All I’m thinking about is Bucky fingering reader. Maybe he’s driving the car home and she ovulating and squirming and he’s like fine this should hold you over and starts fingering her. Or maybe during a makeout session he pushes reader against the wall and makes her hold eye contact. Or maybe he holds reader in front of a full length mirror and makes her watch as he’s uses his fingers on her.
IN THE CARRRRR....sorry, i lost the plot after that
--------
You’re squirming.
You’ve been squirming for twenty minutes. Legs pressed together, then apart, then together again. Fingers flexing on your thigh. Breath coming out in these little shaky huffs that are way too loud for a quiet drive home.
Bucky glances over from the driver’s seat, jaw ticking.
“Doll,” he warns.
“I’m not doing anything,” you lie through your teeth, shifting again because your body is buzzing—too hot, too needy, too aware that you’re ovulating and that the man beside you could ruin you with one hand if he wanted to.
He does want to.
He always wants to.
But he’s trying to behave. Trying to be decent. Trying not to pull over on the shoulder of this dark, empty road and fuck a baby into you like he’s been thinking about all night.
You wiggle again—subtle, but not subtle enough.
Bucky’s grip tightens on the steering wheel.
His voice drops. “If you move one more time, I’m gonna think you’re begging.”
Your breath catches. “…I’m not.”
“Liar.” He exhales hard through his nose. “You’re ovulatin’, aren’t you?”
Your silence is all the answer he needs.
He mutters a curse—low, filthy, reverent—and the sound of it slides straight between your legs. You’re warm, soaked, throbbing, and you swear you can smell yourself on the leather seat.
“Jesus Christ.” Bucky shifts in his seat like his jeans are suddenly too tight. “Knew somethin’ was off. You’ve been lookin’ at me like I’m dinner.”
You swallow. “Maybe I am.”
He laughs—dark, disbelieving. “You tryin' to kill me?”
But you move again, thighs rubbing together just to relieve something, and that’s it. That’s all it takes.
Bucky’s hand leaves the wheel.
His flesh hand finds your knee, heavy and warm, and slides up—slow, intentional, knowing exactly what he's doing. You gasp, grabbing at his wrist.
“Buck—”
“I warned you, sweetheart.” His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through you. “Told you if you kept squirming, I’d take care of it.”
“It’s not my fault,” you breathe. “I can’t help it.”
“Mm.” His fingers skim the edge of your panties. “Lucky for you, I’m real good at helpin’.”
He pushes your skirt up with one firm sweep of his hand, baring the heat between your thighs. You’re trembling by the time his fingers press over your panties, the thin fabric already soaked through.
Bucky hisses. “Fuck. You’re burning up.”
“Bucky—”
“This is what ovulation does to you?” He drags his fingers along your slit, slow enough that your hips lift desperately. “Makes you this needy?”
You nod, but your voice is gone.
“Good,” he says, slipping his hand beneath the fabric, finding bare skin. “Means you’ll take my fingers real nice.”
His middle finger slides between your folds, finding you embarrassingly wet, and he groans like he’s the one being touched.
“Jesus, doll. You’re dripping.”
Then he pushes a finger inside you—no warning, no tease—just sinks in to the knuckle while he keeps his eyes on the road like he’s not destroying you at 65 miles per hour.
Your entire body jolts.
“Bucky—!”
“Shh.” He curls the finger, finding that spot that makes you clench. “You keep makin' those noises, I’ll forget we’re in a moving vehicle.”
You grab the door handle, the seat, his arm—anything—as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you so deeply you see stars. Your breath breaks into little gasps you can’t control.
He moves slowly at first, working you open, letting you feel every inch of him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So desperate. Couldn’t wait till we got home, could you?”
“N-No,” you choke out. “I need you.”
“I know you do.” His fingers start to thrust, deliberate and steady. “Your little pussy’s been begging all night.”
You whimper, clenching around him.
That gets him. You feel the shift immediately—his patience snaps clean in half.
His fingers drive into you harder, faster, curling deep with every stroke. You cry out, hips lifting helplessly.
“Hold still for me,” he orders, breathless now. “Let me work you.”
“I can’t—Bucky, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His thumb finds your clit, circling it just once—just enough to make everything inside you tighten painfully. “You’re gonna come for me. Right here.”
Your thighs shake, your chest heaves, and your whole body is pulsing around him.
“Please,” you gasp. “More—”
“Oh, you’re gettin’ more.” His voice is ragged. “Soon as we get home, I’m bendin’ you over the first surface I see and fuckin’ you so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”
You keen—loud and broken.
He smirks at the windshield. “Thought that’d get you.”
Your climax builds too fast, too sharp, like your body’s been waiting hours for permission.
“Bucky—I'm close—”
“I know, sweetheart. I can feel you.” His fingers slam into you with filthy precision. “Come for me. Right now.”
His thumb drags over your clit again, and that’s it.
Your orgasm hits hard—violent, blinding—your back arching, your hips shaking, your cry muffled by your own trembling hand. You clamp around his fingers, pulsing, soaking his wrist, your whole body seized with desperate, aching relief.
Bucky groans, low and possessive, feeling every wave of it.
“Good girl,” he growls, easing you through it but not stopping. Not even slowing. “There she is. God, you’re perfect.”
You’re still shaking, still pulsing, but he keeps fucking you with his fingers, drawing out every aftershock until you’re whimpering and pushing at his arm.
“Sensitive,” you breathe, voice wrecked.
“Uh-huh.” But he doesn’t remove his fingers—he stays deep, humming like he’s pleased with himself. “Told you I’d hold you over.”
“Bucky—”
He finally pulls out, slow and slick, lifting his fingers to his mouth without shame. He sucks them clean, eyes still on the road, like he didn’t just ruin you in the passenger seat.
Then he wipes his hand on his thigh and exhales shakily.
“We’re not goin’ home,” he says.
Your head snaps up. “What?”
He gives you a look that makes your stomach drop.
“We’re not makin’ it home,” he clarifies. “Pullin’ over in about thirty seconds. Get in the backseat.”
“Bucky—”
“You’re ovulating,” he growls. “And I’m done pretendin’ I don’t smell it.”
You swallow hard.
“Backseat,” he repeats, voice thick with hunger. “Now.”
And you don’t argue.
You unbuckle, legs still shaking, because one ruined orgasm was never going to hold you over.
Pairing: Xavier Legette x Zoie (Black Female OC) | Established Relationship
Summary: After weeks on the road, Xavier makes it home early. Zoie’s already in his bed, half-asleep and wrapped in his shirt. He slides in behind her, and the reunion is slow, sweat-soaked, and full of all the things they’ve missed. Cockwarming turns into deep, messy strokes. What starts as sleepy turns into a soul-snatching reminder that this love—and this pussy—ain’t something he’s ever letting go of.
Warnings: 18+ only. Established relationship. Sleepy sex. Cockwarming. Deep grinding. Emotional climax. Dirty talk. Sweat. Possessive energy. Soft dominance. Messy creampies. Deep eye contact.
In the Quiet | Take It With You
The plane descended onto the Charlotte tarmac with a quiet roar, the wheels kissing the ground beneath the dim glow of 3 a.m. runway lights. Outside the windows, the city lay still and dark, punctuated only by scattered orange halos from distant streetlamps. The Carolina Panthers had just wrapped up a grueling series of road games, and fatigue hung in the cabin like humidity.
But Xavier wasn’t exhausted. Not in the way the rest of the team was.
He leaned back in his seat, his hood drawn low over his head, gold chain tucked neatly beneath the collar of his sweatshirt. One AirPod dangled from his neck, forgotten, the music nothing more than a filler for the silence. His attention was fixed on his phone, thumb scrolling slowly through a string of messages from Zoie. He reread the most recent one, a photo of her curled up in his hoodie, biting her bottom lip with the caption: "Your side of the bed lonely af."
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, as if he might respond. But he didn’t. He locked the screen and turned to the window, face unreadable.
Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since he touched her. Since they sat on the same couch, breathed the same air, shared the same bed. FaceTime wasn’t enough. Not even close. Not when he could still remember the scent of her skin, the sound of her sleepy laugh echoing through his house, the way she moved through his space as if it belonged to her.
He craved that kind of closeness again.
The bus ride from the airport to the stadium dragged on, despite being relatively short. He sat in the back, cap pulled low, hoodie zipped high. With every mile that passed, the anticipation tightened in his chest. By the time they reached the facility, he was already sending a message to staff: "I’m good. Just heading home tonight."
No locker room wind-down. No small talk.
He was already gone.
The drive home was a blur of headlights and empty streets, his truck carving through the quiet like a blade. The highway melted into suburbs, which faded into the familiar turns of his neighborhood. By the time he turned into his driveway, his fingers were drumming against the steering wheel, heart thudding hard in his chest.
She was inside.
He didn’t text.
Didn’t call.
Didn’t even grab his overnight bag.
He stepped out quietly, the door closing behind him with a soft click. His walk was steady, unhurried, the kind of grounded stride he only used when he had a purpose. The key slid into the lock without a sound. The door creaked open, as if the house itself sighed in relief at his return.
Darkness. Stillness.
No TV, no playlist humming from the kitchen speaker. Just the familiar scent of candle wax, faint takeout, and Zoie’s hair products lingering in the air. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips.
He slipped out of his sneakers by the front door, pulling his hoodie off as he moved deeper inside. Everything about the space made him slow down. The quiet wrapped around him like a blanket, and the ache of missing her surged all at once.
Then he saw her.
She was fast asleep, sprawled across his side of the bed. One of his old long-sleeve shirts clung to her figure, bunched high on her thighs. Her body curled into the pillow, her lips parted in sleep. One leg peeked out from under the blanket, as if searching for a body that wasn’t there.
He exhaled, long and quiet.
He was home.
Finally.
Xavier moved like he didn’t want to wake her.
But the moment he stepped inside the bedroom, his whole body shifted, shoulders loosening, breath steadying, like something in him finally clicked back into place. The door closed with a whisper behind him, and he stood there for a second, just watching Zoie sleep.
She hadn’t moved. Still curled up on his side of the bed, the thin fabric of his shirt barely clinging to one shoulder. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a halo. She looked untouched, peaceful, already holding space for him.
He undressed without turning on the lights. Shirt over his head. Chain set gently on the dresser. Belt undone, jeans sliding down slowly. Every movement quiet and deliberate. Like he was unwrapping something sacred.
When he finally slipped under the covers, the heat of her body pulled him in like gravity. His chest met her back, skin to skin, and he released a low breath against her shoulder. She stirred but didn’t wake, just shifted enough to make room, like her body knew him in sleep.
His arm slid around her waist, palm spreading wide across her stomach. He buried his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of her lotion, her hair, her skin, all of it hit him at once. Familiar. Soft. Home.
His hand moved slowly. Over her belly, up under the hem of the shirt. Fingers grazing her thighs. The skin was warm, bare. No panties.
His breath caught.
He kissed her neck. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just there. Present. Lips brushing along her skin like a promise.
Then his hips rocked forward just a little.
Hard against her. Thick and pulsing. Letting her feel exactly what she’d been missing. What he’d been saving.
Another kiss to the base of her neck.
Then a whisper, low and rough in her ear:
“Lemme in, mama.”
He stayed still.
Not out of hesitation, but reverence. His body pressed against hers from behind, chest a steady rise and fall against her back, breath warm at the nape of her neck. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other cradling her head against the pillow, thumb stroking slowly across her temple, grounding her in sleep.
He'd found her soft, wet, and already open for him like her body had been waiting on him in sleep, like even in dreams it remembered what it meant to have him buried deep. With a slow roll of his hips, he pressed forward, inch by inch, savoring every stretch, every clench. Careful not to wake her too fast. Her body received him in silence, a slow, tight pull like velvet heat, welcoming and familiar. A quiet gasp slipped from her lips the moment he bottomed out, breath catching as her fingers twitched against the sheet.
Deep. Thick. Home.
And still he didn’t move.
Zoie breathed like she was still in a dream. Her inhales came deep and drawn-out, lashes fluttering but staying low. Her skin was flushed with sleep, and her body responded before her mind did. A lazy roll of her hips back into his. A tightening around him. A sigh that spilled into the quiet room, soft and sweet.
Xavier shut his eyes, forehead lowering to the back of her neck.
The weight of her around him had his jaw clenched. She was too good. Too warm. Too wet. The way she hugged him, clenched him, gripped him like she never wanted him to leave again, it pulled every muscle in his body tight. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak too loud. He just let the feeling settle deep into his spine.
His nose brushed along the shell of her ear. He kissed her there, then lower, mouth open and reverent as he moved down her neck. His hips flexed forward, slow and subtle, just enough to push deeper. Like he needed her to know he was really there. Like he wanted to remind her where he belonged.
She shifted, finally. Not fully awake, but close. Her hips pressed back into him, a sleepy offering, and it was all the permission he needed.
He pulled her close again, his arm tightening around her stomach, his hand splaying over her ribs, his thumb stroking beneath the swell of her breast. Then, slowly, he started to move.
Not fast.
Just a slow grind. No rhythm. No rush.
His hips rolled forward, deep and measured, dragging the full length of himself inside her before pulling back just a little and easing in again. Each motion deliberate, each inch claimed with reverence, like he was tracing a path his body already knew but wanted to relearn with new devotion. The slow drag of skin against skin had him breathing heavier, jaw tight as he buried himself again, deeper than before, staying there for a long moment. He shifted his angle slightly, adjusting until he felt her body clench tighter, until her breath caught and her hips twitched in response. He did it again, slower this time, like he wanted to memorize the way she wrapped around him. Like he didn’t want to miss a single inch. Not now. Not ever.
“Shit, mama..." he breathed low into her hair. "You feel that?"
A moan broke from her, soft and breathy. Not fully awake, but fully aware. Her hand moved down, searching for his and lacing their fingers together at her waist. Her legs spread a little more, offering more of herself in that quiet, wordless way.
He kissed her again, slower this time, lips brushing the back of her shoulder, then down along her spine. His other hand ran up the length of her thigh, fingers digging gently into her skin.
Then another grind. Slow, slick, full-bodied.
He pressed deeper, hips rolling into hers with perfect control. Every push brought a new sigh, a new shiver.
His voice was low, thick, reverent.
“Still fits me like it missed me."
She made a sound, half whimper, half moan, her toes curling under the sheet. He pulled her closer still, tilting his hips to hit the spot that made her shake, his breath hot and shaking against her skin.
He laid his forehead against her shoulder again, hips rolling with steady pressure. No urgency. No speed. Just depth. Just grind. Like he wanted to live inside the feeling.
“That’s it, baby... just like that,” he whispered.
The sound of them was soaked and subtle. The kind of rhythm that didn’t need power to feel overwhelming. Just skin. Just sweat. Just steady, reverent want.
She was waking now. Fully.
Her breath came faster. Her fingers gripped his. Her hips met his rhythm with soft rolls of their own.
He stayed right there.
Still deep.
Still moving.
Still home.
She barely had time to register the shift before he moved. A subtle lift of her leg, a shift of his hips, and Xavier rolled her onto her back with a smoothness that spoke of practice, of familiarity, of quiet hunger he couldn’t hold down anymore. There was no rush in his movements, just intention, just the steady weight of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to take his time getting it.
The covers slid off her body as they moved, pooling around her waist like a discarded secret. Warmth spilled into the room from the hallway light, golden and soft, casting shadows across her skin. Her hair fanned out against the pillow, wild and beautiful, framing a face still flushed from sleep and pleasure. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded but locked on him now like she saw him for the first time and every time all at once.
He settled between her legs, staying deep, staying slow. His chest hovered over hers, the heat of him radiating into her skin. He was still inside her, still thick and pulsing, and when he pressed forward just a bit more, they both exhaled like they needed that breath to survive. Like they were finally back where they belonged.
His hands framed her face at first, thumbs brushing her cheeks. Then they drifted downward along her neck, down her sides, across the dip of her waist. One hand cupped her breast, thumb teasing her nipple until she gasped softly. Her hands found his chest, fingers splayed across his skin, gripping him like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.
They didn’t look away.
His hips began to move again, slow and rolling, dragging the full length of him through her before pressing back in with a rhythm that made time feel irrelevant. Each stroke was more than a movement; it was worship, a deep ache soothed by the stretch and glide of him inside her. Every stroke was deliberate, every pull back an invitation to feel more, to fall deeper, to surrender to the rhythm only they knew. Her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him there, anchoring them both in the moment. She could feel the heat of his skin, the flex of his muscles under her hands, the way his breath grew heavier with each grind. He kept his eyes locked on hers, a storm of emotion in them, as if every second buried inside her was a promise, an unspoken vow that he wasn't going anywhere. Their connection pulsed like a current, alive and rising, building between their bodies until neither of them could tell where one ended, and the other began.
Their bodies moved like a conversation. Like a language only they could speak. And when he leaned in closer, lips brushing hers, he didn’t whisper. He said it plain, low, rough.
"Gon' have to put a ring on this pussy... keep it locked down."
Her breath hitched. Her thighs trembled, clamping tighter around him. The moan that escaped her was soft but charged, like she felt it everywhere. Not just in her body, but in her chest. Her heart.
Xavier smirked, that slow, boyish curl of his lips that always came just before he did something reckless. But there was weight behind his eyes, something deeper. Something that said he wasn’t playing.
She reached for him, hands sliding to his shoulders, then his face, thumbs brushing along his jawline. He dipped his head and kissed her again, open-mouthed and slow, tongue teasing hers, swallowing every sigh she gave him.
He stayed deep the whole time. Every motion was full of intention. Slow, grinding strokes that made the bed creak under them. That made her arch up into him, whispering his name without sound.
Their chests pressed flush, sweat slicking where their skin met, a sheen of heat that made every inch of contact electric. He kissed her again. And again. Open-mouthed and lingering, like he needed to taste every sound she made. One hand gripped her thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he held her steady, while the other braced by her head, anchoring them both to the bed. Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails gently scraping along his scalp, her body arching to meet his with every push forward.
He began to move a little harder, still with that maddening slowness, but now with a deeper grind, each stroke dragging a breathier moan from her throat. He tilted his hips, adjusting his angle until he found that perfect spot, the one that made her hips jerk, her eyes flutter, her nails dig into his back with desperate little scratches. The pressure was deliberate, each thrust pressing into her with greedy rhythm and unrelenting weight, like he was trying to carve himself into her from the inside out.
The wet sound of them filled the room, thick and filthy, every motion slick and loud. Her thighs trembled around him, her toes curling, her mouth slack with need. He leaned into her neck, biting down gently before dragging his tongue across the same spot, groaning low when she arched up to meet him.
The edge in his movement wasn’t just hunger; it was ownership. Possession. Like he needed to mark every inch, stretch her wide and deep until there was no space left for doubt. Like he needed her to feel it for days.
"This pussy mine," he growled against her skin, not even waiting for her to answer, like he already knew.
The bed creaked with every thrust, their rhythm messy now but locked in. She met him stroke for stroke, body straining toward him like her bones couldn’t stand not being closer. Her moans were shameless, unfiltered, her fingers gripping his ass just to pull him deeper.
It wasn’t love-making anymore.
It was filth and worship, muscle and devotion, the kind of sex that rewired your body and took root in your memory like it had a home there.
She breathed through it. Moaned into it. Loved every second.
And all the while, he watched her.
Her body trembled beneath him, every muscle quivering as the slow grind turned into a deeper pulse, his hips rolling into her with a rhythm that felt carved from instinct. Her breath hitched, eyes fluttering open before falling shut again as sensation overtook her. Her hands clung to his arms, nails dragging lightly down to his forearms, leaving little red trails of proof, soft and stinging. Her legs stayed wrapped tight around his waist, heels pressed into the small of his back, hips lifting to meet every push like she couldn’t get enough, like she never wanted it to end, like she didn’t know where he stopped and she began.
Xavier kept the rhythm steady, deep, and anchoring as his forehead pressed to hers. Their noses brushed, breath mingling in the scant space between them, his lips ghosting across hers between groans. His eyes were locked on hers, dark and unwavering, full of heat but layered with something quieter, heavier.
“You right here with me, baby,” he whispered, voice low and thick, voice barely there but carrying everything. “Stay with me.”
He kissed her, slow at first, just the press of lips, warm and reverent, then deeper, messy and hot, tongue sweeping hers, devouring the soft moans she gave him. She whimpered into the kiss, one hand sliding up into his hair, curling in the thick coils like she needed to hold onto something real. She was close. He felt it in the way her thighs trembled around his hips, in the stutter of her breath, in the way her body clamped down around him like she was trying to pull him deeper, keep him there. Like she never wanted him to leave again.
When she came, it was full-body. A slow build to a breaking wave, back arching, legs shaking, her mouth falling open in a silent cry before the sound spilled out. She gripped him hard, arms pulling him down as if trying to fold him into her. Her breath caught like a sob, every nerve ending lit up with sensation.
He didn’t pull out.
Didn’t stop.
Just stayed buried in her, his rhythm slowing to something raw and dragging, pushing into her with aching care, like he wanted every inch of her to remember him. He gave her everything with every stroke, slow, thick, deliberat,e until the drag of him inside her felt like it was stitched into her skin. The sounds between them were wet, guttural, soaked with filth and devotion. His breath hitched against her neck, teeth grazing the skin there, not biting but marking, branding.
He let out a low, broken groan as he shoved in one last time, staying there, balls deep, his hips trembling. His release came hot and hard, thick spurts painting her walls while he pulsed deep inside, the warmth spreading slowly, filling her up until she whimpered from how good it felt. His body locked against hers, chest heaving, sweat rolling down his spine in thin rivers. Her pussy clenched around him, holding him in, milking every last drop.
He gasped her name, voice hoarse, like the taste of her was still in his mouth. It left him in a moan, deep and cracked open. His hands stayed on her hips, squeezing until she whined. Then one slid up to cup her breast, thumb flicking across her nipple as she twitched under him. The other dragged across her stomach, pressing gently into her belly where he just filled her.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even try. Just kept his dick buried inside that slick heat, breathing hard against her shoulder, their sweat slicking them together. They were soaked, messy, joined at every point, from breath to skin to where they were still connected down low.
His heart was beating so hard she could feel it against her chest. Her legs didn’t move. Her hands stayed tangled in his hair. The world narrowed down to the sound of his panting, the twitch of him inside her, and the delicious aftershock crawling through every inch of her body.
And he knew there was no walking away from this pussy. Not now. Not ever.
Their bodies stayed tangled. His chest pressed firm to hers. His face buried in the crook of her neck, breath ghosting warm across her skin. Her hands traced slow circles across his back, fingertips skating through the heat and damp. Neither of them moved. They just held on, letting the stillness stretch, breathing in each other like they needed the reminder they were here, whole, wrapped up in something too good to name.
Minutes passed, maybe more. Then his voice, hoarse and low against her cheek, a tired smile behind it:
“Next time I’m on the road that long? You comin’ with me. Don’t care if I gotta book two rooms or bring your ass to walkthroughs.”
She smiled against his skin, her breath brushing his jaw, too breathless and full to answer.
Here we have two horses bred for 140cm showjumping - one a prospect still and the other a seasoned competition horse.
I personally see a lot of small similarities in them which are carefully packaged in very different ways.
Hermes’ breeding and type is very old fashioned; he’s a horse designed for rambling derby classes in large grass rings, his canter is long and loping, he’s got a scopey jump but has relatively poor form when asked to take very tight turns to fragile fences. He’s big boned and bold more than anything else.
Freyja, on the other hand, is a modern type. She’s tall and leggy with a lot less bone mass but a far more athletic body for it. Despite her size, she’s easy to coil up and has a naturally collected canter. Her jump is tight and careful, showing real talent and athleticism with her ability to make up for poor distances. She is a horse who could very happily do indoor circuits without batting an eyelash. Sure, she’s brave too, but she’s confident because she knows how flexible she is, not just how powerful her hind end is.
Now, both of these horses are vaguely related - Quidam de Revel and Calypso I being shared between them. As is to be expected given the difference in type, Quidam de Revel is a LONG way back on Freyja compared to Hermes though. Whilst Hermes’ pedigree is full of old horses and old breeding fashions (back from the days when TB mares were being used to refine Holsteiner stock), Freyja’s is full of modern greats - Hors la Loi II, Mr Blue, Heartbreaker, etc. and even the famous line of Ifrane through her damline. 9 years separates the two and yet look how different the pedigrees are for that alone!
Now, does this have an impact on healthy? I’m likely to say it does. Whilst Hermes is big boned, he has fragile feet, mildly weak tendons and thin skin - side effect of his recent TB relatives even though he’s from TB’s I’d arguably claim to be better than modern stock. Freyja on the other hand? Feet like iron, tendons like steel cables and skin so thick she barely notices when she scrapes herself up.
Perhaps, however, this is why Freyja counts as a very commercial young sports horse - one who’s quick to build herself up like a 6 year old and easy to push too far, too fast. An uncaring owner could throw her at 110cm this year and have her ready for the 130cm classes at 6 - whether or not she’d stay sound into her late teens be damned. Hermes in comparison? Slow growing and was still practically a baby at 6. He would be irreparably broken if we’d taken him into YH classes at 4 and 5. Lots of his siblings are much the same and have taken a LONG time to become talented horses.
Curious, to me at least, as Hermes was from a 2001 born Young Horse winner who died unfortunately young whilst Freyja is from a 2001 born stud notable for his longevity. I do see lots of similar lines, modern warmbloods who are like Freyja however, and that are pushed (which is why the YH circuit is growing in popularity here and a horses prime value is now at 5 and 6 instead of 8) whilst older types often get written off as immature. This makes me wonder, is this premature maturation the goal of modern breeding or simply a side effect of the skills chosen in modern studs?
Since I’m on a pedigree roll, let’s look at Vigo’s.
Because, yes, there’s a lot to cry about in here 😂
He’s very typically bred for a Welsh section D Cob, with several very prominent ancestors visible (Derwen Telynor and Parc Welsh Flyer on both sides anyone?). This is no great surprise really, but he’s a horse born and bred for in hand and ridden showing - a pedigree perhaps comparable to that of a show-lined GSD. He’s downhill and broad barrelled with a massive shoulder but a refined and expressive head. So very different from a Welsh that’s been bred for sport, which tend to have a heavier head but a more athletic frame. Funny then, that he’s managed to turn his talents to dressage and in fact has made a rather exceptional dressage ride!
What he lacks in athleticism, he makes up for in power and personality. I’ve said before that Welsh D’s have massive personalities and can achieve great things with a rider who works with them sympathetically but I can’t stress how true this is for Vigo. Yes, he makes his rider work for every stride, but he’s also willing to push his unsuitable body to its limits for that rider. Lateral movements are tricky for a horse as wide framed as him, as are flying changes, but he’s so powerful that his extended and collected paces are fabulous - up there with a far flashier bred warmblood.
I wouldn’t recommend a horse like him for pure dressage, in hindsight, as he’s more of an exception than a good example for his breed and type, but I would fully recommend one like him if you want a horse to do everything with. You see, I can ride CC serpentines with this pony one day, shove western tack on him the next to go galloping around the countryside. I can practice my walk pirouettes before popping him around a jumping course. I can do simple changes and then put a beginner on him to have some fun. He’ll throw himself at all these things cheerfully despite being the oldest horse at any given place (last show, the next oldest horse was 4 years younger than him! Last outing, he was 12 years the senior of the next eldest!!!)
wait wait wait so I saw ecto-vaginas in one of those posts about heat are the boys cuntboys or how does it work???
Haha! They only strictly form cunts during Breeding heat and heat. Here;Rut = Penis, Must breed a creature with a vagina or fill something with cum. Usually agressive and feral like.Heat = Not that big of a deal, does has a cunt formed constantly, just unused magic letting loose.Breeding heat = Super hue deal. Submissive all the way, has a cunt formed until cycle is done. Cunt is formed constantly if bred.I hope this helped?
Okies Cosmo! ^~^ I was curious as to the differences in between them- What defines a heat as opposed to a breeding heat? What makes them different than a rut? Is it only length of time, or are there other physiological changes? When do each occur in a typical lifespan? How does one determine when they are experiencing a heat, breeding heat, or rut (Wouldn't they essentially feel the same to the monster?) I do apologize about how many ^-^; Guess you can place me as a curious bean~ ~<3
Cosmo laughs, waving a hand.“*I LOVE YOUR CURIOSITY! THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A RUT, HEAT, AND BREEDING HEAT IS.. SIMPLE?” He rubbed his jaw, looking off to the side as he thought for a moment.“*FOR A RUT, YOU ARE AGRESSIVE AND VERY HUNGRY. YOU ALSO BEGIN MAKING WHAT US MONSTERS CALL, ‘A NEST’. ITS REALLY JUST A COLLECTION OF SHEETS, PILLOWS, AND COMFORTERS. YOU MAKE A NEST A DAY OR TWO BEFORE YOUR RUT— BY THEN ITS PRETTY EASY TO TELL WHATS GOING TO HAPPEN. YOU ALSO COLLECT FOOD AND HIDE IT IN BETWEEN SHEETS AND PILLOW CASES. THIS IS TO MAKE YOUR MATE COMFORTABLE AND SAFE WHEN MATING AND AFTERWARDS. NEBULA AND SERIF HAVE A RUT FOR 3 DAYS, REY HAS IT FOR A WEEK, WHILE BLOOD AND I HAVE OUR RUTS FOR TWO WEEKS.”He looks over to the others, only for them to nod. He smiles and looks back at you. “*AS FOR HEATS AND BREEDING HEATS.. ER.. WELL, HEATS MAKE YOU FERTIL, YES, BUT BREEDING HEATS MAKE YOU DEFINETLY FERTIL. HEATS USUALLT HAPPEN TO LET OUT UNUSED MAGIC, THEY ARE ALSO NOT AS INTENSE AS BREEDING HEATS. BREEDING HEATS PURPOSES ARE IMPREGNATION. LIKE— THERES REALLY NO WAY YOU CAN’T NOT GET PREGNANT IF YOU HAVE SEX DURING THIS TYPE OF HEAT.”Cosmo then rubs his skull, humming loudly.“*USUALLY YOUR FIRST HEAT OR RUT IS TRIGGERED DURING YOUR TEEN YEARS, THOUGH THIS IS DIFFERENT FOR ALL SPECIES! FOR SKELETONS, IT HAPPENS ONCE OUR BODIES ARE FULLY DEVELOPED— WHEN WE’VE STOPPED GROWING.”
