Die russische Seite zahlte nämlich für ein Freundschaftsspiel ansehnliche Honorare.  Die Sache mit Brunei war jedoch zu peinlich für beide Seiten, deswegen wurde jetzt der Präsident der Fußball Assoziation von Brunei vom Sultan persönlich entlassen.

 Das russische Problem wurde damit nicht gelöst, dem Land gelingt es immer schwerer, Freundschaftsspiele zu organisieren. Von allen internationalen Turnieren und Meisterschaften seit 2022 ausgeschlossen, sucht Russland aktiv nach potenziellen Partnern für die Freundschaftsspiele, aber es wird eng. Es gibt zwar einen Haufen Länder, die bereit sind, für Geld gegen Russland zu spielen oder zumindest auf dem Fußballfeld zu tanzen, aber es sind keine Fußballländer, vorsichtig gesagt. In der Presse wird diese Situation als ein großer Gewinn dargestellt, denn die russische Nationalelf stellt einen Weltrekord nach dem anderen auf. Das Jahr 2024 hat sie mit fünf Siegen in fünf Spielen abgeschlossen, mit einem traumhaften Gesamtergebnis an Toren: 26:00. 

Die Russen konnten sich gegen Serbien und Belarus tapfer behaupten, Vietnam und Syrien wurden auf dem Feld beinahe vernichtet und dann noch als Kirsche auf der Torte das Spiel gegen Brunei, mit dem ersten Tor bereits nach sieben Sekunden Spielzeit, auch ein Weltrekord! Möglicherweise war der Torwart gleich in die Shisha-Bar gegangen?

Insgesamt hat die russische Nationalelf jedoch erstaunlich wenig gespielt. Ein paar Freundschaftsspiele waren zwar versprochen worden, fanden aber nicht statt. Das Spiel gegen Paraguay wurde wegen eines terroristischen Anschlags in Moskau abgesagt, das Spiel gegen Thailand fiel wegen eines Taifuns in Vietnam ins Wasser und die Verabredung mit Pakistan wurde zu einem Desaster: Kurz vor dem Spiel erklärte die Nationale Fußballakademie Pakistans, dass keine der Mannschaften es vorgehabt hatte, gegen die Russen anzutreten. Doch mit wem haben dann die russischen Fußballbürokraten überhaupt verhandelt? „Mit irgendwelchen Menschen aus Pakistan“ sagte der Sportminister. Seitdem sind „irgendwelche Menschen aus Pakistan“ zu einer Meme geworden und gelten als Bezeichnung für alle infrage kommenden Gegner der Nationalelf.  Wie geht es nun weiter? Für das Jahr 2025 sind weitere Freundschaftsspiele geplant.

Die meisten Länder weigern sich aus politischen Gründen mit Russland zu spielen. Aber wie bereits Erich Honecker einmal sagte, „wir sind nicht allein auf der Welt“. Es werden Gespräche mit Israelis geführt, mit Kasachstan und Zypern. Sonst ist Europa durch und sogar Albanien hat abgesagt (wollen sie etwa auch in die EU?) Mit Afrika ist die Situation ebenfalls kompliziert.

Insider behaupten, ein Spiel gegen Nigeria wäre nächstes Jahr realistisch   plus noch ein weiteres afrikanisches Land, das aber noch nicht genannt werden möchte. Das Spiel mit Venezuela findet höchstwahrscheinlich statt, Burkina Faso und die République de Côte d'Ivoire (die Elfenbeinküste)  machen auch mit. Der Präsident wünschte den Mannschaften schon mal viel Erfolg. Auf zu neuen Rekorden!

[daydreamervalchen]

Eirlys & the boys dynamics | Phönixflamme

Soo...nachdem es gestern dann viel zu spät geworden ist, schaffe ich es nun endlich die Dynamiken von Eirlys und den Jungs zu posten :') Wie immer, bitte die Memes nicht als zu ernst nehmen, aber ich denke man kennt meinen Humor inzwischen? :'D Leider hab ich derzeit nicht die Nerven um das alles in schöne blumige Sprache zu verpacken, weil ich gerade frei von der Leber weg schreibe, so bear with me :')

Lysander & Eirlys (The Lys' sounds like a band :'D)

"the work/science buddies | the colleagues | co-existing buddies"

Ich muss gestehen, nachdem ich die Memes fertig hatte, war ich selbst überrascht wie gut Lysander und Eirlys scheinbar harmonieren/ miteinander klar kommen sollten? Ich hatte das vorher gar nicht auf dem Schirm :')

Aber ich würde ihre Dynamik grob in Richtung "Kollegen" beschreiben, man hat einen gewissen gegenseitigen Respekt für einander, gibt sich Freiraum und lässt sich in Ruhe und hat ab und an ein "Feierabendbierchen" nach getaner Arbeit. Ich sehe es so, dass Lysander in Eirlys Buch sehr viele Pluspunkte sammelt; als Prinz nehme ich mal an, dass er halbwegs höflich und kultiviert ist und als ein Erfinder bzw. auch jemand der viel über Bücher brütet rechnet Eirlys ihm eine gewisse Intelligenz an und sie mag es nun mal, wenn Männer auch etwas in der Birne haben. Sie hör ihn einfach gerne reden. Außerdem ist Lysander nun mal der Geldgeber, sie will nicht auf seine schlechte Seite geraten (da Geld verdienen ist für Eirlys meist nur ein großes Fragezeichen ist so isoliert wie sie gerade lebt)

Ebenfalls würde ich ihre Dynamik als "co-existing" buddies beschreiben, man geht sich bevorzugt nicht auf die Nerven, also Eirlys und Lysander können zusammen in einem Raum existieren ohne Notiz voneinander zu nehmen oder sich zu gegenseitig zu stören. Aber ich sehe auch, dass sie gut zusammenarbeiten können und sich gegenseitig aushelfen, wie beispielsweise ab und an mal zusammen Drogen mixen oder sich über die Wirkung von (illegalen) Stoffen austauschen. Wie gesagt, es besteht ein gegenseitiger Respekt und Eirlys wird auch eine hohe Meinung zu ihm entwickeln. Ich denke, einer der wenigen Punkte, wo Eirlys mit ihm clashen wird ist, wenn Lys schlecht mit Mort umspringt.

Wo ich sie in erster Linie mehr bonden sehe, nachdem sie ansonsten recht kollegial miteinander umgehen, ist das bereits erwähnte Feierabendbierchen nach einem langen Tag. Eirlys sagt dazu nicht nein und da Lysander in dieser Umgebung mehr aufzublühen scheint und auch Eirlys mit Alk intus lockerer wird kommen dann auch ab und an Gespräche zustande, die sich nicht nur um "arbeitsbezogene" Themen drehen und man lernt sich gegenseitig besser kennen; ist aber am nächsten Tag wieder professionell. Eirlys schwingt auch gerne mal das Tanzbein, wenn sie angeheitert ist also kann sie auch in der Situation mit tipsy Lysander gut bonden. Dabei hoffe ich aber, das Lysander etwas mehr in Gesellschaftstanz ist, weil es für eine betrunkene Eirlys besser ist, wenn sie jemand hält (girly gets kinda wild with her moves, when she is drunk and nobody wants to see her wild side, except maybe Vale lmao)...früher oder spät wird sie ihn einfach zum Tanzen zerren, auch wenn sie lieber aufgefordert werden würde, cause Prinzchen where are your manners?...Lysander findet zwar, dass eine angeheiterte Eirlys nicht sein verdammtes Problem ist, aber für ihre Würde, bete ich jetzt mal, dass er sie nicht alleine in einer Bar lässt, selbst wenn es nur aus Mitleid ist :'D

Vale & Eirlys

"The 'if stupid, why hot'?" | So done with your shit | my diginity and mental health, but we will work this out"

Uff ja Vale und Eirlys Dynamik war irgendwie schwieriger auszuarbeiten als ich gedacht hatte :')

Offensichtlich haben Vale und Eirlys so gut wie nichts gemeinsam und haben völlig verschiedene Weltanschauungen. Auch wenn Eirlys sich dafür etwas (sehr viel) hasst, kommt sie nicht umhin, dass sie Vale attraktiv findet...Aber dann fängt er an zu reden oder zu flirten und her nether region wird trocken wie die Sahara um es mal so zu umschreiben (I am so sorry) :'D

Ich denke mal Vale ist mehr der aggressive Flirter (falls er sie überhaupt anbaggern würde, sonst kann ich mir den Absatz sparen xD) und damit kann Eirlys nicht sonderlich viel anfangen. Sie fühlt sich davon nicht zwingend eingeschüchtert, aber es ist nicht ihr Fall. Für Eirlys ist es sozusagen unter ihrem Niveau sich von so was aus ihren Klamotten reden zu lassen. Die Frage, ob sie mit ihm irgendwann dennoch ins Bett springen würde (wohl mehr aus dem Grund, dass sie hofft, dass er danach aufhört zu nerven) kann Eirlys selbst nicht so genau beantworten...das ist mehr ein; sie knickt irgendwann ein oder sie schläft mit ihm um ihm danach umgekehrt auf die Nerven zu fallen (she is kinda pathetic like that xD) und seine Fähigkeiten im Bett zu beurteilen. Sein Ego muss etwas angeknackst werden, er hat es nicht anders verdient...

Sie will bei Vale auch nicht auf seine schlechte Seite geraten, aber sie lässt sich von ihm auch nichts gefallen. Zwar ist Eirlys ruhig und gefasst, aber nicht auf den Mund gefallen. Vale wird sich ab und an die Zähne ausbeißen, wenn er sie provozieren will, weil es schon einiges braucht, dass Eirlys aus der Haut fährt. Aber ich hab mich beschleicht das Gefühl, dass ihn das nur noch mehr anspornt. Kurzum Vale strapaziert Eirlys Nerven aber sie will ihn nicht "gewinnen" lassen...

Ich hoffe mal, dass Vale immer noch ein verdammter Sturschädel ist, wenn es darum geht sich medizinisch behandeln zu lassen, sonst schweife ich jetzt in etwas ab, was sonst keinen Sinn macht, again I am sorry Anni, I should have ask :'D Ich sehe es mal so, dass diese Eigenschaft Eirlys noch mehr in den Wahnsinn treibt als sein Geflirte, weil die Frau will einfach nur ihren Job machen und sonst gar nichts. Ihn dann jedes Mal dazu zu überreden, dass sie ihn doch bitte diese und jene Wunde anschauen lässt, klingt furchtbar anstrengend...irgendwann hat Eirlys da auch einfach die Schnauze voll, aber sie ist eine zu gute Person um sich nicht um Verletzte zu kümmern, also kann es durchaus vorkommen, dass sie ihre Würde über Bord wirft und auf "sexy doctor" macht in der Hoffnung, dass das Vale motiviert sich untersuchen zu lassen und sie würde jede Minute davon hassen🤢 Aber sie betet mal zu den Göttern, dass es hilft ihn zu behandeln, wenn sie leichtbekleidet auf seinem Schoß rumrutscht. Da muss sie einfach etwas kreativ werden, denn mit Reden und Logik scheint bei Vale da Hopfen und Malz verloren zu sein...

Dennoch hat Eirlys nicht nur schlechtes über Vale zu sagen; sie findet seine Hingabe für "die Sache" und seine Loyalität zu Mort durchaus bewundernswert, ebenso seine Stärke. Jedoch ist das gleichzeitig auch etwas bedenklich für sie.

Vale und sie müssen sich miteinander arrangieren und da Eirlys sich in der Regel für die größere Person hält, wird sie nach dem Motto "Der Klügere gibt nach handeln". Man sollte sie betrunken nur nicht in Vales nähe lassen (das endet nicht gut für ihre Würde) und wenn Vale den Mund hält, dann könnten sie es zusammen in einen Raum aushalten :')

Vexar & Eirlys

"The nature lovers | big sis Eirlys and little bro Vexar | flower power duo"

Ich sehe Vexar and Eirlys als eine Art wholesome Geschwisterduo. Vexar erinnert Erilys mit seinem Verhalten und auch seinem Aussehen unweigerlich an ihren kleinen Bruder Ceian und deshalb kommen bei ihr in dem Fall auch die Beschützerinstinkte hervor. Wenn jemand Vexar also blöd kommt und ihn ärgert, dann ist big sis Eirlys zur Stelle um das blushing mess zu verteidigen, ob er sie nun darum gebeten hat oder nicht. Vexar fügt sich einfach wie ein Puzzelteil ein, nachdem sie ihren eigen Bruder nicht mitschleppen kann und Eirlys muss diese beschützerischen Gefühle einfach an jemanden auslassen :')

Als ruhiger und sanfter Naturliebhaber sammelt Vexar bei Eirlys schon mal Pluspunkte; sie selbst ist auch gerne draußen im Freien und ich kann mir durchaus vorstellen, dass sie ab und an gemeinsam Kräuter sammeln gehen oder einfach nur die Natur genießen. Die Tatsache, dass Vexar stumm ist stört Eirlys nicht. Um ehrlich zu sein; empfindet sie diese Tatsache sogar als angenehm und man braucht ihrer Meinung nach auch nicht zwingend Worte um sich zu verstehen. Eirlys findet Vexars "Sanftheit" sehr imponierend und sie fühlt sich zu ihm hingezogen. Nicht in einer romantischen oder sexuellen Art, aber Vexar verkörpert für Eirlys so etwas wie die Natur selbst; Schönheit, Ruhe, die Flüchtigkeit eines Moments. Er könnte durchaus für sie auch als eine Art Ruhepol fungieren; wie eine Art kleiner Rückzugsort nur in Form einer Person. Wenn Vale ihr mal wieder den letzten Nerv raubt, dann ist sein Flötenspiel bestimmt Balsam für ihre geschundene Seele.

Vexar ist für sie einfach nur richtig süß, wenn er schnell verlegen wird und Eirlys muss ihn auch etwas vor der "Brutalität und der vulgären Art" der restlichen Truppe schützen. Obwohl sie sich bestimmt manchmal selbst dazu hinreißen lässt ihn minimal zu necken, weil man das unter "Geschwistern" nun mal so macht.

oh to be a fairy with Vexar living in nature without worries🧚🏻‍♀️(Eirlys plan B, if the mission fails lmao)

Mort & Eirlys

"The clam und caring support system, but also taking no bullshit"

Sodala Endspurt mit dem lieben Mort :D Ich muss zugeben, dass ich es hier recht kurz und vage halten muss, weil ich mir über gewisse Aspekte ihrer Beziehung noch viel mehr Gedanken machen muss und auch nicht zwingend etwas spoilern möchte, was dann nicht passt, weil ich es mir anders überlegt habe :')

Eirlys ist Mort gegenüber vor allem eines: ehrlich. schmerzhaft ehrlich. Sie verurteilt ihn nicht für sein Handeln oder die Momente, wo er komplett die Kontrolle verliert, aber Eirlys sagt ihm auch klipp und klar ins Gesicht, wenn das jetzt gerade echt beschissen von ihm war ohne ihn in den Rücken zu fallen. Eirlys heißt nicht alles gut, was Mort tut, aber sie maßt es sich nicht an, dass sie über ihn ein Urteil fällt.

Gleichzeitig ist sie aber auch für ihn da, wann immer er von seinen "Stimmungsschwankungen" und kleinen (oder großen) Breakdowns/Meltdowns runterkommt; ihre Arme sind für ihn immer offen und sie wartet schon an seiner Seite mit einer Decke und heißem Tee, damit er sich beruhigen und runterkommen kann. Wenn Morts Batterien leer sind, dann darf er jederzeit zu Eirlys kommen und sich bei ihr wieder "aufladen". Er kann mit ihr reden oder sie schweigen. Eirlys fungiert als eine Art sicherer Hafen und neutrale Zone, wo Mort mal nicht der wiedergeborene Gott, der auf einer weltverändernden Mission ist sein muss, sondern einfach nur Mort sein kann.

And super random, but swimming buddies! :') Eirlys Rasse fühlt sich aus Gründen sehr mit dem Wasser verbunden und Mort scheint schwimmen zu mögen, also vielleicht ist ab und an mal eine gemeinsame swimming session drinnen. Und ich denke Mort ist auch ein guter Kandidat für bonding via deep talks.

Mehr kann ich dazu noch nicht sagen :') Danke an alle, die es bis hier es geschafft haben! <3

[keep-the-wolves-close]

Steady Heart

Chapter 9: Change on the Rise

* Pairing: Slow-burn Kayce Dutton x OFC Stella Daniels

* Rating: M? (Still figuring out the rating system) (might eventually be M anyhow)

* Warnings: language, mentions of two different cancers: colon cancer and glioblastoma

* Word count: 3,540ish?

I would love to give credits to @dameronscopilot and @deanscroissant for being sounding boards for me during this whole process, giving outsider insight, being cheerleaders, and allowing me to screech at them about things that have happened during the writing process. I seriously couldn't have gotten this far without y'all

Author's note: Since I have a few of these ready to go, I figured I would post an extra one early! I hope everyone is enjoying so far! I hope you love this chapter as well!

Stella trotted along on Abigail with Tank in tow down the sloped hill from the main house. She couldn’t help but hope Monica would be okay. She didn’t even want to begin thinking about the kind of rampage she’d have to bear witness to from Kayce if his wife wasn’t. ‘Monica’s young and strong. She’ll be okay.’

She could see Rip sitting on his bay gelding, Dude, off to the side of the cattle pen with Lloyd. Her shoulders stiffened and she plotted her course to the barn to put Tank up. Flipping her ball cap back around so the bill faced forward, she gave a silent prayer that she would go unnoticed.

The wide berth she gave the group of men proved to be ineffective at keeping her out of their attention. The men’s eyes all landed on her and she did her damndest to ignore them. ‘Just gotta make it to the barn.’

Ryan called out to her as he trotted closer. “Stella! What happened?”

She halted Abigail and Tank followed suit. Her eyes closed briefly, and she pressed her lips together and cursed her brother’s inherent need to be nosy. Stella scanned the crowd and found Ryan moving closer. She leaned in her brother’s direction which made Abigail turn to face the men.

“Something happened to Monica. He had to go to her. So I’m putting Tank away and then I’ll be keeping myself busy until Mr. Dutton comes back.” A snicker came from Rip. Stella bristled. “What, Rip? What is so funny about that situation?”

“He went and ran off and left you with the responsibility yet again, huh?”

Stella tossed Abigail’s reins in Ryan’s general direction and slid off of her mare in a fluid dismount. She squared her shoulders and stalked toward the foreman.

“Stella don’t!” Ryan yelled as he scrambled to either catch the reins or his sister, he wasn’t sure.

“Oh shit, here we go.” Colby sighed, turning to face the imminent destruction. He grabbed the reins from Ryan’s hand, allowing him to bolt off to his sister.

Rip’s motion mirrored Stella’s posture. If she was looking for a fight, he would give her one. It was the rules after all.

Ryan sprinted behind his sister and reached out for her arm. Stella ripped her arm out of his grasp just as he brushed her. “Get the fuck away from me Ryan!”

Ryan stood there with a hand out dejected. He dropped it with a slap. There was nothing anyone could do except be forced to watch Stella go against their boss. They wanted to jump in and save her before she self-destructed, but that wouldn’t fly with Rip. No one knew what could be done. They were stuck spectating like it was a car wreck.

“Stella, I'm gonna give you one chance to walk away.” Rip’s warning was deceptively calm.

Ryan pleaded from between. “Take the chance, Stell! Don’t do this!”

She snubbed her brother’s begging. “You know, when you barred me from the bunkhouse for a few days I said I wasn’t gonna fight you.” A fire was igniting in her eyes the closer she got to Rip. “But I’ve got the fuckin’ energy today. So come on!” She waved her hands at him before squaring herself up to him. “You seem to be so high on that horse, get off and make your damn point.” They came toe to toe as she finished. Stella huffed and puffed, rage rolling through her chest like fire. She and Rip locked eyes, or well eyes to sunglasses and the fire burned through her.

Rip surveyed her stoically from behind the shades, taking in her misplaced anger. He knew Stella was mad at herself because she knew he was right about her and Kayce.

“Well?!” She shouted and shoved his chest. Abigail squealed in the background.

Rip puffed from her hit. He gritted his teeth. “You can be mad but be mad somewhere else. Think about why you’re pissed. Because it ain’t at me sweetheart.”

“Oh shove it up your ass Rip! You just want to be able to say I told you so.”

“Cut the shit, Stella. You’re mad because you’re in denial.”

“Denial about what?!” She screamed.

“Kayce is gonna be the death of you. And I’m gonna be the one left with the task of burying you for your brother if you’re not careful.”

Stella screamed and lunged at Rip. She gripped his collar and he caught her. His sunglasses and her ball cap went flying. It was apparent to Rip that she didn’t want to hurt him. She needed to let the anger out. Stella pushed and pulled his chest, stretching his shirt collar askew. Quick as lightning, Rip reached around her back and grappled with her before he flipped her around onto his knee and dropped her to the ground on her back.

Stella laid there with the wind knocked out of her as dust streamed around her in a cloud. “What,” she tried to crawl to a kneeling position and hoped her breath would come back to her, “the fuck.” Ryan watched helplessly as his sister signed the warrant for herself.

“Like I said Stella,” Rip bent to pick up his sunglasses. “You can be mad, but be mad somewhere else. Other than your job, you aren’t to be here for anything else until I say otherwise. Not even for your brother.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Rip. John wants to talk to me when he gets back. After that, I’ll be gone.”

Rip reached a hand out to Stella to help her up, hoping they could squash the subject, but she left it hanging. She stood as tall as her bruised pride would let her and dusted herself off. He chuckled dryly and said, “okay Stella,” and walked back to his horse.

She made her way back to her brother and held out her hand for the reins. She didn’t dare look at Ryan for fear of seeing his pissed off glare. She knew she’d been out of line. Today had been more than enough, and it wasn’t barely even lunch time.

“What the hell has gotten into you, huh?” She heard Ryan ask while she took the reins from him.

Stella shrugged. “I don’t have an answer for you Ryan.” She didn’t even bother waiting for his reaction. She wanted to go back to the barn.

She circled the horses around and got them to the cross ties. One on each end of the hall. Starting with Tank she made quick work of breaking him down. Abigail stood patiently, but every so often tried to get Stella’s attention. She knew her girl was upset, but her attention seeking went ignored. Finally she placed the mustang in his respective home for the rest of the day.

When Stella got to Abigail after putting Tank up, the large mare nudged at her multiple times. Stella huffed. “What Abs? What? It was stupid, and yes he’s right. Kayce does get me into a lotta shit, but I willingly sign up for it. So there’s no one to blame but myself. Not even Kayce.” The bay roan looked at her as if to say, ‘yeah, so? You were an idiot.’ Stella finished up with Abigail. She placed her safely in the stall, patted her shoulder, and began her journey up the hill.

Stella perched on the porch side wall and waited for John to get home. She looked out along the rolling hills of the property pensively. From the talk with Kayce the other day about his father not giving her the position by herself, she was sure that’s what he would be telling her.

Behind her, a car pulled up and two doors slammed. Jamie and Beth rushed up the stairs, but stopped short when they saw Stella.

“Stella?” Jamie sounded confused.

She moved her gaze to the sibling duo and nodded. “Waiting for your dad to come back. He wanted to talk to me or something.”

“Seems to be a theme today.”

Stella’s face scrunched at Jamie’s vagueness. “What do you mean?

“We have to talk to him too.”

“Oh.” She looked back out at the horizon. Jamie sat on one of the patio chairs.

Beth found the other comfy chair and seeing Stella’s sullen features she asked, “why the long face?”

Stella regarded Beth carefully. Depending on how much information she gave the woman; it would either quench Beth’s thirst for knowledge, or send her on a manhunt to figure Stella’s problem out some more. “Someone said something that got under my skin. Currently removing it.”

Jamie snorted. “Wow, someone actually got under the Stella’s skin?”

“Eat a dick Jamie. I’m sure you’d love it.” Stella snapped back at him.

Beth actually laughed, and loudly. “See Jamie? Somebody else shares the belief.”

“Oh will you two grow the fuck up?” Jamie grumbled, displeased at the attack from both of the women.

“Now who’s under whose skin?” Stella smiled smugly at the lawyer.

“So what did this person say to you?”

Stella’s heart dropped with the follow up question. The monster hadn’t been satiated. “Their opinion was that I make terrible decisions.” She shrugged.

“I could have told you that.” Jamie said.

Beth and Stella both rolled their eyes at the man, but refused to acknowledge him. “Decisions about what?”

“The crowd I keep.”

“Who said it?”

“No one you know, Beth. It doesn’t matter.” That was Stella’s subtle hint to stop hunting. If she ratted Rip out to his long standing love, it would probably just make things worse. “It’s outta my head now anyway.” There was a cloud of dust she spotted down by the lower driveway. “I think your dad’s home. Who has first dibs?”

“Let’s let him decide, shall we?” Beth stood as John’s truck came to a stop.

Stella caught a glimpse of his face from the top of the steps. He was pissed. The siblings went in on their dad after he rolled his window down. Slowly she came up behind them. She would let them get to him first.

“How bad?” John immediately questioned.

“You tell me.” Jamie retorted.

John rolled up the window in his children’s faces. He picked up his phone and started talking. Stella smirked and looked at the ground and fixed her glasses. Both children knocked on the truck window aggressively.

John knocked back and brought the window back down. “Just hold on. Can I just have one fucking minute to myself here? Please?”

Stella almost laughed at the comically slow speed the window rolled back up. She turned her head and covered her mouth to hide her smile. John was so irritated with his children and whatever shenanigans they had gotten into today. Stella had just gotten rid of his ire. She didn’t want to bring it back. They heard as the phone clattered into the cup holder.

They watched the patriarch get out of the truck and deeply sigh. “What?” Jamie started to stammer with a response, but John held up a hand to stop him, “no, not yet.” John pointed at Beth. “You and I are gonna have a conversation.” He turned his gaze back to Jamie. “What?”

“Talk to me about cancer.” Jamie started off. Stella’s eyes widened. John glanced at her, and she backed up a few steps. She didn’t want to intrude. This wasn’t her business to know.

“Okay. What would you like to know?”

“For a start, how long have you had it?” Beth questioned. Stella could tell she was holding back.

“Well, I don't have cancer. I had a tumor in my colon. It was removed.” John explained with a chuckle. “Nice, uh... nice to see you two exhibit some real emotion.”

“This isn't funny.” Beth accused. She and Jamie followed after John and she kept going after her dad. “These aren't the kind of secrets that you can keep.” Stella tagged along behind them at a distance.

“Yeah, well, it doesn't seem like much of a secret.” John looked at Stella quickly.

“That could be its own problem.” Jamie brought up.

“Well, lucky I have you to take care of it.” John pointed at his daughter. “You come with me.” He started to turn around, but stopped short. “Stella, you wait outside. I’ll talk to you when I’m done.”

Stella nodded and made herself comfortable on the stairs. Jamie stayed outside with her, much to her dislike. He sat on the stairs next to Stella with a groan. Hanging in the wings with Jamie wasn’t on her bingo card for this year, but she figured she would try to be nice to him.

“I take it that things didn’t go well with whatever y’all were trying to do this mornin’?” She asked.

Jamie looked out at the horizon like she had. He looked lost. Stella could understand. Her and Ryan’s father, Roy, had been diagnosed with brain cancer and hadn’t told them until it was at the point he needed surgery. Unexpected news like that ripped apart every aspect of your foundation. Even if the person was out of the woods and seemed to be doing great. John was one of the lucky ones. Stella and Ryan’s dad on the other hand, hadn’t been.

Stella realized Jamie hadn’t answered her. “It’ll be okay, Jamie. Your dad is one of the lucky ones to get it all out. Just gotta make sure it doesn’t come back.” Roy’s tumor had grown back aggressively seven months after it was removed. Not even a month after the doctors found it again, he was gone.

“How would you be able to know that?”

“Because Ryan and I have been there.”

Jamie’s mouth audibly dropped open. “What?” He had no idea.

Stella watched as the emotions flickered across his face. “Yeah. Glioblastoma.” She picked up a leaf that had blown onto the step next to her. “We left after our dad passed, but he didn’t tell us until it was damn near too late.” She focused back on the horizon. “Stubborn and proud. That’s how we left it.”

“I’m sorry, Stella.”

She shrugged. “Nah it’s okay. It was a long time ago. Which is why we don’t talk about it.” Extending the proverbial olive branch, she smiled at him. “So trust me when I tell you, your dad isn’t hiding anything health wise. You’d be able to tell after a while.”

He nodded just as they heard the door whip open behind them. John stood there looking perturbed as ever, but he focused on Stella. “Jamie, I need to talk to Miss Stella here. So go do whatever it is you need to do about this morning.” Jamie nodded again and made his way off inside the house. Stella stood up at the bottom of the stairs and waited for John to meet her.

“So how’s that horse coming?” John started off.

Stella placed her hands in her back pockets. “He’s good. He really isn’t mean if you pay attention to what he’s telling you. None of the wranglers are patient enough. Maybe Lloyd, or Jimmy provided that someone is with him. I think Kayce being around also helps. There’s something kindred between the two of them.”

John smirked. “I know what you mean. I’ve seen it myself.”

Stella nodded and glanced around. She wasn’t sure what John wanted, but the air felt weighted. “So,” she cleared her throat, "what did you wanna talk to me about, sir?”

“Walk down to the barn with me.” He wagged his finger as he started to walk off.

“Uh, I’m not sure the barns a good idea.”

John stopped short and looked over his shoulder at her. “Why’s that?”

Stella sighed. “Well, Rip and I kinda got into it earlier. Other than my job he banned me from the ranch for a while.” Her cheeks heated up when she admitted her weak moment and John turned to fully face her.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.” Stella toed the dirt with her boot. “I mean he had already banned me because I tried to fight Fred. Even though that bitch deserved it. I just decided I was gonna to push my luck even further today.”

“About what?”

“Huh?”

“What did you get into it about?”

“He just said something this morning that really got on me, and then he opened his mouth again.” She sighed. “I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Well that’s between you two. You make it right. In the meantime, I have a job proposition for you.” Stella’s face perked up at John’s statement. “So come down to the barn with me. I’m your boss over Rip anyhow.”

Stella wiped her hands on her pants. The closer they got to the round pen and the barn, the sweatier they got. The wranglers were still out and about. She spotted her brother and Colby off to the side, both of them looked concerned. She scoped the area out and couldn’t find Rip, making her nerves spike higher. Paired with the fact that the last time she was in this barn with John, she made herself look stupid. Not exactly happy memories as of late.

John opened the door for Stella and held it until she timidly walked through.

“So this position I want to offer you.” He waved at a hay bale that was on the side of the aisle. “Have a seat.” Stella plopped herself on the bale and patiently waited for him to continue. John leaned against the wall across from her. “I’m planning on having Kayce around more. So I want him to take Lee’s position.” She casted her eyes down. “I know that position was going to you, but I think you would be much better suited to help Kayce.”

Disappointment flashed across her face quickly, but John still caught it. “I thought you’d be overjoyed at getting to work with my son again.” He watched Stella look everywhere but at him. “But there’s also a second part of that position.”

“Don’t get me wrong, sir. I am excited to work with Kayce again.”

“But?”

She thought back to this morning when Kayce threw attitude her way. She shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’ll make it work. What was the other part of the position?”

“Now that’s the part I think you’ll like.” John sat on the hay bale opposite her with a groan. “I was thinking about starting a broodmare program.” Stella’s eyes lit up. John held up his hand with a smirk. “Now hold on before you start chompin’ at the bit. It’s going to take a while to get proven and with Travis’s help, we might be able to hop a little faster, but I’m gonna need someone to be in charge of the broodmares. I wanted to offer that to you, since you have experience from your friend over at Grand Springs.”

“Can I ask some questions, sir?”

John waved his hand to the floor. “Fire away.”

“Now would we have broodmares for work horses, or show horses? Or both? That would determine what stallions I’m looking at, why I’m looking at them, and what I’m looking for. Are we gonna stand a stallion or two? Or are we just breeding from stud fees? Actually all that determines a lot of things.”

“Well what do you think would be better money wise?”

Stella’s heart stopped. She’d never been asked that kind of question before, and she certainly never expected John to ask her. “If I’m being transparent, there’s not much money to be made back in revenue that wouldn’t go back into the broodmares. With vet care and getting them artificially inseminated, constant appointments for them to be checked and after birth care, stud fees, if we send any yearlings to training.” Stella wracked her brain for all the information she’d gathered over the years working with Olivia. “There might be a little bit of money we might be able to scrape off the top depending on what the foals would sell for, but that’s why breeders, any reputable one anyhow, have their hands in a lot of pots at once if you catch my drift?”

“Because they make their consistent money stream from other partnerships and deals?” John asked.

“Exactly. It’s not a super profitable business. Unless you took the money from the sales of the foals or yearlings and flipped that into a different project of passive income, and used your other income for the care of the broodmares; I’m talking stud fees and vet care and the like. You might be able to scrape by with a little more.” She tapped on her leg, thinking.

“We would also have to make the Yellowstone broodmares marketable. There’s a lot that goes into this, Mr. Dutton. It’s not just breeding to breed. I would be extremely selective on who gets chosen for what. We would breed to better the breed. Not just because we’re trying to make a quick buck to save our ass from the fire. Whether it’s show horses or work horses, we should better the breed to make better show horses and better work horses for the future of the breed.”

There was a small smile on John’s face that put Stella on the edge of her seat. “What? Did I overstep?” Her cheeks reddened again.

John shook his head softly. “No. I just see it now.”

Stella eyebrows pulled together. “See what?”

“Well I’ve already witnessed the mean side, but the smart tenacity that both my sons and all my men stand for in you.”

“Ah thank you, but I’m just passionate about it. That’s all.” Stella shrugged.

“That’s good. Keep it. I’ll get back to you when I hear more from Travis. Might even have you and him talk. Until then, just help Kayce out as best you can.”

“Till my dying breath, sir.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. Now go ahead and go home for the day. I wanna see you working those couple horses tomorrow, ya hear?”

Stella smiled so wide the dimples in her cheeks almost split.

[talktomeinclexa]

Ad Astra Per Aspera

By: TalktomeinClexa

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence, Blood and Injury

Status: Complete (32/32)

Summary: Sent into unofficial exile by Emperor Thelonius, Centurion Clarke Griffus Flavius crossed the Roman Empire all the way to Hadrian's Wall to deliver orders to the garrison. Accompanied by her most loyal friends, she decided to go beyond the call of duty and traveled behind the wall to warn the Romans there of the upcoming dangers. How could she have known that her destiny was waiting for her there, in the middle of a strange land not half as beautiful as the Pict serving as their guide?

***

Chapter 1

The sound of a branch breaking under the hooves of her gelding shook Clarke out of her lethargy. Per reflex, the young centurion blinked a handful of times. She readjusted her body on the too-comfortable saddle and padded the inner pocket of the large coat that covered her iron cuirass. In it, the letter written by her mother weighed her down like a bar of lead and burned a hole inside her chest. Yet, with a streak of masochism she failed to justify, she couldn’t bear to throw it into the fire that warmed her and her men night after night and kept the wolves and other wild beasts at bay. She lifted her arms high above her head until her spine popped and glanced at her companions. The few friends foolish enough to volunteer to accompany her on an errand across the Roman Empire.

Octavia rode near her, quiet and surly as ever. Her hood protected her long dark brown hair from the rain that had not stopped in days. She hadn’t smiled since they left Italy and entered Gallia several weeks before.

Keep reading on Ao3

[whumpbug]

prompt for your beloved cowboy sillies!!!!! sheriff gets injured in a tussle and the only one available capable of bandaging a few scrapes is. you guessed it. cassidy.

UGH SETH YOU HAVE SUCH AMAZING PROMPTS dont be afraid to keep em comin i've already been in this waiting room for like 3 hours and i have about 5 to go </3

anyways i hope you enjoy! some parts i struggled with bc writing slump. BUT we're getting there! thank u for loving my boys seth!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

“Honestly Delaney, you’d think you’d be better at not gettin’ shot at after all our run-ins.”

Gene bristled. “Why don’t you shut your trap.”

Cassidy let out a snickering laugh as he examined the graze wound in Gene's arm. 

There had been a bar fight. Drunk men turned into toddlers with guns after a certain point, and it was usually unfortunate for anyone who got involved.

Tonight, that “anyone” included one Deputy Eugene Delaney.

The gun going off had been an accident. Gene was careless while trying to disarm the man, and when their tussle took to the ground, the trigger was jostled. It was a simple, unfortunate accident. The punch to the gut that came after, however, was not.

Gene was going to feel that one in the morning.

Once the men were wrestled back to their homesteads (with some choice words for Gene, of course), he finally retreated to town to lick his wounds before heading home for the night. A little whiskey for the wound and himself would do for just fine the night. He didn’t feel like dressing it properly, honestly. He just wanted to sleep.

That was until he showed his face.

The outlaw sauntered out of the saloon wearing that look on his face. The look that had everyone swooning over him. That stupid, vexing, insufferable look. Gene couldn’t see the appeal.

And that was what landed him in his current predicament. The outlaw insisted he knew more first-aid than Gene and that unless he wanted to go septic and die, he oughta let him have a look.

Gene obliged begrudgingly.

“This is gonna sting. You need something to bite down on?” Cassidy asked, pulling out and unscrewing a flask from his bag. He took a quick swig and offered it to Gene.

Despite himself, Gene gave a curt nod and accepted both offers.

Cassidy unbuckled his belt with his free hand before folding it slightly and slipping it between Gene’s teeth. His jaw flexed as he shut his eyes in anticipation.

As soon as the alcohol splashed onto the wound, every muscle in Gene’s body went rigid. A muffled, pained groan escaped him before he could stop it. Goddamn did it burn. He was sure he was going to leave permanent teeth marks on Cassidy's belt.

Cassidy chuckled. “It’s not that bad.”

“You want a turn?” Gene replied through clenched teeth.

Cassidy quickly and deftly wrapped the wound before sitting back on his heels.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

“What? No chance.”

“Don’t be stupid. I saw that lick you took. Probably broke a rib. Let me see.”

Gene grumbled as he carefully pulled open his shirt, angling his side towards Cassidy. He was sure he was imagining it, but he could have sworn he saw Cassidy's eyes linger for longer than they needed to.

Gentle fingers pressed into the already-bruising skin just over his ribs, and Gene barely swallowed back the gasp that threatened past his lips.

Cassidy clicked his teeth before speaking. “That’s gonna leave a nasty bruise, but it doesn’t feel broken. You're lucky, Delaney.”

Gene rolled his eyes and replaced the buttons on his shirt. “Great. Now get outta here before I decide to remember you’re a wanted man, Silver.”

“That doesn’t sound like a 'thank you',” Cassidy huffed, standing and offering a hand down to Gene.

Gene accepted, getting to his feet and brushing off his bloodied suit. “Fine. Thank you.”

Cassidy’s cheeky grin only got wider at Gene’s reluctance. He tipped his hat as he headed for where his gelding was hitched.

“Anytime, Delaney.”

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[ratinayellowbandana]

For the prompt thing if you’re still up for it: hoodie

Happy writing!!

please pretend I'm not answering this ask from september in december. I hope this is worth the wait. it might be the fluffiest thing I've written in years.

word count: ~1.5k

also on ao3

Imogen hadn’t expected to be at the barn so long. She was meant to be home two and a half hours ago, and the twist of guilt in her stomach is difficult to ignore. That and the pangs of a skipped dinner provide an altogether dreadful end to a dreadful day. 

The weather suddenly turned brisk after an unseasonable warm spell, and Imogen’s fingers are cold-bitten. The horses, most of whom she finds to be altogether well-behaved, were getting on her last nerve. Barring Leonard, naturally, who is always a bit spicer than the rest. The cranky old gelding is never really one for people. Imogen can’t blame him, either. The chill irritates his joints, though, and there’s only so much his grain supplements can do.

Imogen steered clear of him as best she could, leaving his care to one of the other stablehands.

The barn was busy today, flooded with children on school holiday and parents desperately needing them to get out of the house to burn off some energy. Let the sugar-fueled kids loose on someone else’s property and let someone else parent them for a while. Unfortunately, it made Imogen’s life harder each time she had to remind an ebullient child not to run around the horses while the parents chatted by the barn door, unwilling to dirty stroller wheels and designer slippers.

Imogen loves her job; she really does. She’s a barn manager at a property a few miles outside the nearest city. Far enough away that she can pretend she’s back home in Gelvaan and close enough to commute from her apartment. It’s a lesson barn offering day camps, event hosting, and boarding. It even has a small pond and arboretum that they decorate for the holidays. The evergreen branches fill with twinkling lights, and the sculpture garden is adorned with festive additions. 

Their walking path through the holiday decor attracts a decent crowd in the wintertime, and they get a relatively steady stream of tour groups. Imogen loves being able to teach the children about animal welfare. The looks on their round, city-raised faces as she leads a thousand-pound animal from its stall is priceless. Especially the little ones who look between her and Flora, her most unbothered mare, with awe and reverence. Those are Imogen’s favorites, the ones who want to be here so badly they would burst–Do you want to pet her nose?–if it wouldn’t frighten the animals.

She doesn’t even mind the toddlers who take fistfuls of mane in pudgy hands and squeal with joy–Yeah, honey, the horse does say ‘neigh!’–though she pleasantly reminds them to use their gentle hands. 

It’s the families who expect the world to bend to their every whim that have Imogen feeling just a bit murderous during what should be a joyous time of year. But those are the families who will pay by the hour for private lessons and board the ponies their children will visit once a month. They’re Master Faramore’s ideal clientele, which means they pay Imogen’s salary. So Imogen plays nice. 

She was supposed to have a relatively easy day, but one of her staff members called in sick, and another conveniently forgot to mention he would be out of town, so Imogen was left to pick up the slack. Normally, she wouldn’t really mind–these things happen, and she likes working with the horses, anyway–but with two days until their biggest publicity event of the year, she is being pulled in five directions at once. 

The Winter’s Crest Parade is huge for the stable. A few years back, Imogen finally convinced Faramore to let her test an initiative to fund riding lessons for kids who couldn’t afford them. A thing like that would’ve changed Imogen’s life growing up, and after months of begging and promising, no, it really wouldn’t cost him anything if they fundraised, Faramore agreed. The parade was a valuable opportunity to highlight the beneficiaries and promote the program. The stable trailered the most bomb-proof horses into the city along with the old red and white barouche and walked between the high school marching bands and scout troupes, waving at the crowd. 

The event attracted nearly forty thousand tourists last winter, and Imogen hopes this year will be the same. Preparation was well in hand. They’d pulled the cart out of the storage barn and cleaned it up last week. Today was supposed to be all-hands-on-deck oiling all of the tack.

Every time Imogen settled in with her sponge and her hair tied back, something came up. 

A haggard parent of a, in Imogen’s opinion, bratty ten-year-old attempting to lecture her about which pony her daughter wanted to ride for her lesson–

We assign the lesson horses based on skill level, ma’am–

The influx of visitors wandering the property– Please don’t climb the trees!

And the restless horses– Leonard! Don’t you dare bite at–

Imogen was bone-weary by the time the barn closed to the public, and the remaining staff went home for the night. She couldn’t bring herself to ask them to stay late so close to Winter’s Crest, and with the warning signs of a headache brewing on the horizon, isolating herself was doing everyone a favor, really. 

Her feet dragged her across the concrete floor and into the tack room, where she flopped onto a pile of saddle pads. She indulged seven minutes of self-pity and pre-grieving for the ache in her back before picking up her oil and cloth to condition the leather harness straps. Just one more, she promised herself a half dozen times until her fingers grew stiff, and she finally registered the time.

Which is how she finds herself climbing the narrow staircase to the apartment she shares with Laudna two and a half hours after she was due back. Laudna, from whom she had three missed texts when she finally remembered to check her phone.

Today, 6:08pm: Will you be home soon? I’ll start on supper, so it’ll be warm when you arrive.

Today, 6:54pm: I hope you don’t mind I ate without you. I wasn’t sure when you would be back. There’s a bowl keeping warm for you in the oven. [IMG_2136.JPG]

Today, 7:26pm: I hope everything’s all right. Let me know when you’re on the way?

Imogen responded immediately, lips tight with the guilt of making Laudna worry. 

Today, 8:32pm: Shit. I’m so sorry, Laud. Got caught up in work and didn’t notice the time. Be home soon.

She fumbles the key in the lock and winces at the noise in the quiet hallway. She removes her muddy work boots and leaves them on the shoe mat, careful not to dirty Laudna’s preferred pair of black flats. Pushing the door open, Imogen is greeted by the clean, piney smell of the candles Laudna likes to light in the evenings. Says it makes her feel like she’s out under the stars, even in the city. Imogen’s stomach growls at the lingering scent of whatever Laudna cooked wafting from the kitchen.

She can hear soft music playing from the living room. Setting her keys in the bowl in the entryway, she pads down the corridor until she can see the couch. A record spins on the vintage gramophone Laudna had found at an estate sale. Her face had lit up, and she talked the appraiser’s ear off until he’d given it to her at a substantial discount. Imogen had watched the encounter with pride and no small measure of adoration. 

Laudna is curled on the sofa, a novel fallen to the side. Perpetually chilly, she is bundled beneath two blankets and, Imogen notes with a fond smile, Imogen’s hoodie. The pale blue hood is drawn up to warm her ears. Her head is quirked at an awkward angle against the headrest, and Imogen knows she’ll have to move to the bed before long unless she wants to wake up sore. Laudna’s breath comes in slow puffs, sending a few loose strands of hair fluttering across her closed eyes. A mug of tea cools on the coffee table. 

Imogen steps closer and crouches near her head, careful not to startle her. 

“Hey,” she says softly, brushing strings of black and gray from Laudna’s sleep-smoothed face. Laudna stirs. “Im’gen?”

“It’s me. ‘M so sorry I’m so late; I got stuck at the barn.”

Laudna hums. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

Laudna’s brow furrows. “Imogen,” she scolds halfheartedly, voice still hushed and creaky with sleep, “There’s food in the oven.” 

“Thank you, darlin’.” Imogen presses a kiss to Laudna’s forehead and cherishes the way her nose scrunches as she burrows deeper into her blankets. 

“Join me when you’re done?”

“I’d love nothing more.” 

[ilredeiladri]

SE Staffel 1 Rewatch (Folgen 59-62)

Oh no, Pasulke hat Angst vor einem Herzinfarkt 😦 aber Frau Seifert kann ihn zum Glück wieder beruhigen, er muss keine Krabben mehr essen (was auch immer das für eine komische Idee war) und Alexandra hat ihm sogar Grießbrei vom Mittagessen aufgehoben. Awww ☺️

Katharina übertreibt mal wieder maßlos bei ihrer Geburtstagsplanung. Aber dieses Plakat ist schon großartig - ist sie sicher, dass die beiden Jungs sie damit nicht komplett verarschen wollen? 😂

Es ist aber trotzdem nicht das seltsamsten Plakat, dass bei denen an der Pinnwand hängt:

Ich habe Fragen 😅 bzw hatte ich Fragen, bis ich auf diese Seite gestoßen bin: https://www.aerarium.de/aerarium/docs/web_alt/Luftffisch-Web/Luftffisch-Webseiten/ie/ie_home.htm# - jetzt ist mir natürlich alles klar! (um das zu verstehen, muss man glaub ich 1998 dabei gewesen ein 😂)

Die Jagd auf den Umweltverschmutzer (der die Ölfasser in den See geschmissen hat) geht so richtig los. Dass die Möchtegern-Pfefferkörner den Schrottplatz mit einer Lichtschranke überwachen wollen ist, im Gegensatz zu der Pferdeentführung, ja ein nahezu brillanter Plan! "Am besten geht der Alarm bei mir los, ich kann nachts am schnellsten nachsehen, was los ist." - was will uns das sagen? Dass bei Wolf zu Hause niemand aufpasst, was die Kinder so treiben? Hat er etwa eine tragische Backstory? Please, tell me more, Schloss Einstein!

Und der arme Atze! Alle verdächtigen (leider zu Recht) seinen Vater und er fühlt sich total in die Enge getrieben 😞 Und wieder mal richtig gut gemacht, wie sie das Thema schwierige finanzielle Situation und Zukunftsängste eingebaut haben. Atzes Vater bringt das richtig überzeugend rüber - leider hilft das Atze auch nicht so wirklich. Richtig doofe Situation, auch für die anderen, die Atze natürlich nicht hintergehen wollen, aber auch die Ölsauerei nicht ungestraft lassen wollen. Awww, und dann Atzes Strahlen, als sein Vater bei der Polizei anruft und sich selbst anzeigt - wie erleichtert er ist 🥹

Katharina plündert lieber die Klassenkasse und die Bandkasse, anstatt mal mit irgendjemand über das Problem zu reden, dass sie kein Geld hat? Und die Partyplanerin kommt unangekündigt ins Internat und fragt eine 14-jährige nach 600€ Anzahlung in bar? Bin ich die einzige, die das absolut unseriös findet? 🤨 Bin gespannt, wie das Fräulein Prinzessin sich jetzt ohne Geld so schlagen wird - die Idee mit dem Verkauf ihrer Klamotten ist ja schonmal ganz smart.

Oh no, Stollberg hat Tamagochis verboten!!! 😱 Ichbinaltichbinaltichbinalt 🫠

Nadine und Iris packen in einer halben Minute alle Klischees (positiv und negativ) über "Öko-Leute" in eine einzige Unterhaltung. Die sind nämlich alle stark und braungebrannt oder haben Pickel und einen Pferdeschwanz oder eine Mischung aus beidem. Außerdem sind sie definitiv alle männlich. Dass Jo auch eine Frau sein könnte, fällt natürlich keiner von beiden ein. Und innerhalb von ein paar Minuten kommt dann direkt noch ein zweiter Diss gegen Pickel. Iris beschwert sich nämlich, dass sie "schon wieder einen Pickel" bekommt (einen! I would have been happy wenn ich die noch einzeln hätte zählen können in dem Alter^^) und nicht aussehen will wie ein "Streuselkuchen". Das war für Jugendliche mit Pickeln sicher super zu hören. Danke für nichts. Aber die Umwelt-AG mag ich sehr. Jetzt hab ich richtig Lust, ein Hecke anzulegen und Nistkästen aufzuhängen. Und irgendwie hat sich in den 20 Jahren nicht soo viel geändert - die Jugendlichen beschweren sich nämlich auch schon, dass die Erwachsenen sich nicht genug um die Umwelt kümmern. Nur, dass es damals noch nicht ganz so dramatisch war wie jetzt. "wir müssen später in dem Schrotthaufen leben, den die uns überlassen" I feel you, Vera 🥲

Oh oh, Nadines leibliche Mutter ist da und trifft zufällig auf ihre Adoptiveltern. Schon wieder so ein heavy Familienthema. Give them a break, Schloss Einstein Team 😅

Wie die Mädels versuchen, Jungs für den Tanzkurs zu rekrutieren, ich brech zusammen 😂 und am Ende haben alle zugesagt - die "wir können ihnen schlecht tanzlos das Kampffeld überlassen"-Crew aus dem Internat und auch Wolf "mein letzter Tanzkurs ist schon eine Weile her" und Ingo "ich denke, zeitlich bekomme ich das doch hin" aus dem Dorf. Oh bitte bitte lass es jetzt zu viele Jungs sein, sodass die zusammen tanzen müssen. Ich will das!!! 😄

[fabiansteinhauer]

Gute Nachrichten

1.

Bewilligt. Der Antrag auf den nächsten Forsch- und Lehraufenthalt in Pernambuco ist von brasilianischer Seite aus bewilligt. Recife, minha cidade, ich komme zurück, schon 2024, vielleicht sogar für vier Wochen.

Strenges Programm! Zwei Sachen sind zu erledigen: Der Forschungsbericht ist zu übergeben, d.h. das Protokoll und die Kommentare zu dem Aufenthalt 2019. Dazu würde ich gerne, falls ich wirklich vier Wochen dort sein kann, jede Woche 90 Minuten vortragen mit anschließender Diskussion. Perspektiven einer Kulturtechnikforschung, die Bild- und Rechtswissenschaft sein soll, das ist etwas aufwendig, weil es doch für viele neu und ungewohnt ist und man etwas Zeit braucht, um von den rhetorischen Institutionen (die in in Recife Lehr- und Forschungsschwerpunkt sind) über juristische Institutionen (sei das jetzt Gaius oder ein aktueller Fall zum Privatrecht oder zu Menschen- und Grundrechten) zur Theorie der Kulturtechniken zu kommen.

2.

Dann will ich drei Sachen weitertreiben: ein Protokoll zu einem Forum auf der Insel Itamaraca (die Fotos wurden mir einmal gestohlen); eines zu dem Sumpf in Recife (sehr unsicher, ob und wie ich das mache) und eines zu einem Markt im Sertao, denn ins Sertao muss ich eh so oft und lange wie möglich.

Der Markt in Buique bietet sich als Rindermarkt an, einmal war ich schon kurz dabei. Pesquiera ist noch noch nicht ganz Sertao, das ist in einem kleinen, sanften und recht grünen Tal, das sich bei Arcoverde zum Sertão hin öffnet, dort liegt dann auch schon das Val Catimbau (oben im Bild) mit seinen mäandernden Tafelbergen und seinen Graphismen nahe, das ist bereits magische Zone.

Ich kann es noch nicht wirklich glauben, dass ich wieder nach Recife komme, vermutlich werde ich erstmal leicht weinerisch oder mild hysterisch geschüttelt, wenn ich lande und das irrisierte und irrisierende Licht, die chromatische Aberration um mich herum habe und dann sicher weiß, ich könnte jetzt in zwei verschieden fantastischen Hotel wohnen: dem altschicken Hotel Central ohne Klimaanlage aber mit Nachbarschaft zu dem Wohnhaus von Clarice Lispector oder aber in dem 1980-Hotel schlechthin, dem Atlante-Plaza, dem Hotel mit blauverspiegelter Fassade, Klimaanlage, Dachpool und Bar unter künstlichem Wasserfall, also in der Zeitmaschine, die einen in die Filmära zurückträgt, in der Pierre Richard und Gert Fröbe noch in gemeinsamen Filmen auftraten oder Typen wie Albert R. Broccoli Talente wie Lotte Lenya und Robert Shaw um sich sammelte, um ... James-Bond-Filme zu produzieren. Kicher! Das muss man sich mal vorstellen. Der ganze Aufwand für fröhlichen Neunzigminutenklimbim, mit dem man dann noch eine große Industrie finanzierte. Gab es alles mal, wird Tag für Tag unglaubhafter, aber manche Hotels in Recife erinnern daran, dass es mal Zeiten gab, in denen Heterogenität und Homogenität wie Fuchs und Hase 'Gute Nacht' sagten. Nix wie hin.

Das Hotel Central hat zwei Sterne, rational betrachtet ist das korrekt berechnet. Kostes darum nur ungefähr 30 Euro pro Nacht mit Frühstück. Das ist ein Witz, totaler Witz. Das Hotel ist eine Sehenswürdigkeit, ein Museum, ein Studierobjekt. Man sollte seine Phobien leicht in Unerschrockenheit übersetzen können, sonst wird es in der Nachbarschaft schnell rauh und ungemütlich. Die Nachbarschaft lebt nämlich, thut einem aber nix, wenn man ihr nix thut und immer genug Geld bereit hat, das man gerecht zu teilen bereit ist. Zivile Besteuerer und Zöllner können einem da mal schon begegnen, aber die begegnen einem auch hier. Der Vorteil des Central: Das war der erste sogenannte Hochaus von Recife, ist äußerlich geschickt renoviert, vermittelt etwas vom Glanz der dreißiger Jahre und man bekommt eine Sinn für die Maße und die Explosion der Maße. Keine Klimaanlage, auch das iste in Vorteil, weil man von der Luft und der Feuchtigkeit erfährt, ohne sie in den Standard globaler Industrieproduktion zu übersetzen. Der Körper merkt sich das schnell, Luft hat Dialekte und Akzente, Färbung und Modulierungen, und es lohnt sich, auch wenn man vermutlich am Anfang glaubt, dort keine Luft zu bekommen und niemals schlafen zu können. Es geht, man gewöhnt sich daran - und hat dann Erinnerungen, die man sonst nicht hätte, das dichtet ein bisschen am Lebenslauf.

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Just because I am having super-delicious homemade rhubarb cake right now.

In einem kleinen Dorf wohnte einst ein Mädchen mit dem Namen Barbara. Barbara war in dem ganzen Dorf für ihren ausgezeichneten Rhabarberkuchen bekannt. Weil jeder so gerne Barbaras Rhabarberkuchen aß, nannte man sie Rhabarberbarbara.

Rhabarberbarbara merkte bald, dass sie mit ihrem Rhabarberkuchen Geld verdienen könnte. Daher eröffnete sie eine Bar: Die Rhabarberbarbarabar.

Natürlich gab es in der Rhabarberbarbarabar viele Stammkunden. Die bekanntesten unter ihnen, drei Barbaren, kamen so oft in die Rhabarberbarbarabar um von Rhabarberbarbaras herrlichem Rhabarberkuchen zu essen, dass man sie kurz Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbaren nannte.

Die Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbaren hatten wunderschöne dichte Bärte. Wenn die Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbaren ihre Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbärte pflegten, gingen sie zum Barbier. Der einzige Barbier der einen Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbart bearbeiten konnte, wollte das natürlich tun und nannte sich Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbier.

Der Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbier kannte von den Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbaren von Rhabarberbarbaras herrlichen Rhabarberkuchen und trank dazu gerne mal ein Bier, das er liebevoll Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbierbier nannte. Das Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbierbier konnte man nur in einer ganz bestimmten Bar kaufen. Die Verkäuferin des Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbierbieres an der Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbierbierbar hieß Bärbel.

Nach dem Stutzen des Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbarts geht der Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbier meist mit den Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbaren in die Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbierbierbar zu Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbierbierbarbärbel um sie mit zur Rhabarberbarbarabar zu nehmen um mit etwas Rhabarberbarbarabarbarbarenbartbarbierbier anzustoßen und von Rhabarberbarbaras herrlichem Rhabarberkuchen zu essen.