#stirrup irons

[coruscantiscribbler]

Tack shopping. Ouch. Very expensive. On the plus side the stuff lasts for years, but I realized I needed to buy new stirrup irons and stirrup leathers for my new saddle that will arrive in a couple of months. Also had to replace the black Roeckl riding gloves that somehow managed to vanish into a black hole either at the barn or at a clinic.

[spurbleu]

oldman!price x reader angsty (?) drabble

‧︎✳︎༚︎‧︎⁎︎°︎

age leaves john price in tantrum.

he despises what it’s done to his body. the creak in his knees when he walks, the strain in his shoulder when he reaches across the table. steam engine, ironclad and coal hot, neglected the rust on the belly of its stirrups. adopted a sudden fragility he cannot stand.

takes a literal force of nature to get him to retire, and he grieves it like a father. it, in all honesty, was one. taught him how to shoot straight, how to hold his men, how to be without feeling like he’s an imposter in his own skin. forced him to grow up- which is ironically exactly what ended their alliance.

nursed whiskeys, fattened ice kissing the base. smoked like somehow- fossilized in ligero- he’d find his youth again. blistered under reluctant mortality, indulged in fatal vices because if anything is putting him in the grave it’s a gun or a cigar.

a pot never boils watched, yet you stay at your designated post by the doorway while he broods (he’s a dramatic at heart), storm clouds stamped on the collapse of his shoulders.

if you were one of his soldiers, you let him fester.

but you were his wife.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t aged yourself, silver linings sprouting from your scalp, sun spots and bleached knuckles. even so, you found time to pick up his medications, comb through amateur food blogs for gut health and bone pain, roll the aches out of his shoulder before bed. you were kind- and it was insulting.

spitfire catching on the burs of his muttonchops- unfamiliar with dependence. he was a captain for Christ’s sake- alloy lighthouse, built by cement and sheer fucking will. he didn’t need to be hand fed vitamin C and dragged to yoga class. he pitched barbed wire, dug his shallow trench and intended lay in it.

until, one evening, thunder strikes him out of dewy acrimony. he clambers up the stairs, musk of tobacco and spite plants a grimy boot in the oak. he glances over the railing, and stills.

bathroom door, cutting swaddled atmosphere with thin bisque, a pyramid down the center of the hall that created the illusion of darker corners. centered in the odd, domestic scaffolding was you- shower damp and concentrated.

it was like watching a bird preen feathers. tugging at the sags, yanking at the silvers, skin pitching at the nostril and eyes narrowing into thin keyways. and if he squinted, sniper accuracy rendered tears. sallow river bed on your flushed cheeks, clumped lashes, a frown that broke hearts.

“you’re never struggling alone, John,” you had said one evening, when he had been foolishly apathetic, “i’ll make sure of that.”

he hadn’t said anything.

guilt squirms at the base of his neck. the stranger named comfort that swelled within your embrace unnerved him so much he had forgotten to introduce himself. and now, milking moonlit lighting, with a wife who thought he was hiding from her, he called himself what he had never been as a soldier.

a coward.

you were making tea the next morning, windows surrendering a warmth when the day was still docile. it was while you were humming that your husband, sneaky bastard, folds you into the plush of his chest, drowsy lips dragging on the cusp of your shoulder.

“you always look so beautiful in the mornin, darlin.”

and it was true. you’ve never looked better to the old man.

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

WRITER SARA HESS TALKING ABOUT RHAENYRA AND ALICENT'S RELATIONSHIP IN SEASON 1 AND THEIR MOTHERHOOD FOR VARIETY MAGAZINE.

“I can definitely understand that it’s hot watching complex female characters who have agency and who are trying to navigate the world and understand themselves. Like, that is hot,” nonbinary actor D’Arcy says.

“And is very different from, I suppose, more two-dimensional portrayals of female sexuality.” 

Cooke adds: “I guess what’s alluring, and quite scintillating, is that they all live in quite close proximity to each other,” noting “House of the Dragon” Season 1’s focus on keeping its characters near the Iron Throne in King’s Landing.

“Stealing these loaded looks with someone that you fancy and that’s forbidden, that’s hot. It’s all hot.”

“We had a lot of conversation at the beginning about, is this a feature or a flaw?” Hess says.

“There’s a lot of births, do we want to see a lot of births? My thinking was, every single childbirth I’ve ever seen on television, in any show, in any genre at any time, has always looked exactly the same: the woman lying on her back with her feet in the stirrups and doing the pushing and the baby comes out.”

“In my experience, women give birth in vastly different ways.”

“I thought we should show them all and they be really, really different, separate experiences and not just, now there’s that birth scene and we all know exactly what it looks like.”

FOLLOWING THE BIRTH SCENE IN EPISODE 6, D'ARCY RECALLS SHOOTING A PARTICULARLY REALISTIC MOMENT OF MOTHERHOOD WHEN RHAENYRA FINALLY GETS TO REST AFTER GIVING BIRTH AND IMMEDIATELY GOING OFF TO SHOW THE BABY TO ALICENT:

“She gets in and [her sons] Jace and Luke have gone and got a dragon’s egg and want her to look at it.”

“And I just remember responding, ‘Wow, that looks perfect,’ but not looking at them at all, I was looking in the other direction.

“And that felt like what a lot of parenting is probably like.”

FOR COOKE, THE MOTHERHOOD MENTALITY HIT IN EPISODE 9, WRITTEN BY HESS AND DIRECTED BY CLARE KILNER:

“That moment in the carriage where Alicent’s hungover son asks her if she loves him, and she says it by smiling and saying, ‘You imbecile.’

“Like, it’s so obvious, this is all for you.”

“Everything that I’ve done.”

“Everything that I’ve sacrificed.”

“All the awful things I’ve done in order to facilitate your ascension is because I love the bones of you.”

BUT MOTHERHOOD IS FAR FROM THE ONLY ASPECT OF A WOMAN'S LIFE THAT FEMALE WRITERS LIKE HESS AND WOMEN DIRECTORS INCLUDING KILNER AND PATEL INFUSED INTO THE STORY, WITH MUCH OF THE SEASON FOCUSING ON YOUNG ALICENT (EMILY CAREY) AND RHAENYRA (MILLY ALCOCK) AND THEIR DEEP BOND AND INTENSE FALLING OUT.

“There’s an element of queerness to it,” Hess says.

“Whether you see it that way or as just the unbelievably passionate friendships that women have with each other at that age.”

“I think understanding that element of it sort of informs the entire rest of their relationship… Even though they’re driven apart by all these societal, systemic elements and pressures and happenings, at the core of it, they knew each other as children, and they loved each other and that doesn’t go away.”

Hess continued: “Olivia has told me she believes — and this is her headcanon — that they at some point kissed or made out or had some kind of physical interaction that Alicent’s mother found out about and forbade.”

“And that was Olivia’s head story, ‘Oh, I can’t do that. That’s not right.’ And that’s the background for her in their relationship going forward. I would be 100% down with that.”

COOKE SAYS SHE AND D'ARCY HAVE “DEFINITELY” TALKED ABOUT ALICENT AND RHAENYRA BEING “EACH OTHER'S FIRST LOVE”:

“But when it comes to our iterations of the characters, too much has happened and too much time has passed to probably even recognize those fledgling feelings.”

“But Condal and Hess weren’t “necessarily interested in ever defining” what that love meant in terms of the women’s sexuality.”

“I happen to be a queer woman, but I know straight women who had ‘Heavenly Creatures’ -esque, romantic friendship with their best friend at that age,” Hess said.

“That’s something that I think, probably — I don’t want to stereotype anybody – but it seems to be more a phenomenon with young women than it is with men, probably because whether you’re queer or not, society cares less if you’re physically intimate with each other or hugging or touching each other.”

“You can have sleepovers and sleep in the same bed and nobody cares.”

[francixoxoxo]

˚✧ ₊Something ˚. ʚ

Billy the Kid x Reader

You’re pregnant with Billy’s baby, and it’s taking a bit of a toll on you. You have a breakdown, and Billy soothes you.

TW: reader is pregnant, weight insecurity, mentions of miscarriage

Basically pure angst and comfort, sorryyyyy (not sorry)

It was times like these that you wished God made you a man.

Not to say you weren’t in awe of yourself. You were carrying a human life— wasn’t that something? Your mother was insistent on specific teas and herbs to help the baby. Your friends were giddy with excitement, you being the first of them all to have a baby. Your husband? You didn’t think Billy could be more protective than if he locked you in a safe.

He argued his way into plenty of late-start workdays to take care of you when you felt sick. He was wary of you going out on particularly hot days, as if you’d melt. When he was with you, in public or not, he tucked you to his side and kept an iron grip on you. You were his sweetest girl, and now that you were pregnant? Oh, if he could hide you from every danger, he would. He certainly tried.

But Billy couldn’t keep you from every difficulty that came with pregnancy. He held your hair back from your face as you vomited, but he couldn’t keep your food down for you. He’d rub your feet before you fixed your lips to ask, as if to make up for not being able to carry you everywhere you needed.

“M’ sorry.” Billy cooed to you as you laid in bed one night, gently rubbing that spot in your hip you’d admitted was hurting. You shook your head, the dim moonlight filtering through the window gratefully letting him see your soft smile.

“Not your fault.” You murmured, nose-to-nose with him, your eyes flicking twixt his concerned blue ones. You couldn’t have found a better man’s baby to have.

Billy shook his head gently but with an adamant and dark expression. He pet some hair back from your face. “Well, I did this t’you, didn’t I?”

Your eyes smiled with your lips at his words. “And I’m glad you did.” You couldn’t resist moving in closer, your nose burying into his chest. His strong arms immediately wrapped around you to hold you close to him. Calloused fingertips lightly trailed along your ribs, you felt the faintest touch of his lips to your hairline.

It wasn’t a lie. You were happy to be a mother, really.

But that happiness tended to subside when you passed a mirror. Oh, you’d gained so much. You mentioned it once to Billy, but he shut it down quickly by assuring you how beautiful he found you. His words had stuck with you for perhaps a day before the self-hatred seeped in again.

Or when Billy came home late, a bassinet or a changing table in tow, grinning ear-to-ear, and you wouldn’t dare to but wanted to yell what a waste it would end up being. Self-hatred wasn’t simply for what was on the surface— you were certain your body would fail you, and more importantly that it would let down Billy. But you hadn’t dared breathe a word to him. Not when he smiled so brightly as he looked over his shoulder at you, setting the wooden cradle down in the small room dedicated as the nursery.

Billy had begged you to not go on horseback rides anymore, now that you were (according to him) fragile. You assured him you wouldn’t, soothing his already high-strung nerves over you.

Yet here you were, galloping about as fast as your horse could dash without his heart bursting a gasket. Tears were already stinging your eyes, the wind whipping your hair behind you. You were riding so furiously that you were standing on the stirrups, bent over and gripping the reins like a professional jockey.

Your mind was just swimming. You were seven months along by now, and you never felt worse. Perhaps it was just a day, or a week, or a month— but you couldn’t bottle it up. Billy wasn’t home, and you supposed it would be better to empty your rotten feelings in an empty field than onto your poor lover’s lap. Your heart clenched at the thought of what he’d say. Oh, you’d break his heart, surely.

And you weren’t keen on hurting Billy, not when he was the one thing holding you together. The thought of him now reminded you to breathe, you hadn’t realized the burn in your lungs. You even dared taking your hand off the reins to wipe the hot tears off your cheeks.

Eventually you found your spot. It’d been so long since you came here, just the sight of the sun-warmed rocks poking out from the river made your heart lighten. You tied your horse to a tree, discarding your boots at its roots. The grass was pleasantly warm under your bare feet, your eyes trained on the wildflowers blooming as the earth sloped down slightly to the riverbank. Here, tears slipped from you like nothing. You sank into the long grass, laying back and letting the fronds tickle the skin your chemise exposed.

If the river overflowed from the buckets of tears you cried, you would hardly be surprised. The breath was utterly stolen from your lungs as you wept, a hand over your heart and consequently the increased swell of your breast. Just the subtle reminder of the way your body had changed made you bawl harder. Oh, how you wanted it off you! You wanted it all to stop, for it all to go away. But that desperate want washed guilt over you.

How could you want your baby gone?

You didn’t! You didn’t, you told yourself, wiping at the tears that wouldn’t ebb. You loved this baby before you’d even met it. And now that fear was clawing at your heart again, threatening to rip it into strings, the fear that you never would meet it.

Perhaps it was your weeping that drew Billy to that creek, perhaps it pierced through to his heart like an arrow all the way from home. He hardly took a peek around your quaint house before hopping back on his horse. And at the perfect moment, when you thought you simply couldn’t bear such heavy feelings any longer, you heard the sound of boots on grass.

You lifted your head, catching your breath and peering over the overgrown, tall blades of glass to see Billy’s face looking back down at you. Wasn’t he the image of an angel? He immediately sunk to his knees beside you, that angelic face screwed up in concern as he cooed, “Oh, baby, my baby.. Hush, don’t cry, hon..”

Something about Billy’s strong arms practically scooping you up to lean against his broad chest had you sobbing mightily. You turned your cheek into him, wetting his work shirt and smelling deeply his musk, tinged with sweat. The low timbre of his voice willing you to calm down had mixed effects. In certain ways you felt safe. As though everything was suddenly all-right. And in other ways, you felt so unbelievably helpless.

Frankly? It terrified Billy. He clutched you tight, running his calloused palms up and down your arms, over the rise of your belly, stroking your wet cheeks. He can’t remember a time he’s seen you so distressed. It feels like years until your sobs delve into soft, shudders gasps and sighs, the skin ‘round your eyes rubbed raw. You’ve stopped trying to wipe the tears away, but Billy’s taken up the job, diligently swiping the wetness away from your pretty eyes and cheeks with his thumb.

after you calmed, you croaked a soft, “Sorry.” Billy shook his head adamantly, knitting his brows.

“Don’t apologize, baby. You ain’t done anything wrong.” He cooed gently, wrapping his arms around your front and pulling you even closer to his chest. Your heart was weary, your stomach heavy. But Billy made it all just a bit better. You could feel more than see his blue eyes flicking between your face and your belly. “What’s wrong?”

You pressed your lips nervously. You let your gaze fall on the running brook, the quiet rushing of water over rock soothing. Billy’s roughened hand came to lay over yours on your lap, giving to the strength to admit, “I’m miserable.”

Billy paused in nearly every way. You thought that his heart stopped a beat, and you were certain his breath hitched. “What d’you mean?” He squeezed your hand.

“I..” You caught yourself on the verge of admitting your darkest fear, silently reprimanding yourself and deciding to admit the less painful one. “I look so different. Not in a good way.. I’m so much fatter, Billy.” Your voice wavered as you spoke; even if it was vain, or the least of your problems, it still weighed on you. It still hurt.

“Oh, baby..” Billy sighed, nosing your hair and shaking his head a bit. “You aren’t fat. You’re so, so goddamn beautiful.”

Your lips pulled, threatening to part in a sob before you swallowed it down. Tears came back to your eyes. Why couldn’t you believe his words? “I’m not. Look at me! I’m a planet. I don’t know how you can stand to look at me.” Your voice cracked, much to your embarrassment. Your hands went to cover your eyes but Billy gently pulled them away. He tilted your chin to meet your eyes, his own peering at you like you were mad, or some poor creature. As if you’d offended him by talking so poorly about yourself.

Billy murmured your name and shook his head adamantly again. “You’re carryin’ a baby. My baby. A damn life.” He paused, eyes silently flicking twixt yours for a moment, trying to see if his words were sinking in. “Maybe your body’s a little different, but I think you look perfect. Might even be more attracted t’you, if that’s possible.” Billy cooed, his voice somehow gentle and firm at once. A smirk crept across his face at that last bit, only growing upon seeing your slight smile.

But his expression became concerned and serious again after a moment, he furrowed his brows. “Don’t talk bad ‘bout my girl like that, baby. You’re just as gorgeous as ever. Frankly, I like that you’re a little softer now. Just a little more of you t’hold.” Billy went on until your faint smile broadened, tightening his arms around you as he worked a blush out of you.

The insecurity didn’t leave you, but his words were enough to wash out the self-hatred. If Billy loved you, surely you could too. The way he was looking at you right now honestly had you believing he thought you an angel. Because he did, in every way. “Th-thank you..” You mumbled after a while, wiping your eyes and grimacing, nuzzling your cheek further against his chest. His warm, calloused palm rubbed up and down your arm. “I love you.”

“I love you more n’ anything.” Billy said it like it was the easiest thing. As if he was born knowing it, and you should’ve understood by now. Yet still, it eluded you just how he could adore you so much. Perhaps he could see that haze in your eyes as you averted your gaze to the grass, thinking on that. Would he still love you if your body killed his baby? Never mind the fact that it was your baby as well— it was Billy’s too, and he was so, so excited for it.. How would you live with yourself if Billy’s baby died?

“But that’s not the only thing, is it?” Billy murmured, snapping you out of your thoughts. When you looked up at him, you realized tears blurred his face. He wiped them away as you blinked them onto your cheeks.

You couldn’t keep a thing from him, not now. You shook your head, feeling a rock lodge in your throat when you opened your mouth to speak. He squeezed your arm gently, furrowing his brows and kissing your temple as reassurance. “Y’don’t have to—“

“—I’m afraid that I’ll kill the baby.”

Billy’s eyes went buggy, and that rock in your throat settled into your stomach. Your word lingered in the air for a few agonizingly long, painful moments, before your lover nodded slightly, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “You’re scared you’ll miscarry.” He rephrased, voice soft and subtly curious.

Tears flowed now like your body was dispelling every emotion it had ever experienced. Billy pulled you to him tighter, cooing soft words to you. “Hush, baby. You’re okay. You ain’t.. You’re healthy as a horse, sweetheart. What put that into your head?”

You’d been right. Your words broke his heart.

Your words came twixt sobs and needy gulps of air. “M-my momma— lost three, n’— Oh, I’m scared that—“ You were driving yourself hysterical. Billy hushed you, a hand on the back of your head pulling your face to his heartbeat. His lips were glued to your hair. “I know, baby, I know. I know.”

Oh, it felt like years ‘till you cried all the tears your eyes could make. You weren’t sure when Billy had pulled you more into his lap, your head tucked into his neck, his hand rubbing up and down your ribs while the other laid over your belly. He could feel subtle kicks now and then, but his heart was too heavy from seeing you so distraught that he couldn’t find it in him to be giddy at the feeling.

The fronds of long grass ticked your legs and bare feet, the sound of rushing water and Billy’s soothing voice filling your ears. “I feel like I’ll fail you.” You admitted softly, letting your eyes flutter closed as he smoothed a hand over your hair.

“Impossible.” Billy dismissed, his voice a firm murmur into your hair. “It wouldn’t happen. I won’t let y’entertain the idea.” His brows were pulled into a taught furrow, he blinked away the stinging in his eyes. “It wouldn’t be your fault.” He added. You nodded a bit, grimacing.

Whether it was the exhilarating lightness of simply having it off your chest or Billy’s loving assurance, your mind felt less murky. You felt ten tons lighter, tucked safely in your lovers arm, your skin tickled by warm grass and your eyes closed after a long bawl. “I’m sorry for all this fuss.” You mumble.

Billy pressed his slightly chapped lips to your hairline, his own eyes shutting. His stubble scratching your brow was a welcome reminder of his omnipresence. “Nothin’ to apologize for.”

The silence lingered a moment before you broke it again. “You’re my rock. Did I ever tell you that?” You lifted your face, craning your neck to look up at Billy. He was smiling sweetly, his lips just barely pulled over his teeth. His hand that wasn’t busy rubbing your belly was finding its way into your hair.

“You never had to.” Billy shook his head. his eyes dropped to your lips, which had found their way into a smile to mirror his, much to his delight. He pressed a kiss to them, relishing in your soft exhale. You hoped that he understood all your emotions as you out them into this kiss, all the love, the anguish, the appreciation.

He most definitely understood it all.

Billy held you for a long while after, in that sun-warmed clearing. Somehow you both came to lay in the grass on your backs, hands clasped in the gap twixt you. You stared up at the few clouds adorning the bright sky. Billy stared at you, bringing your clasped hands to your belly and flipping his to lay beside yours on the large expanse of it. His thumb brushed over the bump through the thin linen of your chemise.

Billy shook his head, smiling in that sweet way of his again and meeting your gaze. His own azure eyes glimmered with a kind of joy that you wouldn’t trade for anything.

“You’ll be a good mother.” He whispered, as if the brook wasn’t empty save for you two. “And you’re gonna make me a father, sweet thing.” Those words were breathed with reverence. Billy was simply in awe of you; of what your body was capable of. Of your soul, and your heart. Your sheer beauty, in every curve and edge. He made it clear to you with every move he made and every word he uttered. You couldn’t help a smile spreading over your cheeks, your swollen eyes turning into crescents along with your lips.

“I’m glad it’s you.” Your words were just as quiet and hushed as his. And they needed no explanation. Billy never needed one to understand you.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

VII ║Fleabitten

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 6: Mustang | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: You and Jack spend your last night together in the mountains - for now.

Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, flirting, insecurities, very light soft!dom overtones, sexual innuendoes, handjob, risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 4.2k

Notes: I know I made you guys wait for this one, I'm sorry it took so long! It's no secret that I'm dragging my feet because I don't want this packtrip to be over, but we all have to brave and face the inevitable 🥺 I hope you enjoy spending the last night in the mountains with Jack and his Darlin' ❤️

Fleabitten: A colour consisting of a white hair coat with small pigmented speckles or freckles.

You’ve never considered yourself a creature of habit. 

You have your routines, of course. But habit is more. It’s a dependency, emotional and physical. It’s something that’s hard to give up. It’s a prickle under the skin that is only soothed when said habit is fulfilled.

Surely, habit is hewn over time. A quiet, imperceptible chipping away at your bones until it becomes part of you. It must take more than a week to make a habit out of something. 

Except, it feels a lot like habit when you wake up to pink skies and take your first breath of sweet mountain air to start the day. That first mug of coffee warmed over rekindled embers from the night before. How Scotch always prances into a little canter to warm up when you hop on, but not until he knows you’re fully sat with the tips of your toes through the stirrups irons.

It’s the way you angle the brim of your hat and flip up the collar of your shirt even before the sun hits just so. It’s the all-consuming awe that pins you to the spot, wherever you are, whatever you’re in the middle of, when the sunset paints every inch of earth in rose gold.

And for the past three nights, it’s the assuring weight of strong arms around your waist that has lulled you to sleep, the kiss of warm breath on your temple - a familiarity that runs too deep in too short a time for you to comprehend.

Habit.

It’s the sixth day of the pack trip - first thing tomorrow, just after breakfast, Jack will be leading you across the mountain, back the way you came, to get back to the ranch by mid-afternoon.

Words are scarce when the two of you approach the last Statesman campsite on the trail, the neat stone pit now a familiar sight.

Even the horses are subdued. Scotch stands obediently, flicking his tail while you untack him, when he would usually be nudging at your hands with his velvety nose, snickering for a cheeky apple slice before supper.

It’s second nature to you now, hanging the sweaty saddle pad on a low-hanging branch to dry before setting the saddle and bridle on the wooden post for cleaning. Jack follows, standing on the other side, handing you a wet rag. You get to work, scrubbing out the grime and sweat from the well-worn leather.

His eyes are on you, a phantom weight on your shoulders - they’re not exactly sore, having grown used to long hours in the saddle over the week, but you are tired, albeit the good kind. One that a good, long soak in a hot bubble bath would fix, with a certain cowboy in the same tub -

‘Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout, Darlin’?’

Glancing up, you match his arched eyebrow with one of yours, planting your elbows on the spine of the saddle and standing onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his. Well, a portable shower ain’t the same, but -

‘Shall we clean up, cowboy?’

Jack groans deep into your neck, the taste of soap thick on his tongue.

‘Is this how you jerked off thinking about me that first day?’ you tease, your grip sliding slickly along his cock.

‘Oh fuck,’ he pants, brow scrunched up in pleasure-pain, scraping his teeth on your collar bone. ‘Didn’t feel half as good, darlin’.’

A moan slips from you when one large palm finds your backside and squeezes, his fingers digging into the plump flesh as he whimpers by your ear. Bowing his head, he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking on your sensitive skin until you arch into his mouth.

It doesn’t take long for him to come all over your hand - sticky, milky strands slipping thickly down the gaps of your fingers, stringing between them like spider webs. You’re reluctant to let go, humming soothingly into his ear as the last of his orgasm shudders through his body.

He holds you tight, his heart a sharp staccato against your chest, as the slow trickle of lukewarm water washes away all traces of him.

Once the portable shower is empty, you take your time getting dressed. Jack wipes you down with your towel while you rub his hair dry with his. Walking back to camp hand in hand, you grin when the horses come into sight, chasing and egging each other on like puppies at the dog park.

Thousand-pound puppies, more like. 

Dropping the dirty laundry by a tree to be packed later, he whistles with his fingers. ‘C’mon boys, supper time!’

The trio line up smartly by the wooden post as Jack preps the feed, measuring out the grain and hay pellets by sight, filling their buckets. Their nostrils flare and ears prick up at the sight of their dinner, but other than a stray nicker or two, they remain impressively patient.

Their buckets are dropped in front of their hooves when he’s done, and you may be imagining the sharp intake of air as the horses await the okay from their cowboy.

At his nod, all three practically lunge at their supper, munching happily. You laugh, and Jack watches on proudly.

A quiet desperation slinks in when you’re not looking, winding tighter and tighter around your ribs like a vice that leaves you short of breath as the minutes and hours slip by. You’re restless, your legs bouncing in agitation, your eyes darting about, frantically trying to commit everything to memory, yet never lingering anywhere long enough to do so.

But it’s not really about the things you can see. It’s the bitter bite of smoke in the clean mountain air. It’s the orange heat of the campfire that you wear like a favourite cardigan. It’s the simplicity of getting from point A to point B, with nothing but grassland and forest in between.

But real life isn’t simple. Things that you vowed to push to the back of your mind at the beginning of the trip bubble to the surface for an unwelcome moment. You have bills to pay. You have a deadweight of a house to sell. You have an ex not pulling his weight -

‘Darlin’?’

The white noise that you weren’t even aware had filled your ears subsides, and your gaze snaps up to Jack, blinking. The weight of the knife in your hand comes back to you, and you glance down at the bell pepper you were in the middle of dicing up.

You give him a shaky smile and carry on with your errand. ‘Sorry.’

He brushes a thumb on your cheek. ‘You were thinkin’ mighty loud.’

Not wanting to dampen your last night together, you shake your head and lean over to kiss him. You huff, ‘Just hungry. Get cooking, cowboy.’

Jack knows you’re fibbing, but he says no more. He can admit to himself that you’re not the only one struggling with loud thoughts tonight.

You’re right, he should turn his focus to making dinner instead - chili and cornbread, classic southern comfort food. Lord knows the both of you can do with some comfort tonight.

‘Want to help me with the cornbread?’ he asks, knowing you’d want to keep your hands busy.

‘Damn, I sure miss the days when you insisted that I shouldn’t help with anything at all,’ you tease, which makes him chuckle.

‘C’mere, darlin’.’

He’d measured out the dry ingredients for the cornbread back at the Halfway House and tipped it all into a mason jar - flour, cornmeal and raising agents. You whisk the batter with a fork as he cracks in three eggs and pours in the milk (he usually uses buttermilk, but it has to be shelf stable milk on the trail) until it’s smooth and thin. You carefully pour the mixture into a well-oiled cast iron skillet, which he then nestles in the heart of the fire. The batter bubbles like slow-burning lava as it cooks, the savoury sweetness filling the evening air.

‘That’ll cook in a half hour, so we should start on the chili,’ he says. ‘I normally simmer it for at least an hour, but I think we’re both hungry, right?’

‘I’m fine with express chili, cowboy.’

Jack sets a deep-set saucepan on the pit, drizzling in olive oil to preheat it. He knows the recipe by heart, but with no fresh beef mince on hand, he has his usual substitutions when cooking it on the trail. Into the pan goes finely diced cured sausage, onion, red bell peppers, peeled carrot ribbons and celery.

‘Is that Poppy’s recipe?’ you ask, tummy rumbling at the vivid scents as the pan sizzles.

‘It’s my mama’s, actually,’ he smiles, stirring with a wooden spoon. ‘It’s the one recipe Poppy allows on the trail that is not hers.’

‘If that isn’t a stamp of approval, I don’t know what is,’ you chuckle. ‘And where’s your mama?’

‘Still lives with my old man back home in Kentucky,’ he answers, scraping in minced garlic, a good squeeze of tomato paste and one big can of plum tomatoes, which he crushes one by one with the back of the spoon.

‘What do they do?’ you ask, genuinely curious. His family hasn’t come up in conversation in the past few days.

Jack is happy to indulge you. ‘Pop used to run a little corner shop in town, but he’s retired now. My ma’s an equine veterinarian, used to have a practice, but she shut that down a few years ago and is mostly a lady of leisure nowadays.’

You nudge his shoulder with yours. ‘Horses run in the family, I see.’

‘Never stood a chance,’ he jokes. ‘She still helps out on my uncle’s farm if they need an extra pair of hands. My cousins mostly run the place nowadays.’

The saucepan sputters at the generous pouring of barbeque sauce (homemade of course, Poppy’s secret recipe) that goes in next, followed by a can of beer, a beef stock cube (crumbled), Worcestershire sauce, balsamic vinegar and honey.

‘Are your parents from the same town?’

‘No, ma’s from the city, moved to the backwaters to marry my country bumpkin daddy,’ he replies, flashing you a meaningful smile. 

Your cheeks heat up unbidden, and you bite your bottom lip, the shyness that rears its head  feeling very alien after being so comfortable around this cowboy for these few days. You meet his eyes though, cocking your head to one side. ‘Is that so?’

He grins, stirring the chili as he continues. ‘My papaw Henry nearly disowned her, didn’t even go to the weddin’, but he came round when I was born. Turned out he got on with my other grandpa Noah like a house on fire. They used to come and spend a week in the mountains with Champ and I every year before Henry passed.’

You reach out and squeeze his free hand. ‘And where is Noah now?’

‘He lives in a little cabin off the main house with my uncle. Can barely walk, but he still rides every morning,’ he shakes his head fondly, tipping in the drained kidney and black beans.

He’s quiet for a moment as he studies the chili, simmering away, then gives you a sidelong glance. Despite a deliberate attempt to keep his tone light, the weight of his words cannot be erased by simple inflection. ‘I’m sure they’d love to meet you, darlin’.’

But as soon as he hears himself - the absurd wishful thinking in it - he shifts in his seat awkwardly, clearing his throat. You fuckin’ clown. How is this appropriate conversation when he’s known you for six days? Hell, you’d only just started sleeping together what, three nights ago? Fuck, has it only been three - ?

Two gentle fingers hook under his chin, turning his face towards you, cutting off the jumble of voices in his head. You shuffle closer so that you’re pressed right up against his side, warm and soft, and when you kiss him slowly and sweetly, it tastes like reassurance. 

‘I’d love that too, cowboy.’

The chili is the best you’ve ever had - smoky, spicy and balanced out with a touch of sweetness from the barbeque sauce. The cornbread fresh from the skillet is so moreish, there’s nothing but crumbs left in the skillet when the two of you are done.

You’re close to bursting, sprawled lazily on your sleeping bag, your back propped up against a log. The fire has died down to a low-burning flame, and you’re right on the brink of nodding off. 

But as it turns out, Jack still has a trick or two up his sleeves. 

He reaches over you to grab one of the saddlebags, rifling around and you laugh as he unveils, one after the other - a bag of jumbo marshmallows, Graham crackers, and a bar of dark chocolate. 

‘Can’t say I pegged you for a s’mores kinda cowboy,’ you tease as he lays out the ingredients on the ground. 

‘It’s a Statesman tradition, we always close out a pack trip with s’mores. C’mon, I’ll show you how to make a proper one.’

You huff a laugh. ‘Oh, are we really going there?’

He feigns ignorance. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am?’

‘The shortest way to an argument is anything to do with s’mores.’

‘Don’t worry darlin’, I’m sure we’ll kiss and make up.’

Jack gets up and steps briefly out of the orange halo of the campfire to rustle up a couple of sticks for the marshmallows. Knees creaking as he sits down next to you, he pulls out the knife from the holster he wears on the back of his jeans, sharpening the wooden ends with a telling familiarity.

The chocolate bar is wrapped in fancy, gilded packaging, the words organic and bean to bar glowing gold in the firelight as you turn it over in your hands. ‘Huh. No Hershey’s?’

The cowboy waggles one perfectly pointed end of a stick at you in warning. ‘Rule number one - do not mention the H word in front of Poppy. You will be evicted and barred from the state of Wyoming till kingdom come.’

‘Oh, I believe you,’ you chuckle, tearing into the packaging and breaking up the chocolate into tidy squares along the grooves.

Sheathing his knife, Jack reaches for the saddle bag once again. ‘Can’t forget the secret ingredient.’

You blink in incredulity at what he brandishes, the familiar whiff registering. ‘Is that - applewood?’

He winks, testing the weight of the logs in his hands. ‘The applewood infuses the marshmallows with a sweet smokiness - I’m tellin’ you, the Statesman s’mores is somethin’ else.’

With a shake of your head, you grin. ‘Alright cowboy, show me how to make some proper s’mores.’

Twenty minutes later, you wish you could take it back.

‘Scientific’ doesn’t even begin to describe Jack’s process. You’re huddled in a blanket, hugging your knees, watching as he turns over the marshmallows with methodological precision and infinite patience - neither of which you possess. He’d confiscated yours when you tried to stick them straight into the flames, declaring that you’re unfit to make your own s’mores.

The night air is singed with the delicate note of apple blossoms, while four chocolate squares slowly warm on graham crackers where they sit on stones around the campfire. 

You sit poutily, glaring at the fluffy white blobs that look just as pale as they were straight out of the bag.

‘I could’ve made about three s’mores by now,’ you gripe.

Jack doesn’t look up from the fire, but the corner of his mouth curls in amusement. ‘You’re on holiday, remember? Relax. Patience is a virtue, darlin’.’

You tilt your head in a challenge. ‘Do you really think I give a damn about virtue, cowboy?’

His grin turns brash, eyes crinkling mischievously at the corners. ‘No, ma’am, and I thank my lucky stars that you don’t.’

‘C’mon Jack,’ you whine. ‘Let's just eat the stupid s’mores and go to bed.’

‘Good things take time,’ he says simply. And then, with the minutest flex of his tone, he changes tact. ‘Will you be a good girl for me and be patient?’

You watch his smile widen as he obviously hears your breath hitch.

Biting your lip, you goad him, ‘Oh, is that how you’re going to play it, sir?

The gentleman in him recedes, and the rake glimpses through in the way he eyes you with a deliberately smarmy want. ‘I don’t hear you complainin’ when I take my time with you, darlin’.’

Your mouth hangs open in affront. ‘Are you seriously comparing me to roasted marshmallows?’

He leans over and purrs into your ear. ‘Well, your pussy is just as sweet, and soft, and warm -’

You groan and push him hard on the shoulder. ‘Thanks ruining marshmallows for me, cowboy!’

With a laugh, Jack nods towards the fire. ‘Grab the graham crackers please, darlin’. They're done.’

Sure enough, while you were distracted, the fluffy white blobs are finished with a perfect, golden crust, but have enough structural integrity to hold shape on the ends of the sticks.

‘You ready?’ he prompts.

A graham cracker in each hand, one with chocolate and the other without, you admit, ‘I hate this part, I always make such a mess.’

He smirks, ‘Didn’t think you minded makin’ a mess, darlin’.’

You roll your eyes at him, with no real annoyance. ‘You’re insufferable, cowboy.’

Cushioining one marshmallow on the chocolate side of the cracker, he instructs, ‘Now put the other one on top and grip the whole stack firmly. Got it?’

At your nod, Jack carefully extracts the stick, wriggling as he goes, one thumb against the end to keep the marshmallow from sliding out.

With a dramatic flourish, he ta-das. ‘There you go, a Statesman s’mores for my cowgirl.’

Something in your brain short-circuits at him calling you his cowgirl. 

Not just his. 

But the cowgirl to his cowboy.

Unable to conjure up any words, you fixate on the melted marshmallow on his thumb. Grabbing his hand and bringing it to your face, you wrap your lips around it, sucking the sweet smear of residue right off his smoke-tipped finger.

His gaze is dark even as the red and yellow flickers in his eyes when he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, his voice a soft rasp. 

‘Good girl.’

‘So - what happens tomorrow?’

Your question is quiet, half murmured into the hollow of his neck in the twilight zone, on the cusp of sleep. Your head is tucked under his chin, his arms around your waist under the blanket.

‘We’ll get back to the ranch around three. The team will get the horses settled in, unpack everything, and you can have a nice hot shower. Then we’ll have sunset drinks and dinner.’

You hum noncommittally. The silence cackles for a beat, before you venture, ‘And then?’

For once, Jack doesn’t have an answer.

He doesn’t sleep that night. 

He holds you close, running a calloused palm against your back when you shift restlessly in your sleep, feeling the rise and fall of your chest against his own.

The sun rises pink and gentle. This camping spot was a deliberate choice - it hangs over a small slope, facing east with an open view of the plains below, where the horses are dozing, the Bighorn rising from the horizon straight ahead. 

He must have drifted off without him noticing, because he wakes up to your lips on his.

He blinks, lids heavy with slumber. ‘Mornin’.’

You smile through hooded eyes, cording your fingers through his hair. ‘Morning, cowboy. It’s a pretty sunrise for our last day in the mountains.’

‘Who says it’s our last, darlin’?’

His challenge lingers between you, the tension sinking its hooks into his skin and pulling - until you close the gap and kiss him. 

It’s sloppy, clumsy, teeth clunking against teeth - it’s too damn early - and he pushes you back to nip and suck his way down your neck, undoing the top three buttons on his flannel that you’ve taken to wearing to bed before pushing it over your head.

‘Jack,’ you whine as his hands push your tits together, smearing open-mouthed kisses all over them.

‘Fuck,’ he grunts, the harsh sound catching in his throat. Grinding his cock between your thighs, his big hands push your panties down in a hazy frenzy, followed by his sweats, which he kicks off blindly.

‘Please,’ you choke out, voice breaking as your soft, naked body arches into him.

He hushes you, breath hot and heavy in your ear, teasing his length slickly between the wet lips of your pussy. ‘Yeah? Desperate for this cock, are you, darlin’?’

Through a broken moan, you whimper, ‘Yes, please please please, Jack -’

‘So pretty beggin’ for me,’ he grins, but he knows it probably looks more like a pained grimace as he trembles above you. You're soaking the curls at the bottom of his cock even though he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

‘Please, want you inside me, cowboy -’

He holds out, letting the arousal swell and mount between you with a recklessness that is unlike him, demanding, ‘How, darlin’?’

‘Hard, want you to fuck me hard -’

Rolling you onto your side so that he brackets you from behind, he opens you up with one hand under your right knee, pushing it against your front so that he can see your dripping cunt. Running his thumb over it, you jerk in his hold, moaning for him. ‘Jack, please -’

‘What did I say about patience bein’ a virtue, hmm?’ he teases through gritted teeth, dipping one finger shallowly into you, which is enough to make you keen.

You’re babbling incoherently as he lines himself up against your entrance. ‘Fuck me, please, need you inside me -’

You break off into a strangled sob when he pushes the blunt tip of his cock into you, a hoarse groan in his windpipe as he feels you stretch around him. It feels different, more intense, but his sleep-clouded brain can’t grasp why. He pumps into you slowly and deliberately, eyes screwed shut as your cunt squeezes him, his fingers sure to leave marks where they hold onto the swell of your hips.

‘So - so good, Jack,’ you pant.

‘Yes, darlin’,’ he rasps into the back of your neck, fucking you in firm strokes now, palming your tits from behind. ‘This gorgeous pussy grippin’ me so tight, gettin’ so wet on my big cock.’

‘Only for you,’ you declare, rolling your hips so he hits a particularly deep spot inside you.

‘For me,’ he echoes with a groan, planting one foot on the ground to fuck into you harder.

Snaking one hand between your legs - hot and sticky - two thick fingers find your clit, drawing back the hood to rub circles where you can really feel him.

‘Fuck!’ you exclaim, almost bending backwards.

‘Good girl, takin’ me so well,’ he cooes into your ear. ‘She’s goin’ to cum on my cock, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, Jack,’ you whine, getting impossibly wet now. You leak messily down your thighs as he feels you begin to clench around him, your voice running ragged. ‘Please, sir -’

He fucks you through it, jaw clenched so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure, his hands holding you down as you buck and writhe.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he growls into your cheek, his pace slackening to a languid rhythm. ‘Do you hear yourself? Hear that drippin’ pussy when I fuck it nice and slow?’

Turning over your shoulder, you kiss him, pupils completely blown as you slur drunkenly against his lips, ‘Yes, cowboy. S’ fucking good.’

Jack smiles and he sucks on your bottom lip, you’re so wet that he barely has to roll his hips to sink deep into you.

But even as he lets the moment consume him, something niggles at the back of his mind. It feels too good, as if there's some detail he’s missing - 

And then it strikes him, like lightning on a clear day. Every joint and muscle in his body locks up when it does, and he feels you stiffen instantly in response. His words tumble out in a panicked jumble. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck! I forgot the condom, shit, I’m so sorry darlin’ -’

When he tries to pull out of you, you hook one foot around his shin and stop him with a hand on his hips. ‘Wait, Jack - just wait.’

He shakes his head in confusion. ‘Wait - why?’

Twisting around so that you’re looking him in the eye, you tell him quietly, ‘I got tested after my ex and I broke up, and - I haven’t been with anyone since.’

While he takes a moment to process, his cock throbs almost painfully inside you. He answers, ‘I haven’t had unprotected sex since my last girlfriend, and I got tested afterwards as well.’

You smile, one hand finding his and slipping your fingers into the gaps between his. ‘I’m just - I’m not on the pill, so we can keep going as long as you don’t cum inside me.’

‘Fuck, darlin’, it's dangerous, talkin' about me cummin’ inside you like that,’ he chides, brow creased in mock reprimand.

You wink. ‘We’ll save that for next time, cowboy.’

‘Next time,’ he promises, with a determination that soothes the anxiety in him.

And so your breaths mist and intertwine, catching the morning light as he thrusts into you, again and again. He doesn’t know where this will go, except for the vow of a next time, but he knows he has this -

The orange wash of dawn over you, his spend on the soft skin of your stomach and your beautiful tits when he cums, his heart beating - hard and sure - with what has deserted him for long years.

Notes: I didn't have as much time to edit this chapter, and I'm still trying to get more comfortable with spending less time overall on both writing and edits, and being more ok with mistakes/typos. The flip side is that what goes on the metaphorical paper is more spontaneous.

There will only be two more chapters before Palomino wraps up. Thank you for sticking around and for being so supportive despite the slow updates recently. It's strange that we're approaching the end for real now, excited isn't quite the right word, but I am looking forward to giving this story the ending Jack, Darlin' and you guys deserve ❤️

Thank you for the love. Comments, reblogs and asks are always appreciated, as always 🥰

Update: I can’t believe I forgot to mention a huge thank you to everyone who gave me all the cool tips for the s’mores and ideas for their last dinner on the trail! This one is for you guys 😘

[voidwhump]

Inspired by this

Ingredients: Injury, implied infection, heat stroke, falling off of a horse, near death. ~600 words

Back. 

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

Horses weren’t all that fast when they didn’t feel like they had to be. They were at the mercy of the rhythm of the horse’s walk, using all their strength to stay upright. The sun baked their neck and scalp. Every motion refreshed the pain of their tired muscles. 

Aggravated the throbbing ache behind their eyes.

Stoked the smoldering fire radiating from the hole in their side.

The horse could tell they weren’t all there, stopping occasionally, unconvinced her rider knew where they were going. So, energy they didn’t have went into kicking the horse back into a walk. And the cycle repeated. 

And repeated. 

And repeated. 

As the horse slowed to a stop, again, they took a moment to drag their head up to where they could look forward instead of down. Their body protested as it was pulled out of its forward slump, every muscle supporting the motion threatening to fail. They closed their eyes against it. Breathed. Felt the breeze against their sweat covered face and neck.

When they opened their eyes, they could just barely make out the silhouette of a village ahead, sitting low to the ground against the horizon. They weren’t going to make it, they could tell. But maybe they could make it to somewhere someone would see them. Even if it was only their dead body. So, with every part of their body displaying a ticking clock, ten minutes to failure, five minutes to failure, they continued. 

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

One minute.

They felt the exact moment when their core gave up. Strained muscles abruptly went slack without their authority behind it. It was their uninjured side finally betraying them, overworked from hours of holding double its usual load. That was the side they fell towards, their opposite foot briefly catching on the stirrup, iron on leather, giving them one more instant in the saddle as the horse stopped again, for the last time that day. They had the brief presence of mind to free their other foot from its stirrup as well. 

After that, the fall was over with quickly. They hit the ground shoulder first, the joint audibly crunching as it impacted. The pain immediately blended with all of their other hurts. They lay there, breathing. It was better, being on the ground. A lot of them didn’t hurt so much anymore now that they weren’t trying to do anything. The dust blowing off the dirt road stuck to their exposed skin. Their sweat washed some of it away, dripping to the ground in their peripheral vision. 

The wind blew again.

They lay there, sweating.

The wind blew again.

Eventually, they weren’t sweating anymore. What was left on them dried quickly, and they missed the cooling feeling. The sun was setting now, so at least they wouldn’t be so hot soon. They hoped the horse had found some water. 

They could use some water.

The sun set. It seemed faster than normal. They might not be the most conscious at the moment.

Or they were mistaken. Light flickered across the ground ahead of them, in and out of their field of view. 

In and out. 

Getting closer. 

In and out.

In their eyes. That was annoying. 

Something pushed them on to their back. Their body screamed. They didn’t say much.

They were lifted, which felt almost as bad, but at least they were back in their slightly curled position. Whatever picked them up had a much smoother walk than the horse, too. They faded out again soon enough.

[zeldaelmo]

Bridgerton is trending? Well, that's my cue to finally share the art I commissioned for my Regency AU The Promise!

It's from @hylianzs! Thank you again! 🫶🏼

Here's an excerpt from the scene in chapter 7:

He held his breath and prayed for the words to come, this time. His trembling hand sought hers and, as if she knew she would make speaking tenfold easier, she opened up and allowed his fingers to curl in hers.

“Zelda.” His voice broke over her name anyway. “You don’t have to share what upsets you, I will never press you to do so. But you cannot quench my wish to help you carry your burden, whatever it is.” He looked back at the four-poster-bed, the blankets and pillows partly hidden by forest green-colored curtains. “I offered because… I know you haven’t been treated well since your father died. You said you wouldn’t mind sleeping in the common room, and although I admire your dedication to our… goal, I still want to… want to…"

Her eyes had grown wider, the grip on his fingers firmer and Link already felt the words in his mouth getting plush and difficult to get out. Damn it, he hadn't even made his point yet!

"I want y-you to reach blindly for your stirrups because you know I'm there to set them for you,” he pushed through. “I want—I want to lead you up the stairs so often that you have forgotten how it is to walk them on your own. I want you to speak quietly because you know that I'll listen and not because someone drilled into you that your opinion has no value. I want that frown you wore with your family gone. I want your smile to grow unconscious because I hold the door open so often. I want you to roll your eyes at me because I’ll help you from your horse again.” She swallowed hard, her eyes shining with unshed tears. He hoped they were the good kind of tears. Link squeezed her hand, gathering courage to continue. “I want you to get used again to the respect you deserve, Zelda. Grow tired of it, if you must, but I won’t rest until then. So please, let me sleep in that armchair.”

She closed her eyes, forcing two teardrops to break free and fall into her lap. She had his hand in an iron grip, but her lips remained sealed. Had he gone too far? Was it too early to offer her his loyalty?

Read the story here:

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 1: Your Eyes Slay Me Suddenly

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mentions of blood/gore and violence ❧ Word Count: 5.3k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: Duke Richard of House Grimes and his knight, Sir Daryl, arrive at King Ezekiel's court, though they do not know why they've been invited. Meanwhile, things are not well in the kingdom of Alexandria as a new threat begins to terrorize its citizens. Despite this, the princess dreams of seeing the world outside the castle walls by which she is imprisoned. She meets someone who she thinks might be able to help.

❧ A/N: Well, here it is. The first part of this weird ass thing I'm writing. I realize that this is super cringey but do I care? Well, a little, but you know what, I am having so much fun writing this and learning about medieval stuff so I am happy with it. I will link a "Before You Read..." page so that you guys can get a little more background info about what I'm trying to do here. I know this is kind of a weird AU and stuff so I have some disclaimers in that link. I've also included a link to the Merciless Beauty Glossary, which lists definitions for some of the terminology I will be using throughout the series. I recommend having that document open as you read as you can use it to quickly refer to in case you come across a word you are not familiar with.

Beyond gentle slopes of overgrown emerald pastures rose tall, imposing battlements of limestone, with tiny silhouettes of guards poking out of each crenel. From this distance, they looked hardly menacing, but the king’s guards were diligent, and their prowess in battle was not to be underestimated. 

The duke raised the blue flag of Alexandria, signaling to the guards that they were no threat. In response, a guard reached over the wall to wave the same flag.

“They see us,” remarked the duke, pulling on the reins of his golden horse. “Here.” He handed back the worn piece of cerulean fabric to the knight who rode by his side. “Strange customs, but I don’t blame them.”

They moved upon their horses in a dignified trot, the knight’s ebony friesian stallion trained to mirror the movements of the steward’s palomino steed. 

“They should be afraid,” said the knight. “The world is a dangerous place. Can’t believe they’ve held out this long.”

The duke flashed him a knowing look, that almost seemed to curl into an amused crack of the lips. “Sir Daryl,” he said, “I’ve always admired your optimism.”

The knight adjusted his feet in the heavy iron stirrups. He’d never quite get used to his lord’s jests. “Sorry,” he spoke simply. A man of few words, Richard always said. 

“It’s all right, but you’d be advised to put on a cheerful face for the king. Joviality goes a long way with his type.”

“His type?”

“Unlike you, my friend, King Ezekiel is known for his… good humor.”

Daryl scoffed from the corner of his crooked smirk. “Thanks… What does the king want with you, anyway?”

Richard’s brows knit together in another amused expression of faux offense. “You think I’m not able to acquire a king’s favor? Careful, knight, you’re a free man now, but you could be downgraded to villein if necessary.”

Of course, the serious knight knew that such a threat was meant in good humor. Ten years of loyal servitude to the duke was more than enough reassurance. 

The men continued onward, their horses plodding through moors that seemed to stretch on forever. The castle couldn’t come closer for Sir Daryl. He was dreading it, the pomp and circumstance of it all. But then, he knew that when he became a knight. It wasn’t the typical story, in fact. He wasn’t of any kind of good birth, his parents being poor and rather unsuccessful merchants in some other kingdom he’d purposefully forgotten the name of. 

No, he wasn’t a nobleman’s son or a squire. He’d earned his title almost reluctantly, through his triumphs and battle prowess in the First War. That is, the war that preceded the Scourge. 

A knight’s duty was to protect a lord, of course. He’d managed a position as the protector of Duke Richard’s land, just outside of Alexandria. In exchange for his protection, the knight had a place to live, and not a bad place at all. It was better than any decrepit wooden shack he’d lived in before, and, as far as nobility went, the duke was not a bad man. In fact, he was a good man, and that was hard to come by in times like these. 

“But it’s odd,” Richard continued, “I don’t know what the king wants with me. I know he wants me to join his court, but I’ve heard he hasn’t invited anyone to court in ten years, since it broke out.” It, of course, was always understood as a reference to the plague that killed ordinary men with a gruesome fever, then brought them back as snarling, rotting walking dead men that feasted on the flesh of those who were unlucky enough to still be alive. 

No one knew where it came from, but many thought the curse was nothing short of the wrath of God Himself. It was the only explanation in a world completely devoid of comfort. Though the idea that a supposedly benevolent god bestowing such a pestilence upon his so-called beloved children was hardly comforting. In these times, people took what they could get. 

“Maybe he just wants your wonderful company,” Daryl replied, sure to speak with a sarcastic lilt to his gruff voice. 

“No, no,” Richard said. “It doesn’t make sense. Ezekiel and I have only spoken a few times… You know, there’s a princess.”

Oh, yes, everyone knew of the princess, of course, though no one had seen her in years. The gatehouse of that castle hadn’t opened in ten years. No one had come in, and no one had gone out. Until now, of course. 

“There’s always a princess,” Daryl huffed. “What does that have to do with anythin’?”

“Well, she’s got to be a woman now… I’m sure the king is looking to wed her to someone.”

Daryl flashed a suspicious glance at the curly-haired man, who returned the look with a steady shake of his head. 

“You think he wants you to court her?”

“I don’t know, but if what they say is true, the princess is the most beautiful woman in Alexandria. Some say beyond Alexandria, too.”

It was odd for a man of Richard’s age and status to be unmarried. His wife had died six years ago in childbirth, along with the child. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but it was a great tragedy in the duke’s life. The knight couldn’t see him remarrying at all after that, but if the king was going to offer his daughter to him, he would be a fool not to accept. 

“Women with that kind of beauty are hard to come by,” continued Richard. “And royal, too. Hell, the princess is the king’s only child. That means… I could become king when he dies.”

“Gettin’ ahead of yourself,” chided Daryl. “We’re not even at the gatehouse yet.”

“Welcome, my friends!”

The king extended his arms wide, about as wide as the grin upon his countenance. He crossed the great hall, the steps of his pointed poulaines echoing off the grand high ceilings. The king’s hand clasped jovially upon the duke’s shoulder, but the gesture quickly turned into a hearty embrace. 

“It’s good to see you,” said the king. “It’s been too long, Richard.”

“It has.” 

The duke raised his eyes to gaze upon the magnificence of the hall. Though the exterior of the castle may have appeared quite imposing, the great hall was warm, welcoming, even. Elaborate arrangements of strong wooden arches upheld the roof, complete with intricately designed corbels to support them. Draped from the high stone walls were long blue banners bearing the royal family’s crest, no doubt made from the finest threads. Tapestries depicting mythical creatures and romantic scenes of knights going to battle or courting ladies were on full display, too. The hall was illuminated by the gilded light of what seemed to be a hundred or so candles, some upon sconces, others upon tables and in iron chain chandeliers. The pungent aroma of honey and elderflower tickled at the uninitiated noses of the two travelers, and, sure enough, in the king’s hand was a fine pewter goblet, which no doubt must’ve been brimming with a particularly pungent, sweet smelling mead.

“Come!” exclaimed the king. “Have a drink! This is cause for celebration.”

The loud bravado in the king’s voice must’ve alerted the court as finely dressed nobles began to pour in from the arches and the upstairs landing. As the duke and his knight followed the king to his banquet table, just in front of his imposing bronze throne, the court gathered in greater globs. Murmurs began to permeate the great hall, and the knight could just feel an army of eyes laid upon him and his lord. It wasn’t a feeling he reveled in. 

“We’ve already had our feast,” said the king, sitting himself comfortably at the head of the long wooden table. “But I can have a servant bring you something. Only the finest dining here.”

“We’ve already eaten. Just a drink is fine for now, your majesty,” said the duke. As he sat, the loyal knight followed. 

Daryl felt bear, having been made rid of his greatsword and his cloak by the guards at the entrance to the keep. There were few places outside of his home that he felt safe enough without either. 

“Ah, libations!” exclaimed the emphatic king. He held his goblet high for emphasis. “This is the finest mead in Alexandria and her surrounding kingdoms. It comes from a monastery, I’ve been told. They raise bees there, isn’t that fantastic?”

The knight and the duke exchanged a glance. They had no idea what to make of the king. He was so full of merry, the likes of which they hadn’t seen in years. Perhaps it was the mead, but Richard knew the man was jovial. Still, it was a kind of shock.

The servants arrived with intricately detailed pewter pitchers full of the honey wine, filling their goblets to the brim. The excesses of wealth and royalty were foreign to the knight. Duke Richard was wealthy, yes, but not like this.

“So,” spoke the king, “I trust your journey through my kingdom was pleasant? No dead ones crossed your path?”

“Not at all,” said Richard. “Your kingdom is quite safe, it seems. Those tall walls will keep anything out.”

“Hm, yes,” agreed Ezekiel. “But you can never be too careful. No one’s left the castle in ten years, I’m sure you know. It’s better to be safe.”

That reminded the duke. He intended to ask why the king had invited him to court, but before he could speak again, the boisterous king looked to Sir Daryl with an enthusiastic curiosity. 

“This is your knight?”

“Yes, this is Sir Daryl.”

The king settled back in his chair, stroking the gray corkscrew hairs upon his noble chin. “Ah, I’ve heard of your gallantry in battle, how you earned your title. My father knighted you, didn’t he?”

Daryl looked to his steward, wordlessly asking for permission to speak. Richard nodded. “Yes, your majesty,” spoke the knight. His voice was raspier than usual, having been silent for so long since arriving at the castle. After all, what could a knight possibly have to say? His only duty was to protect his lord, as a vassal. He was of lower rank than Richard, and, though he never much cared for the details of hierarchy, it was in his best interest to know his place.

“How grand! Well, gentlemen, I do hope you find this court to be a fount of merriment in these dark times.” He gestured to the surrounding great hall, and the people who watched with bated breath as they clung to the monarch’s every word. “Everyone has been so eager to meet you. This is a momentous occasion. A toast!” The king stood to his feet, raising his goblet high. Others followed suit, of course, as the two newcomers sat overwhelmed at the king’s table. “To Duke Richard and his knight, the first additions to court in a decade of strife.”

“Huzzah!” 

With a long drink of his mead, the king met the duke with wide eyes, then removed the cup in a near panic, though it was a jolly panic. “I almost forgot! How could I forget? My daughter, (Y/N). Elizabeth! Fetch my daughter!”

“Yes, your majesty.” The mousy young maid with flaxen hair frantically ascended the staircase with great haste. 

Richard straightened in his seat, clearing his throat. The knight could tell he was nervous, but he couldn’t understand why. A princess was hardly anything to be nervous about. It was the king the duke needed to impress, he thought. 

“Minstrels!” the king exclaimed, gesturing towards the troupe of musicians across the great hall. There were three, each dressed in colorful garb and feathered caps. One held a lute, the other, a flute, and the third, a tambour. “Play something for the princess’s entrance. Something… delicate, but dignified, like her.”

“Yes, your majesty!” one of the minstrels replied.

Yes, your majesty, seemed a rather common phrase around here.

Then, from atop the stairs appeared a young woman.

You heard the musicians begin to play their little tune—a soft, simple tune that seemed to evolve with each step you took. Each step was calculated and precise, partly because that was how you were trained to walk, and partly because you were careful not to trip over your gown. Your father had instructed you to wear your best clothes the last few days, though you weren’t sure why. You’d heard of a duke coming to court, but it was hardly of any interest to you. Why should you care? Why should you welcome an outsider when you haven’t been able to leave this dusty old castle in years? 

“That must be the duke,” whispered Margaret. She followed your every move, as a lady-in-waiting was supposed to. 

“He’s handsome,” Michonne whispered back. 

You shushed the ladies out of the corner of your mouth. They were much too excited for their own good, much more excited than you. 

At the base of the staircase, your father held his hand out to you, beaming at your beauty. Tonight, you wore your favorite champagne-colored surcote, made from a heavy silk, with long, flowing sleeves that split at the elbow to reveal the pure white lace-front gown. The décolletage was modest, but deep enough to reveal just the beginning of your cleavage, formed by the tight lacing that held your chest in place. It wasn’t quite in vogue these days, but then again, nothing was in vogue these days. 

As you took his hand, you realized that the duke and his knight were standing for you. Of course they were, but their new faces caught you off guard. You knew everyone in court so well, it was strange to see two strangers standing for you.

Your father lifted his hand, in turn raising your arm to show you off like a prized mare. With knitted brows and a quivering lip, you flashed him a confused expression. He’d never introduced you like this before, but then again, he never introduced you to anyone before. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, turning his attention to the duke and his knight. “I present to you my daughter, (Y/N), Crown Princess of Alexandria.”

The men each bent over to bow before you, and you took in their appearance with great interest. It wasn’t often you had new faces to study.

The duke was well-dressed, wearing a damask scarlet doublet that must’ve cost a fortune, with tight-fitting wool hose to accentuate his lean legs. It would be remiss not to note how handsome he was, with a head of lush curls and a short, well-trimmed beard to frame his salmon-colored lips. If it weren’t for his title and his clothing, you could tell the man was a noble just by looking at the shape of his nose, aquiline and strong. Yes, he was handsome.

But just beyond his shoulder, your eyes were pulled like magnets to the knight. His clothes were more muted, but made from a fine material. A plain black wool tabard draped over his broad shoulders, his waist cinched with a fine leather belt, strapped to which was a lone misericorde, the dagger which you knew from your studies to be what knights used to deliver the final death blow to an enemy. The sharp tip sent a shiver down your spine as you wondered briefly if he’d ever had to use it. 

Though his coloring was similar to the duke, both having hair of brown and eyes of blue, their similarities ended there. The knight had a much more tired face, world-weary. It was difficult to see clearly, given the shadows created by the long wavy locks of hair shrouding his visage, but he appeared to have a reddened scar trailing from his brow to his cheek, crossing over his left eye. 

From what you could see, he looked nothing like any man you’d seen before. He was weather-worn and hardened by the world, at least, that’s how he looked. He must’ve seen such terrible things, you thought. In the fine lines of his face, you could begin to make out an image of the world outside. Here was a man who must’ve known its ins and outs like the back of his hand, must’ve been so brave to have survived this long outside the walls, fighting the Dead.

Though your face was softened by curiosity, the knight’s was stoic and cold. He seemed somehow both distant and alert, aware of his surroundings despite his reluctance to be surrounded by them. The duke’s kind face was much more welcoming, but, for a moment, you were held hostage by the knight’s narrowed, serious gaze. 

“Your highness,” said the duke. “I am Duke Richard of House Grimes.” He turned to gesture towards the knight. “And this is my knight, Sir Daryl.”

A curious name for a curious face, you thought. Still, you tried to maintain your focus on the nobleman.

“It is an honor to meet you, milord,” you replied. “The court has been anticipating your arrival.” Though I haven’t. “Oh, these are my ladies-in-waiting, Lady Margaret and Lady Michonne.”

You brought the ladies forth, each of them curtseying before the duke. It gave you a moment to look upon the knight again. 

“Pleasure,” the duke said to your ladies. “And… may I say, princess, you’re just as radiant as they say.”

You looked wide-eyed at the king, who smiled bigger than he had in years. The blush that blossomed upon your cheeks was not one of flattery, necessarily, but slight embarrassment. “Oh… They speak of me?”

���Yes. Common people often praise your beauty. Many would sell their land or their livestock for the chance just to get a glimpse of you. I must admit, it would be worth it.”

A whirlpool of emotions formed in your belly, mostly confusion. You’d never been complimented quite like this before. “Well… Thank you, milord. That’s very kind of you to say.” Swallowing hard, you turned to your father, who seemingly expected you to return with an equal compliment. “Father, I’m going to retire to my chambers for the evening.” You turned back to face the duke. “Goodnight, Richard. I hope your stay in court is pleasant.”

Your father’s smile faded with your announcement, but he nodded as he tried to offset his disappointment. “Of course, my dear. Goodnight.”

At length, you sat before your vanity to remove your jewels while Elizabeth prepared your bed as usual. She hummed to herself the same little tune the musicians had played earlier for your grand entrance to meet the duke. Removing your translucent veil, you got to work undoing the circles of elaborate braids and removing the genuine pearls laced throughout when a rapping came at the door of your chamber.

“My dear, it’s me,” said your father. “May I come in?”

Oh, for pity's sake. 

You turned on your stool to gesture towards Elizabeth. “Let him in,” you said. “I can undress myself tonight. Goodnight, Beth.”

The young girl nodded before opening the door for the king. He thanked her as she left, while you straightened up to no doubt receive a tongue lashing for your less than friendly reception of the newcomers. 

“(Y/N),” he sighed, sitting at the foot of your bed as he adjusted his gold trimmed velvet robe. “My dear… I must say I am a bit disappointed that you didn’t sit and speak with the duke tonight.”

“Well, father, I… It’s hard to be excited about these new guests when I myself haven’t been outside the castle since I was a girl. And now, all of a sudden, you’re letting in some nobleman and his knight? Why?”

To the king, it was obvious, but to you, it was totally unclear. There was much about the world you still didn’t know, and though you were knowledgeable, on account of your royal tutoring, you were still naïve in many ways. 

Your father stood as he sighed, piecing a long, gray-black dread lock behind his ear. “Well, I was hoping…” He shook his head, then crossed over to you, taking your hands in his as he looked at you with that adventurous sparkle in his eyes. “You liked Richard, didn’t you? He was charming?”

You were caught off guard by the question, but you shrugged and nodded with a half-smile. “Why, yes. He’s charming.”

“And handsome?”

“Well… Of course. He’s very handsome, any woman would think so.”

“So…”

“Father, are you… trying to ask me if I want to court the duke?”

“Yes,” he laughed in relief that you caught on without him having to explain. “Richard is a good man, one of the best nobles left. He’s wealthy, too. Though I was always hoping for a political marriage for you, as long as the man is at least a noble and a suitable husband, I think this kind of match would be good for you. In fact, we could move Richard here, that way you never have to leave the castle, and—”

“Father!” you exclaimed, shocked by how excited he was at this idea without even hearing your thoughts, of which you had many. “I’m not ready to marry!”

“But you’re twenty-six, my dear.”

Standing to your feet, you shook your head and pulled out the remaining braids in your hair. “I’m just not ready. The duke is… He’s perfect, but I’m not interested. I can’t explain it, it’s just not a match.”

“But you’ve hardly spoken to him!”

You didn’t need to speak to him to know, you just knew. It was impossible to explain. All you knew was that it wouldn’t work, and that marriage was simply not in your near future. You had other priorities, other… curiosities. Love was not one of them, except in your fairytales and love poems. You had a hard time believing love could be any better than that. 

“Father, please. I’ve told you how I felt, and I’m sorry if you brought this man here just for me, but I can’t force myself to try with someone who doesn’t interest me in that way.”

He crossed the room with a soft step, his face morphing into an understanding smile. “I know, darling. I’m sorry to have upset you. I would never force you into a marriage that didn’t please you, I just… I just want you to marry a good man. Well, so long as he’s a noble, at least.”

Your father was never a traditional king, but he still insisted on some things, and one of them was that you would marry well. Well meaning high status. Some things were sacred.

“But if the duke isn’t to your liking,” he continued, “I won’t force it.”

“Thank you, father. That means a great deal to me.”

“Good.” His hand cradled the back of your head to bring you forward, allowing him to bestow a fatherly kiss upon your forehead. “Someday, you will make a great queen. A better ruler than me, I am sure.”

“Father,” you laughed. “You are a great ruler. The people love you. Everyone loves you. That’s what matters.”

“My sweet girl,” he said, now holding your cheeks to admire your pretty, delicate features. You were truly a princess through and through. “You’re the most precious jewel in my crown.” An old phrase he’d said to you since you were a little girl. The man was so sentimental, a trait you admired greatly. “I bid you goodnight.”

As he headed back towards the door, you began to think freely, with your mind returning to the knight beside Richard. Daryl, you recalled his name. You’d never heard a name like that, nor seen a face like that. 

“Father?” you called out to him just before he could leave.

“Yes, my dear?”

Looking down, you toyed with the fine silk fabric of your surcote, prefering to study the rich champagne color than to face your father as you asked, “Tell me about Richard’s knight.”

The king’s brows furrowed, his head tilting to the side in a display of curiosity and confusion. “The knight? Sir… Daryl, I believe?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, still nervously rubbing the garment between your fingers. To clarify, you lifted your gaze to your father. “Well, I mean… I was just curious. You know how I have a fascination with knights and things of that sort.”

The king shook his head with a warm, deep chuckle. “Oh, daughter. Well, I don’t know much of him, other than that he is brave, loyal… He was knighted by your grandfather, you know. Just a few years before he passed.”

“And he is of noble birth, like Richard?”

“No, no,” he replied. “Not at all. His parents were lower gentry. He earned his title in battle, a rare feat for a knight, as you know.”

Indeed, most knights were born to nobility, becoming pageboys before the age of ten, then promoting to squire in their youth. After years of studying under an established knight, the squire would then undergo the dubbing ceremony. He’d learn the code of chivalry, and he’d pledge allegiance to a lord, offering military services in exchange for a fief, or land. It seemed that Sir Daryl must’ve met many of these requirements, but he certainly wasn’t a noble. 

“That’s quite interesting,” you said. “I knew he seemed different. Well, goodnight, father.”

“Goodnight, my sweet.”

When the candlelight was extinguished, and the only sound left in the dead of night was that of the crickets chirping and the toads ribbeting, you were left in solitude with your thoughts. These thoughts were not new, of course. They were visions of the outside world, beyond the castle walls and the walls of the kingdom. They hung somewhere between consciousness and dream, but your thoughts were intentional, purposeful. You thought of the trees, the flowers, the little streams. You thought of the deer and the birds and the butterflies, every beautiful thing you hadn’t seen since the Scourge began. That plague had taken everything from you, your mother, your freedom, your peace of mind.

Others had it much worse, of course, and you knew that, but that didn’t ease your heartache. There were many nights you cried yourself to sleep, hoping your father couldn’t hear, for he did what he did for good reason—he was terrified of losing you, his only child. 

But tonight, you didn’t cry at all. In fact, there was a strange sense of hope nestled in your heart, something you hadn’t felt in so many years. At first, you couldn’t put your finger on it, but as your head and your heart began to work together, you realized—it was the knight.

Not only was the knight a new addition to the court, but he was brave, a fighter. He would surely help you escape. 

Escape was something you’d thought of before, but now, it seemed within reach. Of course, you wouldn’t leave forever, just a day. Just a day outside the walls, breathing in the fresh air, feeling the soft grass underfoot. There wasn’t anyone else. The guards all pledged such strong allegiance to the king, they would surely inform him of your plans if you asked. The others weren’t skilled in combat, couldn’t keep you safe. No, the only solution was the knight. He would help you. Surely, he would help you. 

In your alone time, you often walked the corridors of the keep, as there wasn’t much else to do when you weren’t occupied by your books or your needlepoint. Today was no different, though the court was still excitable over the arrival of the duke last night. 

You tried to ignore that, instead keeping yourself in your thoughts as you wandered aimlessly, until your father’s panicked voice resounded from inside his cabinet, adjacent to his bedchamber. What you made out were the words, “How could this happen?!”

Curiosity overcame you, your boredom having been relentless. You looked around the corridor for a moment, ensuring no passersby would see you. The guards were at the other end of the hall, facing away from you. If you were quiet, no one would see you pressing your ear to the ornate wooden door. 

“Constable,” your father huffed, “are you quite sure?”

“Yes, your majesty,” spoke Lord Constable Aaron. “There have been reports of mysterious cloaked knights extorting citizens throughout the kingdom. They demand crops, livestock, women… They threaten murder if they don’t get their way, my liege. We had some isolated incidents in the past, but this past month, they’ve been happening more frequently.”

“And you didn’t think it of import to tell the king?” questioned Lord Chancellor Gerald. “There hasn’t been crime like this in Alexandria since we closed our gates.”

“I didn’t want to worry his majesty with incidents of petty crime,” responded the constable. “But now… Well, a boy has been killed.”

“What?!” your father exclaimed. “Who?”

“Thomas Webb, son of the innkeeper, James. He was only sixteen… I’ve been told it was…”

The constable trailed off, his voice becoming shaky as he spoke. 

“Speak, Aaron,” demanded the king. 

The constable cleared his throat, then lowered his voice. You pressed your ear harder against the wood of the door, so much so that you feared a splinter. 

“Apologies, milord… It—it was a gruesome death, the likes of which we haven’t seen in Alexandria since the Dead breached our walls. But this wasn’t a dead man, it was a knight in black armor, their leader. We could hardly identify the boy, his head was… Well, your majesty, his head was obliterated.”

A small gasp escaped your lips, your hand quickly reaching up to catch it before it alerted the guards. 

“By God,” uttered the chancellor. “What kind of knight are we dealing with?”

“A knight wouldn’t commit a crime like that,” spoke an at first unfamiliar voice, but you quickly identified it as that of the duke. “No, not any kind of true knight. A dishonored one, maybe.”

“It’s of no concern to me what this man’s status is,” said the king. “All I care about is protecting my people. Constable, I need strengthened security across the kingdom, especially in the merchant district. Something tells me these marauders are targeting the middle and lower classes. I also want tighter security at the outer curtain. No one should be entering or leaving the kingdom without my permission, and if they’re entering clandestinely, there must be a blind spot or a chink in our armor. If the living can get in, the Dead can, too. Get it sorted. There will be no more of this… obliterating in my kingdom, understand?”

“Absolutely, your majesty. We’ll double up our defenses. This won’t happen again… Oh, and… There is one more thing.”

“What is it?” asked the king. “I have very little time for idle conversation today, constable.”

“Yes, yes, of course, your majesty, but… Well, this is quite important. The knight in black armor left a message with one of our guards, just before he… chopped off his arm.” 

Your lips trembled with fear. How could a man do such a thing? And this man was in your kingdom, hurting your people. It was horrifying. That poor guard, you thought. That poor boy… Oh, that poor, poor boy. 

“Good lord!” huffed the king. “All right, what is it?”

The constable cleared his throat as you heard a crinkling of paper. “Your majesty,” the constable read from the letter, “let this be a first warning, an introduction of sorts. My name is Sir Negan of House Smith, my people are the Saviors. If you cooperate with me, there will be no more bloodshed, but if you go against me, I will plunder and pillage this pretty kingdom until the streets are soaked red. I ask, or demand, rather, for one thing: your daughter.”

~

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Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

[la-pheacienne]

"We shall be happy. The human race will accomplish its law, as the terrestrial globe accomplishes its law; harmony will be reestablished between the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate around the truth, as the planet around the light. Friends, the present hour in which I am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are terrible purchases of the future. A revolution is a toll. Oh! the human race will be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this barrier. Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the heights of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction, of those who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is not made of paving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron; it is made of two heaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes. Here misery meets the ideal. The day embraces the night, and says to it: ‘I am about to die, and thou shalt be born again with me.’ From the embrace of all desolations faith leaps forth. Sufferings bring hither their agony and ideas their immortality. This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn."

Enjolras, 5.1.5, The Horizon Which One Beholds from the Summit of a Barricade, les Miserables.

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I don't believe in omens or fear Forebodings. I flee from neither slander Nor from poison. Death does not exist. Everyone's immortal. Everything is too. No point in fearing death at seventeen, Or seventy. There's only here and now, and light; Neither death, nor darkness, exists. We're all already on the seashore; I'm one of those who'll be hauling in the nets When a shoal of immortality swims by.

If you live in a house - the house will not fall. I'll summon any of the centuries, Then enter one and build a house in it. That's why your children and your wives Sit with me at one table, - The same for ancestor and grandson: The future is being accomplished now, If I raise my hand a little, All five beams of light will stay with you. Each day I used my collar bones For shoring up the past, as though with timber, I measured time with geodetic chains And marched across it, as though it were the Urals.

I tailored the age to fit me. We walked to the south, raising dust above the steppe; The tall weeds fumed; the grasshopper danced, Touching its antenna to the horse-shoes - and it prophesied, Threatening me with destruction, like a monk. I strapped my fate to the saddle; And even now, in these coming times, I stand up in the stirrups like a child.

I'm satisfied with deathlessness, For my blood to flow from age to age. Yet for a corner whose warmth I could rely on I'd willingly have given all my life,

But, like a needle, it must stay the course And pull me — hapless thread — through Universe.

Arseny Tarkovsky, Life, life, from the movie The Mirror by Andrei Tarkovsky.

[rowaelinsdaughter]

KEEP MY HEART CHAPTER VI

WARNINGS;; long chapter, violence, spoilers for heir of fire, blood, whip

“eat it”

“come on abraxos, eat it. it’s your reward” manon said through her teeth “you earned it” but abraxos was still sniffing the flowers. ayla tried to suppress a smile… but failed.

“it’s good for you” manon said, but he went right back to sniffing the violets. a laugh escaped ayla’s mouth.

“stop that” manon said through her teeth, but ayla only laughed harder until she was lying on the floor. 

manon tossed the leg right in front of his massive mouth and tucked her hands into the folds of her red cloak. he snuffed at it, his new iron teeth glinting in the radiant light, then stretched out one massive, claw-tipped wing and— 

shoved it aside.

“is it not fresh enough?” and abraxos moved to sniff some white and yellow flowers. 

“you can’t really like flowers.”

“you know? they really smell good, maybe i should visit this place more” ayla shifted her eyes from manon to abraxos. bring me with you. he seemed to say.

manon rolled her eyes “you too are going to be the death to me” she picked the leg “if you won’t eat it, then i will.”

she bit into the raw meal… and spat it everywhere.

“what in the mother’s dark shadow-”

“now i’m thankful i can’t eat meat raw.” she looked as manon tossed the leg away. 

“fine. you want fresh meat… then we’re going to have to hunt”

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“i hate you” ayla looked at manon, panting through her teeth at abraxos. 

“did the meeting with your grandmother go so badly?”

“yes. and all because he is a willful, lazy worm”

“manon-” but she wasn’t listening. manon checked her tight braid and flicked her clear inner lid into place. “let’s go” she said. 

“manon, i don’t think this is a good idea.”

“yes it is. the humans had said that her wings are functional, so he can fly, and he is going to fly because i say so.” she hissed to herself, eyeing the saddle on his back. abraxos continued to lie in the sun. “warrior heart indeed.”

ayla bit her lip. she didn’t like this. she watched as manon landed on his haunch and she was into the saddle. she shoved her booted feet into the stirrups and gripped the reins. “we’re flying now.” she dug her heels into his sides.

“manon-”

“enough” she barked, hauling with one arm to guide him over the eastern edge. ayla was getting nervous. abraxos was panicked, and her voice was no more than a crackling leaf on the wind. “abraxos…” she whispered. “ABRAXOS NO!”

his leg slid off the cliff and they plummeted into open air.

not again. not again. not again. not again. she was all she could think. she hated her fae form. she hated not having her powers, because all she couldn’t do anything to help. she was feeling useless.

she heard manon shout. “open your wings”

open your wings abraxos.

manon could see the pine cones on the trees. “open them!” a war cry that was answered with a piercing shriek as abraxos flung open his wings, caught the updraft, and sent them soaring away from the ground. 

and manon was flying. ayla watched them fly and wish she could be flying with them. she heard abraxos unleashed a roar of joy and manon echoed it. 

ayla felt her the tears ran down her cheeks.

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two weeks passed until manon and her thirteen mastered her training as a unit. they woke up before the sun was up, and every night ayla healed manon’s scratches and helped her relax. slowly, each one of them developed her own fighting instincts individually and as a group, and then they were outpacing every coven. 

i’m not surprised, your coven is the best there has been in centuries. ayla had said one night.

but… abraxos couldn’t take the crossing. his wings weren’t strong enough. manon had used her downtime to see abraxos, to train with him. ayla didn’t care manon didn’t have time with her. she knew manon needed as much time with abraxos as possible. 

ayla watched as the overseer grafted the spidersilk manon had got from the spiders. “you’re crazy.” manon gave her a grin. “isn’t that why you love me?” she giggled and kissed her cheek. once abraxos was healed, manon brought her to the northern fang where they would try the crossing. 

asterin, sorrel and ayla waited behind them. and unfortunately for them, iskra was also there. the first two ones on their mounts and ayla was seated in front of sorrel. manon had promised them to jump away from him if things went wrong, but she knew manon wasn’t keen on the plan. 

manon nodded to her second and third, and ayla gave her a reassuring smile. 

she checked the stirrups, the saddle and the reins one more time, abraxos tense and snarling. “let’s go” she said to him, pulling the reins to lead him further “now” she napped. she tried and tried and tried, but abraxos didn’t move. she finally snapped. “fine. have him locked up wherever he’ll be the most miserable, he’s not coming out until he’s willing to make the crossing”

manon snapped her fingers at them, and sorrel helped ayla dismount from her wyvern. once she was on the floor, she rushed to manon and took her hand. “let’s go manon.” she dragged her to the entrance as iskra make her way to them. 

“why don’t you stay, manon?” iskra called. “i could show your wyvern how it’s done”

“keep walking,” sorrel murmured to manon and ayla squeezed her hand. forget about her. she tried to say and manon squeeze back. 

“they say it’s not the beast who are the problem, but the riders,” iskra went on. they kept walking. 

“though, perhaps your mount needs a bit of discipline”

“let’s go” sorrel coaxed as she pressed to manon’s side, ayla on the other and asterin walking behind, guarding manon’s and ayla’s back.

iskra shouted something to someone. a whip snapped and a roar of pain and fear filled the place. manon stopped dead, and ayla looked behind them. “oh gods…” she muttered. the scene… abraxos was huddling against the wall and iskra stood before him, whip bloody from the line she’d sliced down his face, narrowly missing his eye. 

none of them were fast enough as manon tackled iskra. 

“manon no!” ayla shouted, but sorrel grabbed her by the waist, stopping her from running to manon. 

they were a storm of teeth and nails, flipping and shredding and biting. manon thought she might be roaring, roaring so loud the hall shook.

“manon please stop!” her voice cracked as she exclaimed again. she watched as manon hit the earth, spat out a mouthful of blue blood and ducked past iskra’s guard and threw her onto the unforgiving stone. the last one groaned as manon brought her fist down onto her face. 

her knuckles howled in pain, but she wasn’t thinking. iskra swiped at her face and manon reeled back, the blow cutting down her neck, but manon was onto her again, digging harder into iskra’s chest and struck, again. again. again. “manon!” ayla exclaimed again. manon lifted her hand again but sorrel hauled her off. manon trashed against them, still screaming. 

ayla grabbed her by the shoulder, her own nails cutting into her to make her pause, realize. her other hand grabbed her wounded cheek and lowered her down to look at her into her eyes. “he is fine, manon” ayla said, her voice softer this time. “ abraxos is fine. look at him. look at him please and see that he’s fine” 

manon obeyed and found him looking at her, eyes wide. asterin was between them and iskra, both of them growling, ready for another fight. she looked at ayla again at noticed her face stained with tears. blackeaks didn’t cry. but she wasn’t a blackbeak. she sighed and ayla lowered her hands to her chest and pressed her forehead there, listening to her heartbeat. 

looking at iskra manon hissed. “you touch him again, and i’ll drink the marrow from your bones”

✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

ayla was waiting for manon in their room, preparing everything to clean her wounds. the door opened and manon entered and closed the door behind her. she took off her cape and sat on the bed, resting her head in her hands. ayla approached her quietly, and when she was standing in front of her, manon rested her head on her stomach, her arms circled ayla’s waist and ayla caressed her head. 

she whispered softly. “let me take care of you… please.” manon moved and watched as her mate took the supplies she needed, then she sat on her lap and started taking care of her. when she finished, manon walked to the bathroom to wash herself. ayla was on the bed when she went out. laying down on the bed next to ayla, she moved to her side, so she was looking at her. manon’s eyes were cold. 

“i want to kill her”

“i know manon, i know.” she sighed, brushing a hand on her cheek “but not now manon”

manon closed her eyes. when she opened them again, they were warmer. for her. just for her. “you were going to get into the fight”

“of course i was.”

manon smiled at last and grabbing the back of her neck, she pressed her mouth with her’s.

tagging;; @thehighladywrites @hellwantfuckme @shadowdaddies @fightmedraco

[nesiacha]

In this month of October 1802, a slave revolt was led, among others, by three white men against the reinstatement of slavery by Bonaparte in Guadeloupe

Sensitive souls should abstain when I speak about the fate of Millet ( one of the white men leader of the slave revolt). I have already talked about the revolt against the reinstatement of slavery led by Delgrès, Ignace, and Alexandre Kirwan in several posts here: Link 1, Link 2, and a mini-post on the forgotten French revolutionary Alexandre Kirwan, who played a key role in this revolt: Link 3.

Now, I am looking for more information on the October 1802 revolts. In fact, in Sainte-Anne, there was a rebellion of Black people led, among others, by three white men: Barse, Millet de la Guardière, and Jean Barbet.

Here is an excerpt from Frédéric Régent regarding these three men: “Ménard, who replaced Richepance after his death as Commander-in-Chief of the army, mentions here his expulsion from Guadeloupe by Lacrosse on April 18, 1803. October 6, 1802, refers to the revolt of Sainte-Anne, triggered by three white leaders: Barsse, Millet de la Girardière, and Jean Barbet. During the general freedom period, Barsse was a government commissioner and tenant of the Gassien estate, which belonged to the heirs of Vipart; Millet de la Girardière was a former French officer, a colonist from Martinique, who had been expelled from there due to his political ideas, which were likely republican; Jean Barbet, a native of Antenac in Gascony, was a farmer. Mulattoes Yves (without a last name), Louis Bureau, Jean Gautier, René Gayan, and Louison Bourk, as well as Black men Hippolyte, Édouard, and Jean (Barsse's servant), were part of the conspiracy. They traveled to twenty plantations, recruiting insurgents on each: their numbers swelled to eighty, with twenty on horseback. Twenty-three white people were killed by the insurgents. It is not specified whether they were returning emigrants. The revolt was suppressed by the National Guard. According to Ménard, there was a strong opposition between tenants and returning emigrants. In this regard, he said: ‘I considered Grande-Terre as the battleground of tenants and landlords.’”

According to a site, 23 settlers were killed by the rebels, and in four months, there were more than a hundred executions in retaliation.

Millet allegedly met a horrific fate (sensitive souls should abstain, I say again): he was sentenced to the iron cage punishment by a Guadeloupe tribunal. Here’s an excerpt: “A tribunal in Guadeloupe, by judgment of 11 Brumaire, Year XI (November 2, 1802), condemned Millet de la Girardière to be exposed in the square of Pointe-à-Pitre, in an iron cage, until death ensued. The cage used for this punishment is eight feet high. The victim is placed astride a sharp blade; his feet rest on stirrup-like supports, and he is forced to keep his legs tense to avoid being wounded by the blade. In front of him, on a table within his reach, food and drink are placed, but a guard watches day and night to prevent him from touching them. When the victim’s strength begins to wane, he collapses onto the sharp blade, which inflicts deep and cruel wounds. The unfortunate man, driven by pain, rises again, only to fall once more onto the sharp blade, which wounds him horribly. This torture lasts three or four days.” (Joseph Elzéar Morenas, Précis historique de la traite des Noirs et de l’esclavage colonial, 1828)

So, I would like more information about this rebellion and especially about another one. A very knowledgeable site, although it doesn’t cite its sources (unfortunately, since upon in-depth verification, the information is usually accurate), mentions Fourme, who had already participated in the resistance alongside Delgrès, Ignace, etc. Palème, who followed a similar path, managed to escape. From there, Fourme established a stronghold in which the fight against the reinstatement of slavery continued on Morne Moudongue, then in the heights of Capesterre, before being betrayed and handed over by settlers in November 1805 . So we have proof that the revolt against the reestablishment of slavery lasted even after May 1802. The Guadeloupeans may not have succeeded in winning militarily against Napoleon unlike Haiti (and even then it was difficult to beat them, Richepance half-admitted that he had totally underestimated them to the point of asking England for material aid) but they succeeded for many years at the cost of sacrifice and ordeals to finally succeed in having slavery definitively abolished (which is still less great than that of 1794, the former owners had the right in 1848 to have financial compensation for the loss of their slaves but the former slaves did not have the right to the slightest financial compensation upon their return). May they never be forgotten.

If you have more information on him, I would be very grateful :)

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Hello, love! Congrats on the follower milestone! I’m sorry I’m so late. I’ve been super busy the past couple of days. If no one has sent in a request for Jack to see Shiv, I’d love to read how that interaction would go. If you want. Please and thank you. You’re the best. ☺️❤️

Sarah, my love! Thank you for sending Jack to Shiv's salon, the cowboy yearning is real ❤️ While this is not Palomino Jack, it's definitely a softer version of him compared to canon. I hope you like it babe!

Shiv's Salon: Jack Daniels

548 words | warnings: Jack is an outrageous flirt, which is an actual endangerment to life. He's also an unapologetic attention whore.

It's the first of the month, which means two things.

One, your favourite ladies - a trio of grandmothers who have been your regulars since you started up the salon - are here for their monthly blowout and tea session.

And two, Jack Daniels will be coming in for his monthly haircut.

You can't help that your eyes flicker to the clock on the wall. You don't know if it's a habit, or if somehow, you can actually sense him coming.

At exactly three on the dot, the door to the salon swings wide open.

You have no idea what he actually does for a living that allows him to stroll in for a leisurely haircut in the middle of the afternoon, but you'll bet those polished western boots have never touched stirrup irons, and the cowboy hat is more for show than for function.

One corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a roguish grin, and he all but purrs in his honeyed baritone. 'Howdy, ladies.'

You roll your eyes at the collective, feminine sigh that cuts through the salon. This man is a lady killer of the highest order and he never misses.

Jack sidles up to you first at the counter, not missing your reaction to his dramatic entrance, holding up your coffee order from your favourite place - he never comes empty-handed.

'No smile for ol' Jack today, honey?'

'Isn't it enough that you have the whole salon fawning over you?' you shoot back without any real sting, taking the paper cup from him and setting it on the counter.

'Don't be jealous, sweetheart,' he chides, leaning across the counter to pin you with his warm, playful eyes. 'You know I have a thing for women in charge, and you're very much the boss here.'

'Hey!' calls out Ashton from where he's adjusting the salon dryer for Prue. 'Don't play favourites now, mister, that's not fair!'

Jack winks at you, then turns to cross the salon with a swagger that is uniquely his, placating his captive audience. 'Ladies, ladies! There's no need to fight over me, there's plenty of this ol' cowboy to go 'round!'

He absolutely loves being the centre of attention and to his credit, he repays it threefold. He asks after Ashton's Grindr escapades, compliments Edith on her new lipstick and thanks Betty for the cobbler recipe she gave him last month.

By the time his adoring crowd lets him go, you're waiting for him by his usual chair, the coffee he bought you buzzing in your bloodstream.

He takes off his hat and tweed jacket, hangs them on the coat rack, then settles into the styling chair, meeting your eyes in the mirror. 'What about you, honey? Still going out with that boyfriend of yours?'

'It will be the same answer no matter how many times you ask - it's none of your business, cowboy,' you answer firmly, running your fingers through his hair to gauge the length.

Undeterred, he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling endearingly. 'You know being mean to me will only make me fall in love with you, don't you?'

You shake your head, and despite yourself, your lips twitch into a smile. 'Is it a threat or a challenge, Jack Daniels?'

He grins. 'Whatever you'd like it to be, sweetheart.'

Fuck Yeah 1.2k Sleepover

[hanayori89]

✨🐺 Sparks Between Fang Marks: Bite from the Beast 3✨🐺

"Are you sure about this?"

Link stood; a majestic vision enrobed in his signature hero's tunic. You grabbed a wooden comb from his bureau and ran it through his unruly bangs.

"What's wrong with my normal clothes? I'm not going into battle."

You stopped combing, rolling your eyes. "For a hero, you sure do whine a lot. Haven't you ever heard love is a battlefield?"

"I just think falling in love shouldn't involve this much effort."

"Effort?" You countered. "Link, you're going on a measly date."

With a surrendering sigh, he stood still as you brushed his tunic, making sure to iron out any wrinkles in its cotton with your fingertips. You ignored the feel of brawn beneath his clothes as you continued to smooth his collar down. The past few weeks, you and 'wolf boy' have grown quite close... as friends.

Sure, there were lingering looks laced with sharp-witted chatter that seemed to hang between you both. The more you seemed to torture Link, the bolder he became. The chemistry between you both had become combustible.

At least on your end.

But your job was to groom him and give him away to the 'one' who would inflame his heart with love and set him free of his curse.

But you found it becoming harder and harder to ignore the little whisper in the back of your mind. This minute, taunting voice seemed to ask you, why couldn't you be the one?

"Y/N?" You looked up at Link to see him observing you in concern. "You, okay? You look like you floated into the mirror of Twilight, never to be seen again."

You give his collar a final smooth down before playfully swatting him away. "Come on, you don't want to be late for a date; it's a poor look."

You both made your way over to Link's horse, Epona. "We must head to Castle Town."

Link hopped onto Epona. The image of him clad in his green tunic atop his horse was sure to make any person's pulse race. Who didn't love a dashing knight?

"Y/N? Are you coming up?"

You looked at him, puzzled. "Huh? You mean ride with you? You don't have a horse for me?"

"What's the point? We can both fit on Epona." He jumped off of Epona and stood before you, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "You're awfully weird today. I'm the one getting tortured with blind dates." He grabbed your waist and began to lift you off of the ground.

"What are you-"

"You just told me we can't be late." Link hoisted you upward, helping you wrap your legs onto Epona and get your feet securely into the stirrups of her saddle. He jumped up behind you. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" His whisper sent a chill down your spine.

Another trickle of his breath hits your ear. "Let's go; I don't want to be out with you when the moon rises."

"I agree; I would like to not be attacked by 'wolf' you again."

A cocky laugh erupted from his throat. "Who said anything about the wolf?"

"Link!"

✨✨✨✨✨🐺✨✨✨✨✨

You both made your way to Castle Town, where the interview for Link's heart was waiting to commence.

You walked into Telma's tavern; the dim lights and blithe atmosphere would be perfect for Link's first date. You made your way to the bar and hid your face behind an oversized menu. You surreptitiously watched as he sat alone at a table.

Wishing you were the one sitting with him.

He looked over at you, and you gave him a supportive thumbs up. You could see the tension melt from his shoulders at the sight of you. He gave you a resolute nod.

A buxom figure strolled toward his table. Her wide hips sashayed purposefully, reminding all of the men in the bar of her spell-binding femininity. A white cat jumped onto Link's lap, startling him.

"Louise! What did I say?"

Telma pulled a chair out, sitting down in front of Link.

"Hey Telma."

"Hey there, sugar. Louise figured she would be your emotional support cat." Link gazed down at the long-haired feline with fur colored like a marshmallow. He massaged her temples, causing her to vibrate with approval.

"Oh, you know I'm waiting for a date?"

Telma bent toward Link, a tidal wave of her cleavage spilling onto the table. He looked away.

"It's a shame you and Ilia didn't work out, but it's not a shame for me..." Her hand snuck beneath the table and landed on his knee, causing him to jolt upright.

"T-Telma, what are you-"

She winked at him. "You need a woman, Link. That's your problem. A man with a body like yours should be praised by the warm, curvaceous body of a woman like me." Her fingers danced up his leg, rattling him.

"Telma, don't tell me you're..."

"Your date? I'm glad you figured it out, honey.

Link shot you a glowering stare, and you shrugged your shoulders. You ignored Telma's hands all over him. You ordered a shot from the bar to bury your jealousy.

"W-what about Renado?" Link asked.

Telma took her hand off of his leg and slammed the table. Louise slowly opened and closed her eyes, oblivious to anything but the attention his fingers were feeding her. "I'm done chasing him! I don't chase men; they chase me!"

Link sighed. "Telma, I don't know what Y/N told you, but I'm looking for love."

"Sure, honey, I can give you lovin' "

"No!" Link put his hand on his forehead and rubbed it in vexation. "I mean, love. Not sex."

"Well, if you change your mind, you're in my bar after all." She got up, her black leather cloak swinging behind her. Louise looked up at him and hissed. She hopped off of his lap and followed behind her scorned mother.

Link looked your way, slowly beckoning you with a few flicks of his finger. You quickly hid your face, ignoring him.

You had a feeling Telma would be too forward for someone like Link, who needed to think he was in control. Link liked to be the aggressor. At least he seemed that way with you.

That's why you enlisted a few other choices.

✨✨✨✨✨🐺✨✨✨✨✨

You buried your face in the menu once again when you saw another contender approach Link's table.

"Agitha?"

"Hi Link!" She sat on the empty chair across from him.

"What are you doing here? The bar is no place for children."

Her legs dangled off of the chair. She stood up so she could stamp her foot and demonstrate her displeasure. "Link, I am 19 now!"

"Oh, has it been that long?" Link gave her an amicable smile. "You have grown into a fine young lady and princess."

"Well, duh, that's why I'm here."

"Oh no," Link swore beneath his breath.

"Every princess needs a prince, and well, you always helped collect bugs for me." Agitha placed a box on the table. Link didn't need to ask to know what was inside of it.

Agitha giggled, a sound reminiscent of when she was the ten-year-old he first encountered. Her blonde pigtails bobbed as she whispered, "Here is the deal; in this box are a bunch of cockroaches. You help me play a prank on Telma, and I'll agree to date you."

Link fell backward, scrambling to get away from the box of eager roaches on the table. You couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous look on his face. Link caught sight of you laughing and growled.

You had to say that growling suited him, even as a human.

"Agitha," Link stood and brushed off his clothing. "I appreciate your offer, but I'm afraid I just need someone a little older."

"HMPH! With that attitude, you'll always be single!" She grabbed her box, storming off, but not before thrusting it in Link's direction and threatening to take the lid off, giving him a jump scare.

You once again pretended to look at the menu until you felt hands rip it from your grasp. "Is this your idea of a joke?" Link got in your face and hissed.

"Telma's boobs and Agitha's bugs? That's what you think is going to make me fall in love?"

"What's not to love about Telma's boobs?"

"Y/N!"

"Oh, alright. Such a crabby wolf boy! Listen Link," you set your hands on his shoulders, trying to calm him down. "You have to understand love comes in all sorts of packages and sometimes in someone you least expect."

The crowded bar offered little distraction from how close he was looming to your lips. You couldn't help yourself, thanks to the magic of the shots you indulged in, you awarded yourself with a quick glance at his. You couldn't help but think about how lucky the winning candidate would be to taste them. "There's a few more applicants. Please, just trust me, okay?"

Link groaned. "Oh, fine! But if none of them work, then I expect you to have a backup plan."

You opened your lips, snapping them shut. You wanted to tell him you had a backup plan.

And actually, the backup plan had been your first plan all along.

You.

Edited:11/10/23

[artifacts-archive]

Stirrup

Scandinavian

975–1075

Though the Vikings are best known as seafaring warriors, through contact with Europe they grew even more adept as cavalrymen. This stirrup, decorated with a distinctive technique of iron inlay, is of a type found in England and may have been introduced in the renewed Viking attacks at the end of the tenth century.

source

[letiel]

Ty Leaves/Khasar Dreams - Werewolf AU

CW: Graphic Images, Torture, sad werewolf

He didn’t like leaving in the middle of the night. It wasn’t smart, safe, or reasonable in the slightest, but time was against him, and Ty wanted every second he could get. The saddlebags were only half full and he left them that way. Less weight, more speed, more ground he could cover, and it would take a couple towns to find any leads.

The cinch creaked and the horse snorted when he pulled the leather tight and started running through his checklist in his head. Before every job, every hunt, Ty would triple check everything. He tapped his scarf, his coat, his bracers, bow, sword, kneepads, and pack. He checked the bridle, saddle, food provisions, water, and medkit.

He adjusted the stirrups and started to mount up when his horse skittered to the side and a firm tug pulled on his heavy coat. Ty reached for his sword and turned but relaxed the second Kai’s giant muzzle let him go to tilt his head.

“What are you looking at?”

Kai leaned forward to nudge Ty’s chest with his nose and Ty roughly pushed him off.

“What do you want, Kai?” he asked irritably, and Kai tilted his head again.

Ty sighed and scratched under his chin. “You know if you really wanted to stop me, I would be hard pressed to fight you off… I have to go, Kai. The last time I caved and let Khasar have his way, you turned into this, and I lost my very best friend. I’m listening to my gut this time.”

The wolf’s ears kept flicking back at forth, listening to Ty talk but otherwise he didn’t react much.

“You know I wouldn’t go if I didn’t trust you,” he whispered to the wolf, reaching up to rub those fluffy ears. “The vampire is up to something, they always are, and Khasar won’t listen to reason. It’s up to us now.”

Kai licked Ty’s nose and he smiled just a little and scratched Kai’s cheeks.

“I’m going to head north. There are tales there of werewolves that can turn back into men for a short while. It may bring you some relief if true and it’s the best lead I have right now.”

He dug around under his scarf for the iron pendant that Evie had made some time ago. It was a symbol of his faith in his brothers, the closest thing they had to a religious relic. With it wrapped up tightly in his fist he tapped Kai’s nose for luck. The wolf licked the back of his glove.

“I’ll be back before the next full moon with a cure for Khasar. He can keep being angry with me until then, just, keep him safe while I’m gone.”

Ty gave Kai another pet between the ears, not even sure if Kai had understood anything he had said. He tucked the pendant away and mounted up on the unhappy horse. The wolf didn’t try to grab him this time.

“Two weeks,” he promised, “I’ll be back in two weeks.”

And then he was racing down the road.    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s the only solution we have!”

“It’s not a solution! It’s plugging a hole in a dam with your finger. What happens when cracks form? What happens when month after month the flood waters grow? What happens when the wall breaks? This was NEVER a solution!” Ty snarled. It was the angriest Khasar had ever seen his brother. Ty was shaking, he was so angry, fists clenched, face contorted in rage.

Khasar met that rage with his own. “You’re only saying no because it’s Ori who suggested it!”

“There is no such thing as a benevolent Vampire. He’s tying you to him, Khasar, and I would rather see you turned wolf than be in the arms of a snake!”

Angry tears welled in Khasar’s eyes as they studied each other with fury. He was shaking now too. Ty could be firm and would raise his voice against others that threatened their family but never, not once, had he ever turned on Khasar with such malice and venom.

“Like YOU have my whole life?” Khasar bit back, “keeping me locked away like a fragile thing! Ori has been nothing but kind and supportive to me since I met him! I love him and trust him! More than I do you! If you don’t like it, then you can leave!”

They glared at each other in silence until the air between them felt too thick to breathe.

“I am,” Ty finally hissed, “and when I get back with an actual cure, I am going to chase that monster away.” Stiffly, with purpose, Ty turned and stomped away.

“I hope you don’t come back!” Khasar yelled after him, caught up in the heat of the moment.

-

Ty slumped forward, his weight supported entirely by the metal cuffs around his wrists, hanging him from the walls, and the hands of the vampire lord cradling his face. Blood matted his hair flat on one side and crusted his cheek and chin from the empty, bruised eye socket.

He was shaking intermittently in staggered shivers and every time he quivered the lord’s thumb would brush lovingly across his cheek beneath his remaining eye. Spindly fingers with long, sharpened nails, the skin of them black to his palms caressed in time to gentle whispers and the flickering candlelight.

Their lips moved, talking to one another, but there was no sound. Ty tried to recover his footing and the dragging chains were eerily quiet when they should have clattered along the stonework. He was still defiant through his exhaustion and the vampire lord smiled; bright red lips on alabaster skin curled in a wicked grin. The thumb brushed over Ty’s eye and the hunter recoiled, but those long and cruel fingers held tightly to his hair, ear, and jaw, further bruising the flesh.

The vampire leaned forward and whispered something in Ty’s ear while he struggled against his bonds. Then he slowly leaned back, tightened his grip, and those long and deceptively strong fingers pressed into the edges of Ty’s eye.

He screamed.

-

The first sound of the dream cut so loud and so full of agony that Khasar bolted awake feeling like he was trying to breathe underwater. He choked on his own panting and coughed until he could suck down a panicked breath. Like all dreams, the details were already fading and only the most emotional sensations remained.  

It took Khasar a second for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The candle had burned out, but the moonlight still trickled through the window filtered by the surrounding forest. He could see Evie sleeping on the other bed, but Ori and Kai were gone. They must’ve gone to get food.

It was suddenly too hot under the blankets, the room too stuffy. Khasar felt haunted and uncomfortable. He got out of bed and stumbled through the house until he was outside and throwing up in the bushes.

Ori had said that the drugs to suppress the wolf could have unexpected side effects. They were three days past the first full moon since Khasar had been infected and the pills had done their work. Khasar was still human albeit a troubled one. He could still feel a squirming under his skin when the moon was high, a patient threat reminding him that Ty had been right about one thing. There was a dam inside him, and the wolf was waiting for the cracks to grow long. If his brother didn’t return soon with the cure he had promised to find, Khasar would surely drown. Maybe not next month, maybe not even for a year, but eventually the medicine wouldn’t be strong enough to hold back the wolf.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbled back to the porch to sit on the stoop with a sigh and to work through breathing exercises. It was so important that he stayed calm, even with those horrible words playing in his head like an echo. The memories he couldn’t do away with, but the subsequent dream? It was nonsense born of his fears, better to forget. Perhaps they could laugh about it when Ty returned to them.

The unease in Khasar’s gut churned and he ran his fingers through his hair for comfort. It had been nearly three weeks since Ty left, he was coming back, right? He resolved to talk to the others in the morning. Maybe it was time to find their brother themselves, scold him for his stubbornness, and get back to being a family.

He waited until his heart stopped racing and the cold was nibbling on his toes. Feeling a little better, Khasar went to the kitchen for a snack, and then back to bed.

[uniasus]

Febuwhump 24 - Day 5 - BBC Merlin

Fandom: BBC Merlin | Prompt: Rope Burns

--------

Merlin hissed, rubbing his wrists. Sometimes he preferred iron shackles – they were usually smooth. But a rough rope, thick and prickly, rubbed his skin raw more often than not. And, like today, left behind a myriad of splinters.

He held his wrists out before him and watched Arthur gently pour water over the red marks. “You sure there’s nothing else to do until we return to Camelot?”

“I don’t want your big hands making things worse. Best we can do is clean and cover. Gaius has tweezers.”

Arthur hummed.

“It’s not your fault bandits use sub-par rope.”

“But it’s your fault you don’t wear bracers.”

Merlin glared at Percival, who threw back his head and laughed. The bulky knight was the only one of the six to not wear a gambeson, but he still had protection around his wrists.

“We’ll excuse me for not thinking the bandits would shove my sleeves up.”

“That was abnormally smart of them,” Arthur muttered, using Merlin’s neckerchief to pat the wounds dry. “They thought you might have a knife up your sleeve.”

Merlin hissed as Arthur pressed too hard. “Smart, but cheap obviously.”

He looked at his wrists. They were a vivid pink, with parts of his skin scrapped off, and Merlin could see the dark bits of splinters from the rope, not just in his wrists but some of his fingertips from trying to undo the knot during the fighting. He had no desire to touch anything, to the point where he was willing to walk to Camelot. Grabbing the saddle to pull himself up. Holding the reins. None of it sounded attractive.

“Anything else?” Arthur asked, watching Merlin circle his clean wrists.

Lancelot, just behind Arthur’s shoulder, held up Merlin’s bag in a question.

“I don’t have bandages, so I guess just use my neckerchief as a cover.” He held out his wrists as if to be tied up again. There was no other way to cover both wrists.

“Nonsense.” Arthur pulled his gloves off with his teeth, then gently pulled them onto Merlin’s hands.  

Merlin winced at the brush of leather over his raw wrists and Arthur’s tugs, but once they were on the pain faded to an ache. Merlin blinked down at his hands, warmly encased in flexible protection. Even his fingertips were covered this way, and the supple leather around his wrists was soft and soothing.

“Thanks,” He whispered.

Arthur nodded, then turned away.

“Mount up. We aren’t that far from home, but with the extra long lunch we won’t get to the gate until after dark. Percival, can you lift Merlin on his horse?”

As if orchestrated, Merlin’s mare appeared on his right, led by Gwaine, and Percival swooped in from behind to provide the boost Merlin normal got from a stirrup step. There’s was a mad scramble, Merlin not wanting to use his hands, Leon grabbing his leg from across the mare’s back, Percival grunting while Gwaine held the horse still, but eventually Merlin was on his mount, panting and feeling very disheveled.

It took way less time for the knights to mount their rides and circle Merlin. He’d completely missed them breaking down their tattered camp while Arthur washed his wrists.

“Let’s go home.” Arthur nudged his gelding forward.

Merlin’s mare fell into step.