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#Heavy warmblood
suspiciousmammal · 8 months
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Friesius, 2017 heavy warmblood stallion
Frieder x Elbcapitän
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horsesarecreatures · 2 years
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Palestrina - Cleveland Bay Mare
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photoeq · 10 months
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Saxon-Thuringian Heavy Warmblood Stallion Erlkönig
Source: https://thepixelnomad.com/sachsisch-thuringisches-schweres-warmblut/
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fuckyeahdindjarin · 7 months
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IX ║ Warmblood
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Jack Daniels x f!reader
{ Part 8: Silver Pony | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }
Rating: E
Summary: The hardest goodbye you'll ever say.
Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, flirting, sexual innuendoes, semi-pubic sex, oral sex (F receiving), risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N
Word count: 7.6k
Notes: Here we are, at the end of the longest packtrip ever, and we did it with only one (1) little meltdown last night 😜 More notes at the end, but I just want to say - this has been a once-in-a-lifetime story for me. If a fic can be a soulmate, Palomino is mine.
Thank you for coming on this journey with me, I love every single one of you ❤️ Last thing, I never do this, but I must insist that you play this song when you get there. You'll know when 🥹
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Warmblood: An athletic, agile horse that is noted for its trainability and usually calm temperament, is commonly used in equestrian competition, and typically possesses Thoroughbred, Arabian, and draft horse bloodlines.
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Your awakening is gentle, soft and blurry around the edges, as if you’re looking through the lens of a Polaroid camera, tinted in sepia. The morning hour creeps across the ceiling of Jack’s bedroom in equal parts light and shadow, the curtains having been left undrawn last night. A crack in the window lets in the faintest breeze, but mutes all the sounds you’ve grown used to seeking out first thing in the morning, when your eyelids are too heavy to lift.
The hum of flying things, feathered or otherwise, charting their flight paths in your head by the buzz of their wings. The brush of the wind like a hand combing through grass and meadow. Even the sun speaks in the morning, raw energy strumming between constantly shifting air particles.
This stillness comes off as almost - unnatural. Even when straddling the divide between sleep and wake, you feel yourself making tiny adjustments to the physicality of being indoors again. Regret stains the corners of your consciousness, knowing it won’t take you long to recalibrate. Your body will return to what it knows, shedding your once-upon-a-time existence in the mountains like a coat discarded at the turn of the season. 
When the mattress dips behind you, sensation floods your veins like a shock to the system, flushing out the pins and needles in your limbs that you haven’t even noticed. Jack is warm and solid behind you, where he belongs. One leg nudged between yours, his sun-kissed arm across your waist, the only thing keeping you from tumbling off the edge. His breath whistles sweetly over the shell of your ear, and you smile. You don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that his mouth is parted in slumber.
The next time you come to, it’s the rude buzz of metal on wood that jolts you out of sleep. You squeak when Jack follows, almost inadvertently shoving you off the bed as he startles awake. But thankfully, his instincts are fully intact, and he catches you squarely in the stomach, biceps flexing as he pulls you back into his chest with an easy strength.
‘Sorry, darlin’,’ he rasps groggily, burying his face in your neck in an apology. You uncoil in a languid stretch, opening up your throat to the rough scratch of his moustache, wanting to feel the burn.
‘Phone, cowboy,’ you gripe when the vibration doesn’t stop.
With a heave-ho, Jack reaches over you to grab it, before falling back onto the mattress so heavily that the bedframe shakes. Rubbing his thumb and index finger over his eyes, he grouses into the receiver, ‘What?’
Teak’s voice on the other line is clear as day even though he’s not on speaker. ‘Where are you, man?’
You burrow into Jack’s side, and the wide span of his palm on your hip holds you to him possessively. ‘Where do you think I am?’
‘Listen. Poppy made sausage gravy and buttermilk pancakes. Y’all know what that means.’
You venture a peek at Jack, whose lips are pursed thoughtfully. You prompt, ‘What does it mean?’
He smiles down at you. ‘She really likes you, darlin’.’
Teak interrupts with a scoff. ‘Like her? She’s basically adopting you, sunshine!’
Your lips wobble - if you soften any further, you might melt into the mattress.  ‘Oh, Poppy.’
‘Look, I’ve been stallin’ them, but they’re fixin’ to break down her door. You lovebirds best get here quick!’
Tossing away his phone without a goodbye, Jack drops a kiss to your forehead. ‘Listen, we don’t have to go anywhere, you stay here and I’ll make you - cereal in bed?’ He pauses with a wince. ‘Actually, I’m outta milk. And cereal.’
You chuckle, reaching up to run your fingers through his endearingly askew bed hair. ‘It’s ok, cowboy, we should go. I need to pack anyway.’
Your tummy takes the inopportune moment to rumble audibly, and he pins you with a knowing look. ‘And you want that sausage gravy, don’t you?’
‘Shut up,’ you laugh, pushing him off the bed.
When you step out of Jack’s bedroom in last night’s clothes after a quick refresh in his neat ensuite, he’s already outside, warming up the Silver Pony.
The house is even cosier in the morning. Facing east, daylight fills every corner of every room, bringing out the patterns in the wooden panels. Your gaze lingers where you can’t. You want to study the cracked spines of the paperbacks on his bookshelf one by one, you want to press your nose into the shirts hanging in his closet, you want to peer around the door to a second room that is temptingly ajar - 
‘Darlin’?’
You look up, and Christ on a cracker - it’s downright unfair that even after a week of spending every waking minute together, this damn cowboy can still make your heart skip a beat just by standing.
Jack is on the doorstep, in what you assume is his ‘off-duty’ uniform. Instead of a plaid shirt, he’s wearing a simple white tshirt with a round neck that is decidedly not sweat- nor dirt-friendly, tucked loosely into the waistband of dark jeans that look a bit more polished, and if you would believe it, even tighter than the pair he wears in the saddle. While it’s business as usual with the Stetson and work boots, something unfamiliar hangs from the neckline of his top.
Plucking the gold-rimmed aviators from his tshirt, you slide them onto your face, winking at him through the tinted lens. ‘Nice shades. Gotta say, I didn’t peg you for such a snazzy dresser off the trail.’
He grins, all tidy teeth with a deliberately libertine edge, clearly enjoying the attention. Scooping you into his broad frame, he drawls, ‘Gotta look good for the ladies in town, y’know. They’re famished ‘cause you been hoardin’ me all week, darlin’.’
With an exaggerated huff, you elbow past him. ‘I don’t know how you manage to zip your ego into those tightass pants, cowboy!’
‘With lots of practice,’ he retorts, smacking you firmly on the backside.
‘Do you need your sunnies?’ you ask as you climb onto the Silver Pony behind him, pushing the aviators a bit higher on your nose where they’ve slid down.
He shrugs. ‘Keep ‘em. Gives you a reason to come back.’
You smile into his broad shoulders, palms sliding to interlock over his soft belly. The bike revs, startling a flock of birds into flight from a nearby tree, and you realise those six little words are the first to breach the subject of what comes after - which will come to be in a matter of hours, with your flight in the early afternoon, a prospect suddenly so frighteningly real. 
But in the same breath, it becomes blindingly clear that you don’t even need to hear the words.
Because you know there is a space for you in his bed, tucked into his body, curled around you. A spot for you under his arm resting on the back of his couch in the living room, in front of a woodfire when it snows outside. A seat for you at the back of his motorcycle, where you are now, breezing effortlessly downhill towards the ranch, the white fences and red roofs winking at you between the gaps in the trees that line the winding country roads.
When you dream in the months to come, you will always smell pine, white cotton, and well-worn leather as the Silver Pony carries you home.
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It’s a shorter drive than you remember. Jack’s watch reads just past half eight when you pull into the parking lot. He kills the engine as you dismount, passing him your star-spangled helmet to be returned to its place in the little cabinet for next time. You’ve turned on your heel towards the ranch when a hand on your wrist grounds you to the spot.
Hands that have made you feel safe, protected, wanted in turn over the past week.
There’s no fanfare, no declarations, as you watch Jack lace his fingers with yours, filling the gaps and the tips curling into the valleys between your knuckles. Palm to weathered palm, calloused from ropework and heavy lifting, you look up to meet his eyes. 
He peers at you, almost shyly, an incomprehensible notion after all that he’s done to you, and what you’ve done to him, across the expanse of the Wyoming wilderness. But there’s a chastity to this simple action, and you find your throat tight when he asks, ‘Is this ok, darlin’?’
Your heart swells, as if it’s going to grow claws and tear itself right out of your chest cavity. Bringing up your tangled hands, you brush a kiss across his knuckles, and his whole countenance lifts with the upward curl of his mouth. 
‘Yes, cowboy.’
The Statesman is putting on a show for your last morning. The sun is out, climbing high into the cloudless sky, with Jack’s aviators bearing the brunt of the harsh glare. It’s déjà vu when you retrace the path you took on the day of your arrival, the same crunch of gravel under your boots, the familiar scent of hay and horse on the breeze. 
The bird’s eye view of the ranch has your breath stuttering just like that first time you cast your gaze on the green pastures and the red roofs. And beyond, like a perfectly painted stage set piece, the Bighorns loom tall and majestic. You’ve seen the mountains in all their incarnations over the past week - they change colour as the sun and clouds move during the day, and sometimes, you swear they morph in shape too. 
It strikes you suddenly that just yesterday, you were but three specks moving across the vast landscape, the realisation almost bowling you over. 
Before all this, it wouldn’t have taken much to convince yourself that you don’t deserve it. That it was the horses doing all the legwork and Jack the navigating, that you haven’t really done anything but sit in the saddle. But something’s shifted, it’s been a baptism by long summer days and the great outdoors - and damn it all, you’re proud of yourself. 
You came on this trip alone, with nothing but a broken relationship behind you, a suitcase full of anxieties and riding gear covered in years of dust and neglect. You said yes, perhaps recklessly, when offered the chance to spend a week alone in the mountains with a complete stranger and the glamour of sleeping bags and portable showers, when it would’ve been easier (and certainly more comfortable) to turn it down. 
Somehow, you’ve come out the other end, long gallops over untouched grassland and starry campfire nights piecing you back together, only to fall so damn hard for this cowboy that you’re sure to break again when you get on that plane this afternoon -
An unexpected tug on your arm has you tumbling clumsily. ‘Jack!’
He arches an eyebrow and remarks, ‘Ain’t heard those cogs in your pretty head grind that loud since the first coupl'a days, darlin’.’
You shrug and, not wanting to sour the mood, deflect his attention with a lighthearted fib. ‘Just realised that I didn’t even come close to falling off once the entire week.’
When he chuckles, the thought comes to you that you’ll miss the way he laughs with his whole body. 
‘You did real good for your first rodeo,’ he pauses, then flashes you a lascivious smirk. ‘You ain’t bad at ridin’ bareback either.’
A rebuke of his crude quip is on the tip of your tongue, but then your nose picks up on the scent of bitter coffee and maple syrup, which is quickly followed by the sighting of the al fresco table set up not far from the grill last night, the singe of smoke and whiskey still hanging in the air.
From a distance, you can see Poppy and Champ engaged in what looks like a heated debate, both gesticulating wildly with fork and knife. On the opposite side of the table, an unbothered Teak mows down his breakfast as if he’s heard it all before, and Ginger is feeding Jameson pancakes under the table.
It’s the younger cowboy who spots you two first. He freezes, brows disappearing under the brim of his Stetson when his eyes flit downwards to your interlocked hands. A huge grin would’ve split his handsome face in two if his mouth wasn’t stuffed full of half-chewed pancakes. The beans are well and truly spilled when Jameson comes bounding over, barking his demands for morning cuddles.
Champ looks up, his argument with Poppy promptly dropped. ‘Aha! There she is! Howdy young lady, we were just wonderin’ where you -’ 
He halts mid-sentence, his head whipping towards his right where the guest lodges are situated beyond the stables, decidedly not the direction you’re coming from. The penny drops as he takes in your hand in Jack’s, eyes wide, and all the occupants of the table seem to inhale a collective breath that stops you in your tracks.
But not Jack. He ignores the gawking with a practised air of been there, done that, and ushers you into the empty seat next to Teak without skipping a beat. Planting a sweet peck on your cheek, he settles to your left and unfolds his starched napkin with a flourished flick of his wrist, which he tucks into the neckline of his tshirt.
‘Mornin’,’ he addresses the silent table in an exaggerated southern drawl. ‘If y’all would be so kind to shut your mouths, you’re embarrassin’ me in front of my lady. Now, pass the coffee if you please, Teak.’
Fittingly, it’s Champ who breaks the silence with a rip-roaring howl of laughter, palms hitting the table so hard you’re convinced everything on it jumps a foot from the surface, the ruckus sending Jameson scampering for cover. ‘Well, well, well! Butter my butt and call it a biscuit!’
Poppy leaps to her feet, halfway to the kitchen before shouting over her shoulder. ‘We’re celebrating! This calls for strawberry milkshake!’
Teak elbows you in the side. ‘Just so y’know, Poppy ain’t the type to make strawberry milkshake for just anybody.’ He salutes you with a crooked grin. ‘Welcome to the family, sweetheart.’ 
It’s a brand of chaos that is distinctly Statesman. Ginger and Champ are fighting each other to load up your plate with far too much food over your protests, Teak pours coffee into your glass and orange juice in the mug, and Jameson is probing your knees under the table for scraps. You meet Jack’s eyes, and he grins back at you with a wink over the rim of his cup.
There’s no reason why you should be this hungry after the barbeque last night, but you don’t stop until you’ve polished off the sausage gravy and biscuits, the welcome richness settling in the pit of your stomach and making you second guess if you have any room left for pancakes.
‘Young lady, I hope this means you forgive me for the strings I pulled to set you two up,’ pipes up Champ around a mouthful of bacon, washed down by black coffee.
‘You’ll hear no complaints from me, sir,’ you reassure him.
He raises a fist in a pantomime of indignation. ‘You wouldn’t believe the grief Jack and Ginger put me through for playin’ matchmaker! I demand a retraction from y’all!’
Ginger raises both hands in surrender. ‘Fine, I take it all back, even if it means you’ll be downright insufferable about it! But I’ll happily live with that!'
Jack slings an arm around your shoulder. ‘It kills me to say it, but you have damn good taste, boss.’
‘Well, y’all know what they say - ain’t a pot too crooked that a lid won’t fit!’ needles Teak.
‘Hey!’ You reach across to slap him on the arm as Jack chuckles behind you. ‘I don’t see you with a lid, you loud-mouthed kettle!’
Teak sasses back, ‘Fine, fine, how ‘bout - there ain’t a man that can’t be thrown, or a cowboy that can’t be rode -’
Right on cue, Poppy’s distant shout interrupts, ‘Tequila!’
Jumping onto his feet, the cowboy winks at you. ‘Hold that thought, sunshine - right away, ma’am!’
Unperturbed by the double entendres, Champ brings the conversation right back around. ‘Well, I do declare, this nosy old man gets it right -’
‘For once!’ heckles Ginger.
‘Joke’s on you, m’dear. I only need to be right once!’
There are oohs and ahhs when Poppy and Teak reappear with the decadent milkshakes in retro fountain glasses, topped with whipped cream and strawberry slices, distributed around the table.
‘So, what are we drinking to?’ asks Poppy.
You turn to Jack, holding up your milkshake. ‘To crooked pots.’
There are cheers and laughs up and down the table, and Jack clinks your glass with a grin as he adds, ‘And cowboys that can be rode.’
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You think about the cassette tapes that you used to watch when you were young. How at the end of a film, the black tape is all rolled up in the right window, and you were always the one to press the rewind button on the VCR. You still remember the whirr of the film as it went backwards, round and round, right back to the beginning.
When the coffee has gone cold and the morning chores come calling, the breakfast table empties, and you hear the click of that button when Jack offers you his upturned palm to walk you back to your cabin.
The tape rewinds as you pack. The outfit you agonised over that first day or your introductory ride with the cowboy has been laundered, and you slowly fold up each piece - the jodhpurs, the plaid shirt, the socks - and put them into your open suitcase.
The tape rewinds as you close the door to the cabin, and Jack carries your luggage across the yard in one hand, yours nestled snugly in his other.
The tape rewinds as you walk by the stables - you nip in quickly to say goodbye to Whiskey and Bourbon - past the main lodge, and the grazing field next to the parking lot.
Putting your suitcase down, Jack whistles with his fingers, the sound carrying in the wind. You see a familiar golden head pop up from across the field, and your nose prickles with the threat of tears as you watch Scotch canter towards you, ears forward and tail swishing with an attitude you can spot from a mile away. Climbing onto the first rung of the fence, you throw your arms around his neck and bury your face into his snowy mane as he snoops around your pockets, always looking for treats.
You pull an apple out of your travel bag, neatly cut in two. Scotch nickers, his velvety nuzzle tickles as he carefully plucks each half from your palm.
Combing through his forelock, you coo at him, ‘I’m gonna miss you, boy. You behave with your rider next week, you hear me?’
The key is already in the ignition of your rental pickup when Champ puts your suitcase and tote bag on the backseat floor, while Teak and Jack load the Silver Pony onto the back. 
Your arm almost falls out of its socket when Poppy passes you the promised takeaway lunch, packed into a chiller bag. 
‘You’re flying Delta right?’ she asks. ‘I’ll call them up with instructions on how to heat up the food. It’ll be good as fresh off the barbeque.’
‘Thank you so, so much Poppy,’ you say as she pulls you into a warm hug. ‘I hope you know you’ve ruined food for me. Nothing will ever come close to being good enough.’
She winks. ‘You’re welcome, honey. Come back soon, ok? There’s more where it came from!’
Ginger is next, and emotion clutches at your chest as you squeeze her slender frame in a tight embrace. ‘Just so you know, I was furious that you wouldn’t give me a refund when I called you up all those months ago.’
‘What can I say? I’m a tough cookie,’ she giggles, and hangs onto you for just a moment longer. ‘I’m so glad you didn’t cancel on us.’
Champ surprises you, forgoing your outstretched hand and giving you a hug for the first time. His tweed suit is softer than expected under your cheek, and smells like pipeweed and leather. 
‘It’s been an absolute pleasure, young lady. I’m sure we’ll see you again very soon,’ he winks. ‘And I’ll be in touch about the social media.’
Three steps away, Teak is waiting with his arms crossed, and he pushes off the truck to bundle you into his embrace, the hug as big and as bear-like as him, which makes you chuckle.
‘Anything parting Southern wisdom for me?’ you quip.
‘I’m all out, sweetheart,’ he says, giving you a pat on the back. ‘’Cept, y’know, that cowboy’s been grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet ‘tater all week, and it’s damn annoyin’.’
Jack rolls his eyes, one palm on your back as he herds you towards the truck. ‘C’mon, darlin’, we should make a move.’
Saving himself for last, Jameson trots up to you with a bark, tail wagging. The grass is warm and tickles your bare knees when you crouch down to give him one last hug, giggling at the wet kiss he leaves on your cheek. 
The leather of the passenger seat is soft as you sink down into it, while Jack closes the door behind you and crosses to the driver’s side. Inhaling deeply as the engine starts with a rusty rumble, you look up when he gives your hand a grounding squeeze.
‘Ready, darlin’?’
You nod, though not entirely convincingly. ‘Let’s go, cowboy.’
The Statesman gets smaller and smaller behind you as the truck eases down the driveway, and the four figures waving in the rearview mirror blur into tiny shadows through the mist of your tears. The metal frame of the vehicle squeaks with the movement as it rolls over bumps on the long dirt track, at the end of which, Jack takes a right with a one-handed turn of the steering wheel onto the main road, and the ranch slips out of sight.
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The midday sun streams through the windshield, hot on your skin. You’re glad you changed out of the jeans from last night into a lightweight dress, a slightly frivolous last-minute addition to your luggage that’s paid off. 
Staring out of the open window at the rolling landscape, it takes you right back to exactly eight days ago when you were driving down the dusty road - except this time, the Bighorn Mountains are behind you, and next to you is a cowboy instead of an empty seat. 
Unabashedly, you watch him drive. His right hand is woven in yours, disengaging only to shift gears every now and then. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes are on the road, occasionally darting sideways to find himself on the receiving end of your attention.
It’s certainly an adjustment to see him in the driver’s seat after a week in the saddle - Whiskey’s, then the Silver Pony’s. But it doesn’t matter, there’s no mistaking the competence behind his every movement, be it to ease his horse to a slower gait with the lightest closing of his fingers on the leather reins, or to redirect the truck with an effortless palm on the steering wheel -
‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer,’ he drawls, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
‘Not long enough,’ you grumble, shuffling in close.
He half-turns, moustache brushing your temple as he murmurs, ‘Have I told you that you look beautiful in that dress?’
You press a secret smile into his shoulder. ‘You sure you don’t prefer me in jodhpurs?’
Untangling his fingers to slide blunt nails under the hem of your dress and up the inside of your leg, he replies diplomatically, ‘I can see pros and cons to both.’
Your breath hitches with a warning, but the instinctive parting of your thighs gives you away. ‘Cowboy -’
You startle at what sounds like a sudden crack of thunder, but it turns out to be an enormous interstate truck charging down the opposite lane. In a panic, your knees snap shut, trapping Jack’s wandering hand between the soft cushion of your legs. To your chagrin, he makes a point of waving to the driver as he passes by.
‘Jack, he definitely saw your hand up my dress!’ you chide.
He flashes you a knowing smirk, and you shudder when he digs into the meat of your thigh with a firm squeeze. ‘Somethin’ tells me you enjoyed that, darlin’.’
Your mouth opens, ready to object, but a familiar heat warms the back of your neck the same time your throat goes dry. It’s the same thrill from last night, in the cellar, not knowing if you’ll get caught bent over a whiskey cask, jeans pulled down just enough so that this cowboy could bury his cock deep inside you. 
Despite yourself, you shift in your seat, and Jack’s knuckles scrape the fast dampening seat of your panties. Choking on a strangled noise, he turns his wrist so that he can rub the outline of your folds through the thin fabric, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel. ‘Fuck. I feel that, darlin’.’
Another car comes down the opposite lane, a smaller sedan this time, and you’re bold enough to spread your thighs, letting him slip under your panties.
The car swerves sharply as hisses at the wetness he finds, fingertip gliding slickly between the lips of your pussy, smearing the mess all over as your hips rock into the contact. 
Through gritted teeth, Jack groans, ‘Darlin’, you’re soaked for me.’
‘Pull over. Now.’
He does - parking haphazardly behind a tree, barely a couple of yards off the main road before killing the ignition. 
You mount him immediately, throwing your right leg over his lap as if pulling yourself into the saddle, the pain an afterthought when your knee jams into the control panel on the door in your haste. Jack grunts as your hips slot flush against his, his usual composure nowhere to be found as he’s caught between undoing his seatbelt, pushing your dress up and scrabbling down the sides of the driver’s seat for the adjustment lever.
The sudden recline of the seatback pulls a squeak from you while knocking Jack’s hat clean off, and you follow to claim his lips in a messy kiss as he palms the swell of your ass.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he bites out, rocking up against your pussy, head thrown back. ‘You’re so fuckin’ sexy.’
He doesn't question you when you climb over him, taking the chance to scrape open-mouthed kisses down your neck instead - and when you sit back down on your haunches, his pupils blow wide at the sight of you wearing his hat and a flirtatious grin.
‘How about now, cowboy?’ you tease.
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing hard as his eyes darken. ‘You’ll look even better sittin’ on my face, darlin’.’
Your jaw goes slack. ‘Jack -’
‘I want to taste you one more time. Need to. Please.’
Something breaks loose inside you, unhinges, and you crawl over the length of his lean body to steal a bruising kiss that has him hot in pursuit when you pull back. The hem of the dress brushes his face when your knees make landing on the backseat, on either side of the headrest he’s lying on. Reaching for the grab handle above, you pull yourself upright, bracing the roof of the truck while you hover over his beautiful nose.
Calloused fingers bunch up your dress to the waist, and Jack hums at the display of your drenched panties, before hooking one thumb around the seams and pulling it unceremoniously to one side.
‘Look at that pussy,’ he groans brokenly. ‘Always fuckin’ soakin’ for me. Just beggin’ for me to taste it, hmm?’
‘Jaaaack,’ you whine on an exhale. Looking down at how he’s so wantonly eyeing you, your back arches with a confidence you didn’t know you have. Thighs splaying wider, you know he hears the slick parting of your folds when he stutters a pained moan.
‘C’mere and let me eat that pretty pussy, darlin’.’
From the moment his lips close around your clit in a sloppy suckle, you know this is a different beast from that first time he took you apart with his mouth, deep in the mountains, under the secret cloak of night. The afternoon sun casts shadows where his brow is creased in studious concentration, his keen gaze flitting from where he delicately holds you open with his fingertips, to your cleavage, to your face, and all the way down again. Every twitch of muscle, every whimper caught in the web of his determination to relish all of you.
In no mood to tease, each measured lick and curl of his tongue hits its mark, your physical reflexes compounded by this show of devastating competence. He draws desperate sounds that you don't even register as your own, your needy cunt leaking all over his face and chin.
‘Cowboy,’ you mewl, reaching down to coil your fingers into his hair, the strands beaded with sweat and sticking to his forehead as he doubles down. Your squirming only makes him tighten his grip on your hips to hold you still, the bite of his fingers bordering on painful. ‘I’m so close -’
The insides of your thighs are cool and slippery, a sensation you’re well used to now, his spit and your slick completely soaking through your panties. His three-day stubble rubs your sensitive skin raw, and the top of his Stetson bumps against the ceiling as you angle your hips to catch his puckered lips where you need him most, chasing friction.
‘Jack,’ you whimper when you feel the first spark of orgasm deep inside you, the spiral instant and relentless. ‘Jack, Jack, oh fuck, - I’m there, that’s it - I’m cumming, don’tstopdon’tstopdon’t -’
Somewhere on the fringes of your scattered mind, you’re aware that the windows are down, not that you can do anything about it now - you thrash and wail and sob his name, all the while he laps at the mouth of your throbbing cunt. The sounds are obscene as he slurps and wrings every last drop of you until you’re pushing him away, nerves firing blindly from overstimulation, choking hoarsely when you catch your breath.
Watching you in a drunken daze, Jack finally draws back with a lewd pop, wiping his thoroughly soaked chin on your knee, which narrowly misses his nose as a violent, full-body shudder ripples through you.
‘Relax, darlin’,’ he cooes. All your joints have capitulated, so Jack has to bodily rearrange you, dislodging your shaky knees from his shoulders down to his sides to pull you in for a kiss. You moan at the sticky release his moustache smears all over your face, the taste of yourself thick and heavy on his tongue.
His brown eyes snap open when you sneak between your bodies to palm his erection through his jeans, voice strained. ‘Darlin’, we ain’t got the time -’
Deftly undoing his belt, that damned flask-shaped buckle that looks as ridiculous as the first time you laid eyes on it, you assure him, ‘Don’t worry, it won’t take long.’
He arches an eyebrow, taking in your face shadowed by his cowboy hat, but stays put otherwise, almost docile as he lets you take the reins. ‘Is that so? And you’re so confident, how?’
Shoving down his boxers and jeans, his cock springs free, hard and ready. With a brazen grin, you sit up and line yourself up to the swollen tip, declaring, ‘Because I want you to cum inside me, cowboy.’
You’re not sure if it’s you sinking down on him, or him snapping his hips upwards. All you know is that by the time your head catches up, he’s driven to the hilt inside you.
‘What are you - fuck you’re so tight -’ he wheezes against your lips, giving you no pause as he ruts into you recklessly, the crude slap of skin on skin filling every space the truck. ‘Whatcha mean by cummin’ inside you?’
‘I don’t know how I can be more clear, cowboy,’ you sass, when a particularly deep thrust almost jolts you off his lap.
‘But you’re not on birth control, darlin’ -’ he tries to reason.
‘I’ll take the morning after pill as soon as I land,’ you promise, holding his unfocused gaze. ‘Do you trust me?’
The wind is knocked out of you when his strong arms pull you flush to his front, his answer immediate and irrevocable. ‘With everythin’.’
There’s too much going on. The coarse scratch of denim on the inside of your thighs, his nails scraping down your ass, the desperate whimpers he leaves in the secret place behind your ear. The air grows humid and thick as Jack feels himself slipping, your pussy gripping him so tightly that his eyes threaten to roll back into his skull.
He gasps in a breathless warning. ‘Darlin' -’
‘It’s ok, cowboy,’ you croon, fingers carding through his dark hair. ‘I want to feel you deep inside me. All of you.’
His bones rattle with a vicious shudder at your words. Snarling, he bucks into you at a pace so unrelenting that you cry out with each snap of his hips. 
‘Gonna stuff you so fuckin’ full,’ he vows in between slippery kisses. ‘Been wantin’ to since the first time. Gonna fill your pussy with my cum, darlin’, you’ll be drippin’ with me for days -’
‘Yes yes yes do it cowboy, please -’ you beg, voice cracking.
‘Look at me,’ he orders, nostrils flaring as you knock foreheads. ‘Look at me while I fuck you full, darlin’.’
Choking on a whine, you feel him swell inside you until he teeters right on the brink. The raw need in his eyes robs you of your breath, and you grow faint on empty lungs as you sway with him -
And then his neck strains, his hips jerk, and you feel his abdomen cave in on itself when he lets go with your name on his lips, and his on yours. A primal roar fills your ears as he pumps you full of him, spilling into you again and again until all you feel is his cum hot and deep inside you, flooding your cunt, his whole body spasming as he pants raggedly for air.
A carnal musk hangs ripe and sweltering in the confines of the truck. Floating on a lazy stupor, you draw soothing circles on his quickly rising and falling chest through the aftershocks, his tshirt clammy with sweat, heart pounding under your palm.
Jack reaches up to push off his hat so that he can see all of you before pulling you in for a lingering kiss. When he softens, his spend dribbling slow and hot out of you, two thick fingers nudge between your thighs, and your back arches when he tenderly pushes it back inside.
His plea is a hoarse mumble into the side of your neck. ‘Keep me in you, darlin’. Take me with you.’
You nod, and smile, ‘Always.’
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The airport is tiny, and Jack seems to know everyone you cross paths with. From the security guard at the carpark (previously a groom at the Statesman) to the staffer at the car rental counter (Champ’s nephew), he’s busy tipping his hat and dispatching howdy’s left, right and centre.
‘Small town, huh?’ you quip.
He hums, ‘Welcome to cowboy country.’
And he definitely knows the brunette checking you in at the airline counter, all the while glowering at you over the top of your driving licence.
‘Ain’t seen you 'round town much lately, Jack,’ she says, affixing you with a none too subtle glare.
‘Y’know how it is in the summer, always busy,’ he replies a touch too politely. As soon as he drops your suitcase onto the baggage belt, he wraps one even less subtle arm around your waist and pulls you pointedly into his side.
You bite your lip as the woman’s eyes narrow and she aggressively punches your details into the computer system, surprised that the keyboard doesn’t break. Once your suitcase is on its merry way, Jack wastes no time spiriting you away from the counter without so much of a fare-thee-well.
You burst into laughter, elbowing him in the ribs. ‘Brrrrrr. That was cold!’
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, admitting, ‘To be fair to her, she didn’t catch me at my finest moment.’
‘Do I want to know?’
‘Let’s just say there ain’t enough of this ol’ cowboy to go ‘round for the ladies in town,’ he winks.
‘Well, I hope they know there’s about to be even less of you going forward,’ you sniff primly.
Preening at the possessiveness in your tone, Jack ribs, ‘A tragedy, some might say.’
You huff, but can’t help a smile. ‘Well, aren’t I lucky to have roped you in, cowboy.’
‘And she can’t even lasso!’ he teases, leaning down to steal a kiss.
Feeling eyes on you, you duck your head, protesting, ‘Jack, people are looking.’
‘Let ‘em,’ he counters, prompting a gasp from you when he brazenly squeezes your ass through your dress. ‘I’m stakin’ my claim, darlin’.’
‘You already did in the truck, cowboy,’ you remind him, instinctively rubbing your thighs together, feeling the weight of his cum wet in your panties.
He hums, as if he knows, the sound deep and satisfied. His lips linger at the crown of your head, and he holds you close with his whole body, wrapping himself around your soul.
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All too soon, the old-fashioned Solari board you’re sitting under whirrs into action. The retro split-flap display spins and flips with a mechanical staccato to spell out ‘final boarding call’ next to your flight number, one of five scheduled for that afternoon. 
Stubbornly, you turn your face into Jack’s shoulder, inhaling him. He smells like horses and dappled sun filtered through leaves in a tree - you wish you could distil it into a bottle and take it with you.
You’re in denial, that much you know. You’ve warded off the thought of leaving too well, compartmentalised it and pushed it down somewhere it wouldn't be able to resurface.
But that’s the irony - even if you can keep it buried, it doesn’t change the fact that your suitcase is in the belly of the plane parked on the runway, that you’re about to leave Wyoming behind and put thousands of miles between you and this cowboy, who has gone uncharacteristically quiet as the minutes tick down.
Eventually, he murmurs slowly into your hair, as if the words are physically weighing him down. ‘C’mon, darlin.’
Your feet are heavy, dragging, and Jack has to practically strong-arm you out of the airport terminal and onto the tarmac. He holds you as you loiter at the back of the queue, until the crowd disperses, and the stewardess at the top of the boarding stairs gives you both a knowing but firm look.
That’s when the tears spill over the seams of your lashes where they’ve been teetering, held back by sheer willpower and clenched teeth. Ugly sobs bubble out of your throat, and Jack pulls you into him, his own voice thick as he rocks you soothingly. ‘It’s ok, darlin’. I’ll see you before you know it.’
‘But when?’ you wail, almost petulantly.
He answers with no hesitation, and it’s obvious to you that he isn’t just thinking on his feet, that he’s been making plans, but kept it close to his chest. 
‘We have back-to-back pack trips the next three weeks, so I can’t get away. But next month, after the Kingsman’s rescheduled bookin’, I’ll take a whole week off.’
‘That’s an entire month away,’ you grumble into the soaked front of his tshirt.
‘I know, but you’ll need time to plan all the things we’re gonna see,’ he jokes, recalling your fireside conversation. ‘You’re gonna take this country mouse to all the museums and art galleries and all kinds of big city adventures, ain’t that right?’
You give him a watery smile. ‘I stand by the sex and Thai takeaway in bed plan.’
‘Even better,’ he answers, and you hold onto the way the crease of his smile lines bring out the soul in his eyes. ‘I’ll call you, darlin’, ok?’
Somehow, you muster the good humour to tease, ‘The cool kids FaceTime nowadays, and I hear your phone doesn’t have a working camera.’
He laughs, and you can’t quite tell if it’s tears clinging to his lashes, or if it’s a trick of the light. He thumbs away the wet streaks from your cheeks, nose brushing yours in a solemn promise. ‘I’ll get a new one.’
‘Just for me?’
And then he’s kissing you, plush lips slanting across yours, dragging slow like honey. When he pulls back, he breathes, ‘Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’
Jack has to physically unclench his fingers to let you step back. When your hand slides out of his, it takes him everything not to pull you back, or run after you up the stairs. He grasps the railing so hard his knuckles go bone-white as you turn back to him one last time at the aircraft door.
You blow him a kiss, your smile brave but wobbly. ‘Goodbye, cowboy.’
He swallows hard, wanting to be strong for you, but still, his voice wavers. ‘I’ll see you, darlin’. So soon.’
You nod, your tears catching the afternoon light as the stewardess ushers you into the cabin.
Then it hits him. 
You’re not going to be in his arms when he wakes up tomorrow. You’re not going to be there when he reaches around for you - your face, your neck, your voice.
You’re not going to be there.
Jack watches your tear-streaked face appear at one of the windows, and he tries to smile at you, wishing he’d insisted on one last kiss. The heat from the jet engines and the sun is bouncing off the tarmac, but he’s cold, so cold, that his fingers have gone stiff. Nothing feels real, as if he’s been wrapped in cling film and dunked underwater, and he almost doesn’t hear the voice to his left.
The air traffic controller says apologetically, ‘’Mfraid we gotta clear the runway, sir.’
He fumbles over his words. ‘’Course. Sorry.’
Pressing his index and middle fingers to his lips, he waves the kiss at you, which you catch with your palm against the glass. Determined not to miss one single second, he slowly walks backwards with the controller beside him as he waves the batons.
He says sympathetically, ‘It’s always hard, but it gets easier.’ 
Jack glances at him with a questioning look.
He chuckles good-naturedly. ‘You ain’t the first lovelorn cowboy I seen on this runway sayin’ ‘bye to his city girl.’
His lips quirk despite himself, eyes still on you even as the plane slowly taxis away. He says, ‘I sure hope you’re right, man.’
With one last wave, the plane pivots, and you disappear around the bend.
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Empty. He feels empty.
The sadness is helium in his chest, inflating between the gaps of his ribs, and he feels himself drift even with each footfall of his heavy boots on the concrete, while a dull ache ricochets in the hollow spaces of his skull.
Grappling for an anchor, Jack forces himself to focus, one thing at a time. Key in the ignition, twist, the whirr of the engine. Switching on the radio, it cackles between the frequencies as he straps his Stetson to the backseat, then swings one leg over the saddle and puts on his helmet.
The static starts taking on shape, lyrics and guitar riffs cutting through the white noise and catching his attention just as he wraps his fingers around the rubber grip of the handlebars.
I want to ride off on a palomino
Feel the fire in my breath and the breeze in my hair as I go
Why the hell am I even looking back for?
For I know, where you go my love goes
For I know, where you go my love goes
He misses the ghost of your arms around his waist, the slope of your nose tucked into his nape. He misses you. He wants to see your face the minute you get off that plane on the other side of the country. He wants to hear your voice before he goes to bed tonight. He wants to tell you mornin’ first thing tomorrow when he gets up. 
As the 737 roars overhead, the shadow passing over him, he wonders if you can spot him from the clouds. 
He’d better crack on and get to the shop in town before it closes.
Steering smoothly out of the parking lot, Jack takes a left, the Silver Pony kicking up dust with a purr as she cruises down the country roads -
The same country roads that brought you to him.
Fin
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More notes: I've been writing fanfiction on and off for the past 17 years. Corny as it sounds, it feels like everything I've ever written has been leading up to this fic. I put my heart and soul into Palomino, and it's repaid me tenfold. It gave me the chance to write about my love for horses, to fall in love not only with cowboy Jack, but with Darlin', Teak, the entire cast and the horses, this whole universe that I built in my head. And it gave me all of you - the most wonderful, supportive friends and readers I've had the pleasure of writing for.
I hope I will have the chance to revisit the Palomino universe one day. But for now, I'm ridiculously proud for finishing this series and for giving it the ending it deserves. I don't think I will ever write a fic that I love so deeply again. Palomino was it for me, and I'm forever grateful that I got to share this incredible journey with all of you.
There are some special people I need to thank, please forgive me if I leave anyone out, I appreciate each and everyone of you ❤️
LJ @prolix-yuy: The wonderful friend and writer who made me fall in love with cowboy Jack in first place with her epic Westworld Whiskey series, which is also coming to an end next week. I've said this many times and I'll never stop saying it - there would've been no Palomino if not for LJ. Thank you for being my inspiration bestie, you are the literal best.
Ash @mandoblowmybackout: My OG bestie and fellow cat mum, one of the first people I screeched about cowboy Jack to, I treasure our friendship so much, thank you for your support.
Maddie @imaswellkid: Maddie, thank you for being in my corner throughout Palomino and for holding my hand when I need it (which is often). Talking to you about Palomino in person - well, talking about anything and everything to you in person - was one of the most surreal moments of last year, and I'm hoping it won't be long before I see you again.
Sil @psychedelic-ink: Sil, light of my life, thank you for always being there for me, for listening and talking me down from the ledge many times. I'm so lucky to have you, and to have you love cowboy Jack as much as I do. Talking to you is always the highlight of my day!
Peaches @ohsomightypeaches: Screaming at you/being screamed at by you about anything cowboy Jack is always so much fun, and not just Jack, but also Teak, Champ, etc.. Your love for this series is beyond infectious, thank you for your support and for always making me smile!
Skye @iamskyereads: Skye my love, I believe I was admiring you from afar when you popped up in my notifs with a reblog of the first chapter, and I remember how excited I was! So grateful that Palomino brought you into my life.
Heidi @wildemaven: Thank you for gifting Palomino with not one beautiful video edit, but also a gorgeous moodboard! You are an angel!
Jules @julesonrecord: My fellow cowboy aficionado, your enthusiasm for s'mores and Jack always makes me smile. Thank you for your support, truly.
Jo @mvtthewmurdvck: Thank you for listening to me rant and rave and holding my hand during my meltdown. I'm so grateful for you!
Snowsuit anon: It's always a joy to hear from you, and I will hold you forever responsible for sparking the snowsuit craze (affectionate) 💙 Thank you for your support my lovely!
A special shoutout to my lovely readers who have followed Palomino from the very beginning. Thank you for sticking with me, I really feel like we went on this trip together, all of us: @lola-lola-lola, @harriedandharassed, @witchisenpai, @miss-mandalorian, @fireproofmarta, @dreamymyrrh, @inkededucatednnerdy, @toomanystoriessolittletime, @freakrenaissance, @axshadows, @damnyoupedro, @thosewickedlovelies, @peridotsparadox, @radiowallet, @sherala007, @shirks-all-responsibilities
And needless to say, thank you for every single one of you (I wish I could tag everyone but we'll be here all day!), every comment, reblog, ask, tag for Palomino. You have been an absolutely joy to write for, your love and encouragement kept me going, I really don't know how I've been so lucky, y'all have my heart forever ❤️
Last but not least, thank you @saradika for these adorable dividers!
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skycowboys · 3 months
Note
What is the largest Pegasus in your setting?
Hi there!
There are a few contenders -
A mythical pegasus called the Megasus. They manifest in a couple of different legends - sometimes they manifest in dense storm clouds, and other times they're a sasquatch-style beast.
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On the more tangible side, there are heavy broadwings who max out at about 17-18 hands with big, big wings compared to their bodies and to the wings of other broadwings. These pegasi need long runways and aren't very agile. They aren't the usual choice of a pilot but they're good for beginners due to their easy temperaments and "slow" flying.
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There are also big, big longwings who get to the 18-20 hand range but are lighter and more agile like warmbloods and thoroughbreds. These are perfect for specialized pilots who want or need to fly hundreds and hundreds of miles in one go.
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Meanwhile the average longwing is about 16ish hands:
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~ Larn
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horses-in-art-history · 6 months
Note
If the netherlands has friesians, America has mustangs, and Saudi Arabia has arabians, what breeds come from sweden?
There are a few to pick from so I'll just list them here and I've included some of my own photos of each breed so you can get a better idea of their characteristics. There are no "historical" pictures included, so this is a bit of a departure from what I normally do so I hope people don't mind.
Svensk Varmblod (SWB)
Sweden has the Swedish warmblood which has been very successful in showjumping, dressage, eventing, and even driving. As of 2018 it is the most common horse breed in Sweden followed by Icelandic horses and then warmblooded trotters (two non-native breeds). In 2018, of the top two highest ranking show jumping horse and rider duos, both horses were Swedish Warmbloods (Hanson WL and Albfuehren’s Bianca). The examples below are of two Swedish Warmbloods in more commonplace use as all round riding horses.
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Nordsvensk Brukshäst and Kallblodstravare
The North Swedish Horse (Nordsvensk) is a native breed of heavy horse. It is still popular for riding, driving and farm work. Lighter lines within the breed are bred for harness racing and are registered in the stud-book of Svensk Kallblodstravare, that is to say Swedish Coldblood Trotter. This split happened in 1964, creating a heavier working-type and a lighter trotting horse. The Swedish, Norwegian and Finnish cold blood trotters are the only ones that exist in the world. One of the most famous Swedish Coldblood Trotters is probably Järvsöfaks. He holds the current world record for Coldbloods in wins, consecutive wins (42), and the coldblood trotter world record time, 1:17.9 per kilometer. The photos bellow are of the heavier type (Nordsvensk Brukshäst).
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Svensk Ardenner
The Swedish Ardennes is it's own breed and the result of crossing the imported Ardennes horses to the Nordsvensk. The breed was developed in the late 19th century in response to demands within agriculture. They are a medium-sized draught horse breed that are still used in areas inaccessible to machinery to haul timber.
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Gotlands Russ
The Gotlands Russ is an old breed of Swedish pony. Feral horses on Gotland have been documented since the 13th century, but in the mid 19th century settlers caused their numbers to decline and despite a breeding centre being founded in 1880 there was only 14 left in 1922. In the process of rehabilitating the breed two Welsh stallions were used. The stud-book has been closed to outside blood since 1971. They are good all round ponies that are often used for harness racing.
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twola · 11 months
Text
Devil's Backbone : Limpany III
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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries
Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.
Limpany III: Cleanse the Shallow Root
“You best know better than to quarrel with Leviticus Cornwall.”
CW:  racism, violence, injuries, death. you know, the normal RDR stuff.
➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next
“If that horse snaps at me one more time , it’s off to the glue factory with it. You hear me, Mister Shaw?”
Amos stands outside the enclosure with his hands on his hips, a scowl on his face. His hat, covered in mud, lies within the fence, perilously close to a set of hooves that move with a sense of irritation.
“Amos, he’s not an ass to anyone not deservin’. Maybe you should be nicer to him and he won’t bite at you.” Frederick rolled his eyes, leaning on the fence next to the older man. 
The ranch hand huffs. “Now that’s a lie if there ever was one. That horse is a nasty ol’ bastard even to your wife, and she ain’t got a mean bone in her body.” The horse in question plods closer to the two men; a tall, sooty Warmblood. Its dark tail swooshes at the flies around the paddock. 
Frederick grins, raising his hand toward the horse, who edges closer to him. “C’mere,  Aethon. You’re not that bad.”  The horse sidles up to Frederick, allowing him to pat down his nose. Frederick looks over to Amos with a boyish grin as he runs his other hand through the horse’s dark mane, to prove a point, flaunt manhood, or maybe both.
“Namin’ that horse after a god sure as hell gave it a complex.” Amos waves his hand in dismissal, heaving himself over the fence and grabbing his hat while Aethon was distracted. He hurries and climbs over the fence again, wary of the large workhorse. The older man slaps his hat against his thigh a few times to loosen the dirt from it.
“Amos, you aren’t heading out anytime soon, are you?”
“Nah, I figure we’re good on supplies, there’s plenty of work to do around here.”
Frederick nods. “Good. I… I think it’ll be good for Ruth. For people to be here in town for a minute.”
Amos doesn’t meet the younger man’s gaze. He grunts in agreement, staring down at the ground. Frederick pats the horse’s head one last time before sighing and stepping away from the paddock. The ranch hand places his hat back on his head and his hands rest on his belt. “ ‘M sorry, bout what happened, Mister Shaw.”
Frederick grimaces, looking at the ground as well. He kicks at a stone beneath his boot. He reaches toward a brown leather Stetson hat slung over a fencepost. Between his fingers, the worn leather cracks and bends slightly before he places it on his head. 
An awkward silence falls upon the two of them, punctuated by the sound of the Warmblood’s hooves scraping the ground, its heavy breathing through flared nostrils.
“Y’all look like you’re hardly working out here. Running out of things to do?”
The men both look up to find you standing at the back door, hands crossed over your chest. You’re clad in a brown velvet vest over a cream-colored blouse, belted over a mauve skirt. Your blonde hair is gathered at the nape of your neck in a black threaded snood, pinned behind your ears. Quirking an eyebrow, you tap your foot in mock frustration. “I know that horse is difficult, but it doesn’t take an hour to feed him. You two are just gossiping out here.”
“Missus Shaw, by the angels! Did you see the sign? I got it put up out by the road.”
You roll your eyes, strolling over to the fence where the two men were loitering.  “C’mon, the both of you. One of the gents who just stopped in the saloon said he passed a wagon train with several workers heading this way. They may be here by supper. We’re gonna need everyone in the saloon.”
Amos tips his hat, “Yes ma’am,” he looks at Frederick, “You, uh, heard the boss, sir.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. Fumbling with it, he strides off, around the paddock toward the front of the cabin toward the street.
“I meant you too, Mister Shaw.” 
A smirk crosses his features. He didn’t shave this morning, a slight shadow of stubble adorns his jaw. You can’t help but smile back, this husband of yours still makes your heart flip flop in your chest like the day you first saw him, years ago.
“On my way, Missus Shaw.”
He shuffles by you, grabbing your waist and pulling you to him with a laugh. He slots his lips against yours in a searing kiss before pulling back, squeezing your hip as he goes to follow Amos.  For a few moments, you watch him, before shaking your head slightly and smoothing your skirts down. You pull at your brown velvet vest, smoothing a crease that appeared over the flare of your waist. 
The horse in the paddock notices you, moving slowly toward your side of the enclosure.
“Today the day you’re gonna be nice to me, Aethon?” You ask, nervously raising your hand to Aethon’s head to pat it. The huge horse must notice your nervousness and agitation, because he quickly draws his head back, flaring his nostrils before nipping at your hand with his teeth. You gasp and pull your hand back just in time to avoid getting bitten.
“Nope, not today, you damned horse.” You retort at the huge beast, cradling your hand that very closely escaped a grizzly fate. A fading pink scar in the webbing of your hand was a permanent reminder of Aethon’s temper and how hard he could bite.
A shout pierces the air of the late afternoon, and you glance over toward the saloon across the way. More travelers seem to be stopping in Limpany daily, which leaves the saloon and store busier than ever. Soon enough, you’ll be able to hire more than just Ulysses and Amos to help. Hire them some help.
Frederick’s inheritance covered most of the costs of building the saloon and store, and the few small cabins dotting the hillside. Somehow, Stockdale was able to convince the state of New Hanover to fund the building of a Sheriff’s Office and the stone jail built into the sloping cliff.  Having seen how he operates, you're sure that Hilliard Stockdale knows the right people to ask favors of or whose pockets to grease with future investments.
You lean against the fencepost, watching Aethon pace around the enclosure, uninterested in you. Certainly, if someone had told you a year and a half ago you were building a town in the farthest reaches of New Hanover, you would have laughed.  
Sighing, you gather your skirts and walk across the muddy path around your cabin, heading to the lane that divides Limpany, and to the saloon where a couple of travelers have ridden up to. Glancing toward the river, you pause, before moving quickly toward the entrance to the little hamlet, toward the well-worn road on the banks of the Dakota. The afternoon sun glinted on the river’s waters, gently flowing down toward Flat Iron Lake. Covering your eyes from the light, your peer southward, where the black steel of Bard’s Crossing lies in the distance, connecting New Hanover to West Elizabeth.
Turning northward again, you stride through the grass, under the large oak tree. You move around two stakes in the ground, supporting a wooden panel at shoulder height. You can’t help the quirked smile that graces your face, as you take in the view. 
WELCOME TO LIMPANY
Hands on your hips, you breathe in deeply through your nose, sighing contentedly. Behind the sign you painted lies your life, the settlement that you now call home. After several years of roaming, across deserts and mountains and prairies, you finally settled here, at the bend of the Dakota, building a town from the ground up, building the dreams Frederick had breathed life into those years ago.
The crash of glass breaking on the wooden floor was really nothing new, not in a saloon, not where ranch hands and oil riggers; cattlemen, and travelers gather. Not where men live rough lives on the unforgiving land. Not here, not in Limpany.
This, however, was a bit much, even for Ulysses. And that was coming from years working in bars and saloons, from Saint Denis to Blackwater.
“Alright, that’s enough. You two best leave. You’re done here.” He angrily glares at the two cattlemen who had taken to laying themselves across the bar, knocking over their heavily used glasses, and smashing them to pieces on the floor. One of them sits up, swaying unsteadily. “Y- y’ don’t tell me how to l-live, ya…”
He falls off the stool to the ground, limbs splaying every which way while his partner howls in laughter from the bar. Ulysses groans, rolling up his sleeves, brushing his hands off on his apron before rounding the bar. He grabs the man from the floor, dragging him by the collar. “Out, now, ya drunk.”
The man pushes away from him, stumbling several steps into a table. He grunts in a drunken huff, turning back to Ulysses. “Get off, don’t touch me, you dirty negro!”
Ulysses scowls, his hands coming to the drunken man’s collar again, pulling him from his reclined position on the table, “I told you twice, get the hell out of here. Don’t make me drag you out to the shit-covered field you came from.”
The compatriot of the man Ulysses was currently dragging off the table stood from his stool, knocking it over while bellowing at the scene drunkenly. He stumbles toward the two, grabbing Ulysses’ shoulder and trying to pull him off of the other man. Ulysses swings back against the second drunk, pushing the first man to the ground. “God damnit, you sons of bitches!” 
“Now that’s enough!” A voice bellows from the doorway, where Sheriff Stockdale strides in, drawn by the commotion and breaking glass that could be heard from outside.  The portly lawman rushes forward, grabbing the man struggling with the barkeep by the collar and yanking him to the floor. Ulysses grunts in appreciation, turning back to the first ranch hand, who was crawling along the floor trying not to be seen. He was doing a poor job of it.
“Ulysses,” Stockdale shouts over his shoulder, “these men are disturbin’ the peace. I’m placin’ them under arrest, will ya help me escort them over to the holdin’ cells?”
The barkeep smirks as he leans over the man on the floor, yanking him up by the collar and pulling him toward the door of the saloon. “Sure, sir, let’s take a walk.”
Stockdale grunts, heaving the drunk to the right out the swinging door, and the man yelps and rolls into the street, groaning in the mud as the sheriff stalks out of the saloon and down the two stairs leading to the lane. Ulysses follows, dragging the second man out with his hands under his shoulders, finally, the man had stopped struggling.
This is the scene you come across as you pace the lane from your cabin toward the front door of McCluskey’s Saloon, “Sheriff?”
Stockdale looks up from the man suspended underneath his boot.  “Missus Shaw, mind you these gentlemen who are gonna spend the night sleepin’ off their rudeness.”
You roll your eyes, giving Stockdale and Ulysses a wide berth as they gathered the two men as best they could to drag them toward the small jail built into the hill. “You boys need help?”
Ulysses grins, looking up from the ground where one of the men lies. “No ma’am, but we just shoulda had you handle them in the first place, they’d run toward the hills before dealin’ with you.”
He stoops down on one knee, grabbing the drunk by the waist and heaving him over his shoulder. The inebriated ranch hand glances up at you, barely making eye contact before laughing, suspended in midair.
“Oh, s-this the town whore? H-How much to warm my bedroll tonight?”
The sheriff backhands the man across the face, knocking him silent. “Ain’t no one talk about Missus Shaw like that, you damned louse,” Stockdale shunts the second man onto his shoulder, and grasps the clinking skeleton keys on his belt, “C’mon, Ulysses, no more disturbin’ the peace from these sorry sons-of-bitches.” He tips his hat to you, “Ma’am,” and manhandles the other drunk behind Ulysses, dragging him in the mud toward the small stone jail at the edge of the hill.
“Startin’ early, I see.” 
You place your hands on your hips, turning your head back toward the saloon. Amos stands at the door, a lit cigarette between his lips. You shake your head, “Let’s hope that wagon train they told us about is a bit less rowdy.”
Amos grunts in agreement, dropping the cigarette to the floor and crunching it under his boot. 
“Christ, did’ya buy enough potatoes?” 
Ulysses wipes his hand down his face in exasperation, “That’s the last time you let Amos go on a supply run by hisself, Mister Shaw. The fool don’t know anything bout meal that don’t come out of a can!”
A giggle escapes before you can slap a hand over your mouth. Ulysses and Frederick, on either side of the large table in the back room of the saloon turn to you.
Your husband glares, “I don’t know why you’re laughing, dear, you’re the one who's gonna have to peel all these up.”
“Well then, I best be gettin’ to work, and hope that this wagon train is hungry.” You reply cheekily, reaching for the paring knife on the table and a potato from the heaping pile spilled out between the men.
Ulysses turns and waves his hand backward in dismissal. He grabs a bottle of whiskey from a shelf and moves back to the saloon floor. “Potato soup with a side of potatoes, gonna be a real hit around here.”
Frederick shakes his head, sighing before rubbing at his temple with one hand.
“Oh come on, it’s all in a little fun. I’ll make sure I go with Amos next time he goes to Valentine. I still haven’t been up there.” You laugh, trying to assuage your husband’s stress.
He cracks a smile over thin lips. “Amos could use some guidance …- ”
“Amos could use some babysitting …” you interject, pointing the knife’s edge at him in jest for a second before you return to peeling a potato.
Frederick snorts, bemused. “You are the wisest woman on the face of the earth, Missus Shaw.”
You smirk back at him, one eyebrow raised, “Course I am, someone has to run this town.”
“Hey, Mister Shaw! Wagon train’s here!” Ulysses yells from the front, “Amos, get your ass back there and help Missus Shaw with the cookin!”
“Shit,” Frederick mutters, pulling a pocketwatch from his vest, “sun’ll be down shortly too. Didn’t expect them this quick.”
You toss the peeled potato into a bucket of water, reaching for another one. “It’s fine. Give the boys a drink and we’ll have a pot of soup ready within the hour. It cooks fast. Get Amos back in here peelin’ spuds and I can get it out even quicker.”
Frederick nods, moving toward the door, “Amos, c’mon and help Ruth out!”
You smile to yourself, peeling the brown skin from the potato with the knife in your hand. It falls to the table in neat ribbons. By the time you have peeled your fourth potato and thrown it into the bucket, you turn toward the door, wondering where your help is. You sigh, placing the knife on the table and wiping your hands off on the apron tied at your waist.
Pushing through the door, you’re about to give Amos a piece of your mind until you enter the main room of the saloon. From behind the bar, you see that a large group of men have entered, spreading throughout the room, sitting at various tables, at the bar, and mulling about. 
One in particular stands in front of your husband. Frederick’s arms are crossed over his chest, which usually isn’t good. You catch Ulysses’s eye, who warily glances from you back to the large man in front of your husband.
“You Frederick Shaw?” The leader, a grizzled-looking man with black stains on his work jeans, eyed Frederick up and down.
“Yeah, how can I help you?” Frederick replies with a hint of skepticism in his voice.
“Misters Spence and Cornwall urge ya to reconsider their offer there, Mister Shaw.” The man drawls, hands resting on his belt, a holstered revolver barely in view under his leather jacket.
Frederick’s eyes narrow. “Misters Spence and Cornwall know my answer. And they know they can’t do anything legally to change my mind or take my land.”
The man in front of him snorts, running his hand through his scruffy beard. “Now, ya see here, Mister Shaw, that’s the wrong answer .” He nods to another man over his shoulder, a large brute of an oilman, with hard eyes and hands permanently stained black, “Hartley.”
The man named Hartley moved forward, a dark scowl on his face. He slams his palms on a circular table in the center of the room, grasping it, and throwing it over. Glass crashes and breaks on the floor as the tabletop splinters.
“Gents, I think Mister Shaw here needs come convincin’.” The leader laughs, as a few men fan out and start smashing chairs, overturning tables, and throwing glass against the wall and floors.
“That’s enough!” A voice booms from the swinging door.
Hilliard Stockdale stands in the doorway of the saloon, his recently polished badge bright on his chest. “By authority of the State of New Hanover, I order you to stop,” he drawls in a low, cold voice.
The men stop their destruction, eyes on the sheriff. The leader moseys, completely unconcerned, toward the middle-aged lawman.
Stockdale places his hand on his holstered revolver. “Now, you boys best be leavin’.”
“And you best know better than to quarrel with Mister Cornwall.”
The deafening roar of a gunshot pierces the air.  Within the confines of the saloon, it echoes loudly. Your hands move to cover your ears instantly as you scream, unable to silence yourself as the scene unfurls into chaos. The sheriff coughs, his hand slowly moving to his chest. He touched his sternum, pulling his hand back, covered in blood. He coughs again, blood sputtering from between his lips. Hilliard Stockdale’s eyes roll back as he falls to the floor. The world seems to move in slow motion.
You scream again, your hands trailing from your ears to your cheeks, your eyes wide with horror from your vantage point behind the bar.
You’re tackled to the floor, dragged below the bartop, and shoved down, a hand on the back of your head. “Ruth, c’mon, come with me!” A harsh whisper in your ear. You turn your head slightly from the floor, seeing Ulysses hovering over you, his hand moving from the back of your head to between your shoulders, grabbing at the back of your shirt and pulling you toward the door to the back room. He lets go once you raise yourself to your hands and knees. You crawl toward the back room, remaining crouched to the ground until you reach the table you had just been working at. Pulling yourself up, you gasp, your heart racing.
“Y’alright? Miss Ruth?” Ulysses places one hand on your shoulder and the other on the small of your back. 
You nod, placing both of your hands on the table trying to catch your breath. Ulysses nods, grabbing a large butcher’s knife from the table, “You stay back here, Missus Shaw,” he says urgently as he moves back toward the floor of the saloon.
Glass breaking and wood smashing reverberated from the main room as you try to catch your breath, you slowly move around the table to face the door, grabbing at another knife as you hear men shout and raised voices from the other room.
The door bursts open and you hold the knife ahead of you, knowing that you would have to claw your way out of this situation.
“Ruth!” Frederick moves around the table as you lower the knife. His temple trickled blood as he grabbed a long fire iron from along the side of the wall. 
“What’s happening? Who are those men?” You yell, wide-eyed while still grasping the butcher’s knife.
“Ruth, get in the house and lock the door. There’s a rifle behind the wardrobe in the bedroom. Go now. ” Frederick orders, ushering you out the back door of the saloon. 
“But-!”
“ Now , Ruth, I mean it.”
“Frederick-”
 “ Calluna .”
You stop, knowing that this fight is over. Your nose crinkles as your eyes water. “Be careful.”
“I will.” Frederick grabs you, kissing your forehead, before pushing you out the door. 
You gather your skirts and run behind Amos and Ulysses’ cabin, hoping that the men outside the saloon don’t see you dart across the lane. You edge closer to the stone structure of the jail, hiding behind it. Ducking around the corner, you look at the group of men perched outside the saloon. There had to be fifteen of them, surrounding a wagon loaded with what looked like barrels. You just had to make it around the Sheriff’s office before you could sneak into your house.
Breathing heavily, you run towards the wooden building, hiding behind it. You hear a man inside, furniture moving, glass smashing. It's obvious that he’s looting the office. What does he have to fear now? Sheriff Stockdale lies still on the saloon floor, bleeding out into a puddle.
From the back of the sheriff’s office, you steal the last few meters to your cabin, wrenching open the back door and locking it. You rush to the front window, falling to your knees to hide yourself as much as possible and still have a vantage across the lane to the saloon.
There have to be fifteen men, several of them standing on the saloon’s porch, mulling about. You look at their wagons further down the lane, closer to the riverbank. Three wagons were full of what looked like barrels, painted blue. Two men pull a barrel out from the wagon, walking it together back toward the saloon and the men’s cabin.
They set it down against the wall of Amos’ cabin, one man brushing the other one back as he pulls a matchbook from his jacket. He kicks the bottom of the barrel before taking several steps back. Lighting the match, he flicks it toward the barrel, which ignites with a burst of flame, and the cabin’s wooden frame catches alight. You gasp, dread pooling in your stomach as you watch several of the men unloading the blue barrels from the wagons, walking them toward different buildings.
You squint to look clearer at a barrel placed on the saloon’s porch, and can barely make out the name CORNWALL stamped on the wood. This wasn't happening. You had heard that Leviticus Cornwall was pushy, but this? Arson, murder?
Where was Frederick? Amos? Ulysses? Were they all still in the saloon?
Another barrel is lit, and you can see out the edge of the window that the Sheriff’s office next to your cabin is ablaze.
Shouts bring your gaze back to the saloon, where the door bursts open and two men drag Ulysses out, throwing him to the ground. He struggles to get up, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, as one of the men kicks him back into the mud, laughing.
One of the men pulls Ulysses up by the collar with one hand, the other one unholstering the revolver from his belt.
Again, the world seems like it moves in slow motion as the man points his revolver at Ulysses’ head and pulls the trigger.
You barely cover your mouth as you scream. Ulysses’s body hits the ground, lifeless.
There’s little time to mourn, as one of the rough men outside the door hears the noise through the window, making unfortunate eye contact with you before you duck underneath the window frame, your hand covering your mouth as you edge on hyperventilating.
“Why Miss, don’t you want to let me in?” The man yells, pulling hard on the locked door, “Darlin’, please!”
You hear laughter as you rush away from the front door and into the bedroom, throwing the door closed behind you. Rounding around the room, you push hard against the wardrobe in the corner of your room, pulling out a rifle from behind it. Glass breaks in the background.
You jerk back the bolt of the rifle as you raise it toward the door, cursing yourself for all the times Amos offered to show you how to shoot and you brushed him off. Expecting the door to be broken down, you aim the rifle at the door, squinting with one eye, ready to shoot whoever came in. You didn’t expect the glass to break on your side. You scream, nearly dropping the rifle, and throwing yourself to the floor. The bedroom window glass has been broken out by a flying object.
You look along the floor and curse, realizing that the window had been broken out by a bottle of whiskey wrapped with a burning rag, flaming across the floor. The rug along the floor immediately caught fire, and you jump to your feet, grasping the rifle and running toward the bedroom door back to the main area of the cabin. 
The door is hot, which you painfully learn by grabbing the metal handle. You yell, stumbling back, cradling your hand as you drop the rifle to the floor. Black smoke starts to creep under the door, along with the burning rug on the other side of the bed, the room begins to fill with smoke as the fire spreads quickly. You back into the far corner, coughing as you slide to the floor as the flames grow.
The heat, blazing, suffocating, choking  - you’re curled up in that corner of the room, shielding your face from the fire that surrounds you. It is deafening, the sound of the wooden cabin alight. You cough against the thick and hazy smoke, unable to see, unable to breathe, unable to escape. What used to be a post of your bed falls a few feet in front of you, exploding into sparks as you scream, trying to pedal yourself back against the wall.
“Frederick!” You yell again, hoarse, praying that your husband could hear you, but in the pit of your stomach, you knew neither he nor anyone else could. You throw yourself to your stomach, pulling yourself on your elbows against the wall, you had to get out .
A low-pitched groan of breaking wood was the only warning you received as one of the rafter beams collapsed to the floor. You were barely able to cover your head before the piece of the beam crashed down, knocking the wind from your lungs as it pinned your upper body to the ground. You scream, a hoarse, cursed sound, as you try to pull yourself out from underneath it, for not only was it trapping you, but embers chipped away at the wood, so hot against your shoulder.
It was too much. The heat, the smoke, the pain, the violence. This was it, this was where you were going to die, burned to death in the house you built, as the town of your design burned along with you. Your eyesight starts to fade in and out as you cough, trying to dislodge yourself again, in vain. Your shoulder hurts so much, it's so hot, why won’t it stop ? Above the roar of the fire, the groan of wood breaking, the sounds of dreams dying, you swear you could hear your name.
“Ruth!”
It must be a dream, you must be dying. The weight lifting from across your body must be the sweet release from these earthly bounds.
“Ruth! Ruth, come on, say something.”
It was Frederick, pulling, yanking, grasping at you.  Blood cakes the side of his face. You feel, rather than hear, the scream that escapes your lips as your husband grasps your shoulder to pull you from under the charred piece of wood.  His hand pulls away quickly, but you feel his arms wrap around your ribcage under your arm, he throws that arm across his shoulder. He pulls you up, attempting to walk you along the wall. 
You stumble, and Frederick winds his hands around your waist and he heaves you over his shoulder, you moan in pain as he moves quickly through the remains of the house, kicking the back door open and stumbling to the rear yard, coughing as he sinks to one knee to let you down from his shoulder. Another set of hands grabs you, pulling you as you trip and stumble on unsteady feet.
You hear Aethon scream in the background, the horse’s hooves hitting the ground hard in agitation.
“Darlin’, Ruth, come on, up you go.”
“A-Amos?”
You’re heaved up, hands pushing and pulling as you groan in pain, barely able to keep your eyes open. You’re barely able to stay upright, tipping backward.
“Ruth, love, stay with me.” 
Frederick’s voice is soft in your ear, and you are jostled forward again, but you feel his arm wrap around you as he pulls you back, against him. 
You’re atop the damned horse, and with a sudden burst of energy, you jerk back to awareness. Frederick is in the saddle behind you, Amos tries to steady and calm Aethon as the horse stomps angrily. You gaze past the paddock, where smoke and flame reflect as far as you can see. Your cabin, the store, the sheriff’s office. The saloon. All of Limpany burns before you.
“Go, Mister Shaw, I’ll be right behind you,” Amos yells, backing away from Aethon and moving toward his own horse across the paddock.
A gunshot pierces the night and Aethon rears with a scream. You groan as Frederick pulls hard on the reins, his arm clenching you hard to him as he tries to keep you both from tumbling off the large work horse. Frederick curses loudly, digging his spurs into Aethon’s sides and pushing the horse to move, breaking through the gate of the paddock and into a gallop toward the road on the riverbank.
“Amos…” You trail off into a moan, your hands trying to hold onto Aethon’s mane to steady yourself. Fortunately, Frederick’s hold on you is steady and strong.
"Amos is dead, Ruth.” He grits out, digging his spurs into Aethon again, pushing him faster, harder. A pained sound escapes you, and every jolt of the horse’s gait goes right to your shoulder, bursting in pain, pain, pain.
Your eyes roll back- Surely, this must be a nightmare. Surely, this must be a terrible dream. One you’ll wake from and Limpany will be as it was this morning, bright and full of the promise of the future. 
“Ruth-!”
Unconsciousness steals you like a thief in the night.
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fuglyhorses · 6 months
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hey I'm considering getting a horse mostly for dressage, and I love drafts but would it be an issue since they're bred for heavy work? I don't want to make a horse do something it wasn't meant to
Honestly, I believe that every saddle horse should have some level of dressage training because establishing good posture and smooth communication is beneficial to any other discipline. There are certainly drafts who are competitive in dressage and will thrive if that’s your focus, but there are other horses who are designed for it to a greater degree if competition is your first priority. It depends on what level you’re intending on asking them to achieve but no, I don’t think you could call dressage training damaging for any horse unless you truly don’t know what you’re doing or they’re not physiologically suited for riding at all. 
I’ve known Percherons, Clydesdales, Shires, and many draft crosses who have been good dressage horses. Look for individual conformation that implies dressage potential: a deeply sloped shoulder, long pasterns, strong hindquarters, correct leg angles, a short back, an arched neck with good muscle, and a strong topline are all good signs. If you find a horse who naturally defaults to good collection and uphill movement, half your work is already done. Finding a draft with those qualities is totally possible, especially in the breeds mentioned - you’d be more likely to find those qualities in a warmblood specifically bred for dressage, but as always, breeding does not guarantee talent, individual conformation is critical, and proper targeted exercise can improve muscling to an astonishing degree if you’re willing to put in the work. 
Tl;dr: dressage-targeted breeding is not a prerequisite for dressage and you can absolutely find a draft you’ll be happy with. Not all will be great at it, but some will, and you’re unlikely to do any damage trying. 
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kayforpay · 3 months
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Rubs my little rat hands I think Gamjane could fit good for the worship square on that bingo chart...
Despite the inherent issues related to a new world, one thing that had been shockingly easy was settling into Jane's hive. Or, their hive, together, now. Jane always said our place when she talked to people about it, and Gamzee, for the first time, really enjoyed that someone gave him ownership of something he never directly asked for.
Granted, this was something he actually wanted to own.
"My prettiest fuckin' gal." Gamzee's face pressed into the soft skin at the side of Jane's neck, and she giggled, wrapping a hand around the base of his horn. "Flush'a my life. Darlin'."
The kitchen chair he was sitting in when he pulled her into his lap creaked when she wiggled in his hold. "Gamzee, your hands are cold! And I was making something, you know." Jane turned to kiss his ear, her lipstick smearing on his skin.
He hummed, squeezing her stomach and nuzzling his face against her. She was right, his hands were cold, but they were quickly warming against her skin. Humans ran much hotter than trolls, even warmbloods, probably. He hadn't really tested it. The squeezy thing on Jane's rumblespheres rolled up, pulling the edge of her shirt up as it went, and she yelped between laughs as he wrapped his hands around her spheres, fingers brushing over her nipples.
"Gam, honey, what're you doing?" Jane asked, sliding one hand up his arm to cover his own hand. Her hand was so much smaller than his, her palms softer. He pulled it up to kiss her knuckles, purring. "Are you gonna let me turn the oven off before you finish taking my shirt off?"
Gamzee hummed, teeth dragging against her neck. "Mmmmmmaybe. Gonna have to carry you somewhere nice'n soft to keep this up." He slid his other hand down her front, over the soft swell of her stomach, to pull her skirt up.
"What got you so riled up, anyway?" As she slipped out of his hold, Jane peeled her own shirt over her head, dropping it and the undershirt thing she wore on the floor. The oven beeped to let her know it was off, and she turned just before he was clinging to her again, and caught his face between her palms. "Not that I mind, my silly valentine."
His face split in a wide, silly grin, and he leaned down to kiss her, licking the taste of her lipstick and then into her mouth. She broke away when he lifted her up, pulling her legs around his hips with both hands on her ass to hold her up. "Cuz you're so pretty, Janey. Specially when you're hummin' to yourself while ya cook." He purred, slowly stepping away from the counter she was trying to lean on.
"G-Gamzee, I'm too heavy, I'll fall!" She hissed, pushing at his shoulders until he froze, letting her lean on the counter again. "L-let me walk, okay?"
He lifted her a little higher, pouting. "I'm not gonna drop you, Janey. You're not too heavy for me to carry." He flexed his arms, and stepped back, so all she could do was lean into his chest. "See, baby? I got you."
Jane's face was hot, flushed against his neck. "I just don't want you to strain yourself. I'm not light." She tightened her hold around his waist, fingers digging into his skinny back.
"I'm not. And even if I was--" Gamzee stopped, one foot up on the stairs towards their bedroom, and kissed her again, lightly. "It'd be worth it, gettin' to hold onto a gal as sweet'n fine as you."
Her face was still hot when he set her on the bed, but she was smiling again, and ran a hand through the messy curls on his head. "You're making me blush, Gamzee. You don't have to say it so much." She closed her eyes when he pulled her glasses off, and opened them when he kissed her forehead.
"D'you not like it? I'll stop if you don't like it, but I just, y'know." He set her glasses aside, and slid to his knees between hers. The zipper on the side of her skirt clicked as he pulled it down, and she lifted her hips to let him pull it down. "I just think you're so fuckin' pretty. So cute." He breathed, leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses to her collar and chest. "Love you s'much, Janey."
Jane's thighs pressed against his ribs, like she was trying to squirm them closed, and he dragged his tongue over her rumblesphere, pulling her nipple into his mouth. "I don't dislike it, it's just embarrassing." Her voice pitched slightly higher when he cupped his hand against her crotch, pressing base of his palm against her.
He trailed kisses over her chest, and bit her side, careful not to bruise, before moving to her other breast with a soft whimper, nosing against her skin. "Nothin' embarrassing 'bout bein' so fucking gorgeous. Hard to keep my hands offa you, Janey." Gamzee's other hand slid up her side, and stroked her bottom lip with his thumb.
She bit her bottom lip, and held his hand while she laughed sheepishly. “You’re cute, Gamzee.” Jane’s lips were curled into a smile when they pressed to his palm, and her eyes were half-lidded when Gamzee peeked up at her from where he was kissing her tummy.
“Thank you, Janeybug. Always so sweet t'me." He leaned his cheek on her knee, and stroked her thighs, after he took his hand back from her hold. "Wanna lay down?"
Jane laid back, and laughed again when Gamzee pulled her knees over his shoulders. She was about to say something when he pressed his open mouth to the front of her panties, letting his tongue drag over the silky fabric, and she squealed. Her hands dug into Gamzee's hair, nails dragging around the bases of his horns. He purred against her, hands wrapped tight around her thighs to hold her still when she squirmed.
"W-wait, let me take these off, Gam." She mumbled, each breath she took coming out in a soft sigh. He hooked one of his fangs over the seam of the leg hole, and ripped them open. "Gamzee--"
Her voice trailed off into a husky moan while Gamzee pressed his mouth against her, and she pulled his head against her more firmly. The hardest part of this, Gamzee had learned, was that he wanted to cling onto her with all his strength, squeeze her and hold her still so she couldn't wiggle out of his hold. He wanted to sink his fingers into the soft flesh of her thighs, but he couldn't do that. Jane bruised, and bled, and although she never complained or told him that he couldn't do it, he felt bad.
Instead, he satisfied himself with running his hands over her body while he pressed his tongue into her nook. He couldn't remember what she called it, and it was similar enough to a nook that he didn't really think it was that important. Her back bent, pushing her hips up into Gamzee's mouth, and her hands brushed into his own as she moved to grope her chest, her voice getting higher. He licked a stripe up her nook, circling it around the nub up above it before taking a second to tear her panties off the rest of the way.
"So pretty, Janey. So good." He mumbled, mouth leaving messy trails on her thigh when he kissed it. "Love you. You're so fuckin' hot, feel like I could spill just lookin' at you."
Jane's hands moved back into his hair, and she slid her knees off his shoulders. "I love you, Gamzee. Are you not gonna join me?" She cupped his cheeks, and he crawled over her as she sat back the rest of the way.
"Always spoilin' me, Janey." He mumbled, smiling against the plush curve of her shoulder. Jane pushed his pants down his skinny hips, and Gamzee breathed a little sigh when her hand pressed to his sheatheslit. "Motherfuck, you're so warm."
Not that it was a surprise, which she reminded him of every time it came up, including this time. At least, until he kissed her again, and she couldn't talk. It didn't take much for his bulge to snake out and wrap around her wrist, and she didn't hesitate in leading it towards her nook. Gamzee's fingers sunk into the bedspread while his bulge's blunted diamond-shaped tip slid against her folds before finally pressing into her.
Jane moaned, her head falling back, while Gamzee's bulge moved deeper into her. His own breath was coming short by the time they were flush together, and Jane's voice was low and rolling in moans. She had mentioned once, when he had pestered her into telling him what she liked, that the way he would mostly grind against her, as opposed to thrusting, was a plus. His bulge writhed and twisted, and he did his best not to bruise her ass when he held her.
Her lips brushed his ear with each moan, her arms tight around his shoulders. Most of her moans were soft, restrained, but she said his name, over and over. He couldn't think past how she sounded when she said it, pleased and breathless and gods her breath was so warm against his skin, her skin was so hot, her nook was almost burning.
When she came, her nails dug into his back, dragging deep furrows into his back while she clenched around him, hips jerking against his. Her wetness slid against his pelvis, and before he even had to ask, she bit his ear, just as hard as she ever dared, just hard enough. He whimpered, twitching, and spilled into her.
"S'good." He mumbled, thighs twitching. He fell to the side to avoid landing on her, and tucked is face into her neck again. "What were you makin'?"
Jane hummed, running one hand over his back in soothing circles. "Spaghetti. Are you hungry now?" She wiggled, pushing herself away from the edge of the bed.
"Mm. A little. Did just have a snack."
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thenixkat · 1 year
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Riding wyverns are primarily used by warmbloods and darkbloods as a source of transportation, communicating long distances, and as hunting partners.
While coldbloods do use them for communicating long distances and as hunting partners they don’t use them for transportation as coldbloods are too heavy to ride hens outside of very young foals. Instead they use breeds of riding wyverns with sturdier builds in the hens to pull carts and wagons as they’re easier to train and better tempered than cattle.
Riding wyverns can also be milked for their venom for use in certain weapons. Their quills can be harvested to grind into medicine that can be mixed with certain herbs into a paste that works as a muscle relaxer.
Due to their vigilant nature and loud alarm calls, riding wyverns see use as herd guardians and livestock protectors. They can be trained to herd cattle and salamanders, even able to fly after spooked cattle that try to fly off to collect them. 
They can also be trained to gently collect foals that get into places where adult centaurs can’t reach like on roof tops or in trees.
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suspiciousmammal · 9 months
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Elbcapitän, 2002 heavy warmblood stallion
Elbling x Capitän
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aeriona · 1 year
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✨HER✨. The best lady. We love and appreciate her.
(both Dia and Fane have references i’ll post soon lol)
more random Zora facts under the cut!
Like i said under Dakoza’s ref, it is quite common for overweight or highly muscular Zoras to have very heavy thick tails that drag along the ground and make mobility difficult.
Zoras have short, stubby legs that can tuck in against their body while swimming pretty well, but once again it has the negative side effect of making them rather slow. On the battlefield, this race tends to favour spears as their weapon of choice, as they help to work around the Zora’s lack of manoeuvrability and they can also be carried underwater with little issue (unlike bows and a quiver, which would just be a disaster).
Zoras are not coldblooded or warmblooded, but somewhere in between. They are poikilothermic (real word), meaning that they are able to adapt to a very wide variety of temperatures. Generally they prefer cooler climates and don’t really require heat, which is why Zora’s Domain has no proper insulation (walls, everything is made from stone) or heat sources (except for that one campfire in the inn, where Hylian tourists will often stay). Zoras do like to bask though. When it is sunny, the stone of the Domain will soak up the heat and they will lie in it all day long.
Zoras have a ridiculously good sense of smell, they can detect blood from nearly 200 meters away. Funny story but when Link and Mipha were children, this is actually how Mipha was able to tell that Link was injured without even needing to see the wound, as she could smell the blood on him *long* before he even showed up to the Domain. For years Link thought she had weird, magical healer senses or something.
yeah so that was a lot, but that’s all i got lmao. I like biology.
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horsesarecreatures · 2 years
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Maremannos of the 1980s
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plaidbooks · 2 years
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Homegrown chapter 5
A/N: Another snapshot of these two, and it covers Stargazing in @adarafaelbarba trick or treat bingo!
Tags: none
Words: 1028
Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart @adowbaldwin
Lyra stretched her arms above her head as she rolled out of bed. She then went to the bathroom, starting her morning routine. Glancing in the mirror, she smiled affectionately at her mess of hair. The red strands dangling down her back in a thick tangle was impossible to brush…for a human.
Muttering a soft spell, Lyra focused her magic on her unruly locks. She felt her hair untangle, slithering like snakes until it hung limp. With practiced hands, she took the soft hair and braided it before wrapping it up into a bun and fastening it there. Lyra adored her hair, but it often got in the way, so she normally wore it up in the day, only taking it down to wash and sleep.
Her plan for the day was harvesting and watering in the garden—no need to wear her overalls. Instead, she pulled on a sunflower-yellow sundress. She smiled in the mirror as she twisted this way and that, letting the fabric swing around her hips. Giggling softly to herself, Lyra plucked her (Marthe’s) basket off the floor by her door, then headed down to the kitchen.
Unsurprisingly, Marthe was up and moving, even early in the morning. She must have heard Lyra get up, because the tea Marthe made for her daily was on the table, still steaming.
“Thank you, Marthe!” she called out, happily taking a sip. It didn’t matter where she was; Lyra knew she heard her.
“Yer up early,” a voice said from the doorway to the garden, and Lyra grinned.
“Morning, Eric,” she replied with a smile. She was a little shocked that someone like him was up this early; he seemed like a heavy sleeper. “Did you sleep well?”
He raised an eyebrow as he came fully into the kitchen, dwarfing her easily. “Did ya forget I’m a vampire, sweetheart?”
When she only gave him a confused look, he huffed out a chuckle; he was getting used to explaining things to her. “Vampires don’t sleep as often as warmbloods do.”
“Oh…how often do you sleep, then?” Lyra asked, curious—she always was, especially with him.
He took a moment to think, adding it up. “Once every other week? Maybe less if I’m busy.”
“Woooow,” she said in awe, entranced by this man and his life. “What do you do all night, then?” In a small voice, she added, almost to herself, “I could get so much gardening done.”
Gallowglass chuckled, shaking his head in the way Lyra adored, his shaggy hair bouncing. “Family business mostly. But sometimes, I read, or plot the next sailing trip I wanna take. Sometimes, I even just go somewhere quiet, watch the stars appear, then disappear in the morning.”
He was so soft when he said that last part, and she was struck with a yearning to see him like that, just soft and vulnerable—something that seemed rare with him.
“That sounds…magical,” Lyra muttered, eyes sparkling.
He smiled down at her. “Stay up with me tonight, and I’ll show ya the stars.”
************
Lyra spent her day in the garden, Gallowglass by her side, just chatting. And, as promised, he took her to the tallest tower in Sept Tours that evening. He explained that it was Matthew’s room, but since he was gone, they could be there.
He laid a blanket on the ground—normally, Gallowglass didn’t mind the cold, but he didn’t want Lyra to freeze in her summer dress, sitting on cold stone—then helped her sit. He sat next to her, head craned back to look at the sky. It was autumn, so the evening was still comfortable, but the cold winter breezes were starting to creep in.
Only the first stars were starting to appear in the darkening sky, and they both told stories from their cultures. As more and more stars appeared—and constellations were visible—they took turns pointing them out. Neither of them noticed how close they were cuddling together, both lost in the stories and each other.
“That group there is Noctua, the Owl. She grants us wisdom resourcefulness. It’s common during Mabon to burn a rat tail and bones in a tribute to her,” Lyra explained.
“Those two stars there?”
“No, just below those—see those three together, then the fourth a short way away? That’s her talons.”
Gallowglass pointed, “oh, those ones?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
After a moment, Gallowglass pointed up to another group of stars. “That there is Malus—the mast of the ship Argo Navis. Ya can see Carina, the keel, Puppis, the deck, and Vela, the sail—” he pointed to each part in the list— “she was a mighty ship, one that sailed over the edge of the world and into the stars.”
“Oh wow,” Lyra whispered, following his finger, “that group there?”
“That’d be her…. I wish I had a chance ta sail her….”
She let the silence hold for a moment before she asked, “you really love sailing, don’t you?”
“I do—if there’s anything that’s touched my heart in my long, long life, it’s sailin’.”
Lyra shifted to look up at him, but his eyes were still on the stars. The sight of the little pinpricks of light reflecting on his face made her smile for reasons she did not know. Resettling next to him, she stifled a yawn, not wanting this night to ever end.
“Tell me about your last sailing trip,” she muttered, leaning against his chest.
Gallowglass smiled before starting his tale. He talked passionately for hours, only stopping when he glanced down and found Lyra out cold, curled against his side, head on his chest. His eyes flicked over her sleeping face, unconsciously memorizing every detail he could.
Lyra awoke in the morning, tucked carefully into her bed. A smell of sea salt and mint graced her nose, and she opened her eyes to find Gallowglass’s leather jacket laying across her torso. On the bedside table was a note, and the scratchy writing said:
Sorry about the jacket, but your body was cold from the night air. Hope you slept well, and I’d love to take you sailing one day
~Eric
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ravenouswreckage · 1 year
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(( ............
..... Merfolk always love heated things, but heat and warmth on their genitals feels ESPECIALLY good for them. It’s not uncommon to see fancier merfolk sex toys that are heated in some manner or another, either to replicate the body heat of another merfolk, or something even warmer, even approximating the body heat of warmblooded species.
Barring the stimulation of interlocking texture, merfolk also get off on pressure to their genitals, moreso than other types of touching. Deeper pressure and heavy grinding is best for them, and lighter touches might just tease a merfolk.
If someone were to sit at the very base of Miranda’s tail while she’s laying down on her back, and they were to especially push down against her tail, then this could be a very effective method for getting her off.
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iinfighting · 1 year
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some headcanons/details to kick this blog off-
—hubert can produce a heilig bogen like everyone else, but is a much more talented swordsman, both mounted and out of the saddle. there's a violent streak to him, one that wants the excitement of a real fight as opposed to a spar
—we all know this but he doesn't like children lmao. he doesn't handle insolence or insubordination well at all.
—hubert is a senior officer, hence why he's almost always seen mounted. in some respects the sternritter have stayed with military tradition, higher-ranking officers addressing the men on horseback being one of them.
—he's been riding in a military context for >1000 years now, and is very, very talented. he's toned, with a remarkable sense of balance, and reads animals very well.
—despite his generally ill temper and aloof nature, he is genuinely bonded to his mount, a bay Rottaler mare named Mädchen (transl. Girl) of heavy warmblood type, about his age—a more difficult ride with a slight personality, but an animal he is well equipped to handle.
—he's non-schrifted, an upper level soldat.
—he smokes from time to time, a habit he picked up from sternritter who came in from the human world.
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