ellievsbear
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
h
gracie abrams
noise dept.
One Nice Bug Per Day
sheepfilms
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Game of Thrones Daily
Claire Keane
Not today Justin
The Bowery Presents
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Noah Kahan
Kiana Khansmith
blake kathryn
🪼
if i look back, i am lost
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@d-eadeye
𝙳͓-𝙴𝙰͓𝙳𝙴͓𝚈͓𝙴͓.͓ ͓ ∶ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑟. 𝘢𝘪𝘯'𝘵 𝘪 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 ... ? 【 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘥 & 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘨𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘵, 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, & 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥. historical, regency, 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲-𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗻, 𝗰𝘆𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗸-𝗮𝗱𝗷𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗻𝘁, 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗺.
₁. 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗, 𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗕𝗘 𝟮𝟭+ 𝗧𝗢 𝗙𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪.
HELLO, HERE AND WRITING! EDITING @kosekiguro ON THE SIDE, CLEANING UP @embrosyn AND MAKING SOME ADJUSTMENTS TO @sverance! FIND ME ANYWHERE!
musings on God, tathev simonyan
golden golden golden
There is either a cowboy in your house or there isn’t and you have to deal with that
𝙰round them, magnolias exhale their incense into the humidity thick air & the very earth seems to exhale in slow, syrupy pulses beneath the weight of [ MIDSOMMAR'S DOMINION. ] Through it all, Regina stands faithfully untouched by any vulgarities, circumstances, this vision of aristocratic precision wrapped in taffeta, by all accounts, & venom, most especially. “ Oh, please, ” Regina claps the fan closed, her parasol tilted just so to cast her features into chiaroscuro while eyes remain whole of glittering amusement, utterly devoid of any mercy. “ If he knew, you'd already be shot. ” It can scarcely be considered a threat, merely a statement of cosmological fact, said as immutable & unremarkable as anything. “ Daddy's awfully efficient, you know. ” Her words drip with casual regard, nodding her head. And then, a slow, surgical look, traveling the length of him with cool detachment; The sweat darkened brim of his hat, the sunburnt column of his throat, the ever rough-hewn lines of a man who has spent life outrunning consequence.
“ Besides, ” She begins. Her cheek finds the palm of her hand, “ You're terribly thick-headed. That'll keep you safe. ” Impenetrable. The fan is conjured once more, a flutter deemed more deliberate.
𝕽egina regards him as, for lack of a better word, a phenomenon entirely. [ ANYTHING BETTER TO DO ? ] ... Sure, she does. Regina is forever summoned into the lacquered machinery of her own class existence, drawing rooms embalmed in floral perfume & old money, tea poured by hands that tremble with discretion, gentleman with genealogies longer than their personalities God, they drone on & on about acreage, tariffs, horses, whatever mundanity they wish to face. She knows how to perform in that world, in society, But all of it is so dreadfully, so murderously dull, a pageant of stuffed shirts and full skirts. And there is this dust-bitten & insolent being of another order entirely. WHAT MAKES A THING LIKE THIS? “ Well, you're the least predictable thing I've stumbled across all afternoon. ” She emits a laugh behind her face, as though the question amused her.
THICK, SYRUPY HONEYED VOWELS DISPERSED BETWEEN EBULLIENT, SPRING-TIME BREATHS AND DELIBERATE, DARLING DRAWLS. SHE FANS HERSELF; AS THOUGH BERATING HIM WAS AS TIRESOME A JOB AS TOILING THE FIELDS OR WRANGLING THE CATTLE. THE MIDDAY HEAT MADE 'IM CROCHETY, HE KNEW, BUT THE SUN WOULDN'T BE LETTING UP ANYTIME SOON.
He sinks his boot-heels into the prairie grass with a rattle of his spurs and a sigh that forcefully arises from the deepest corner of his tar-laden lungs while an obstinate shiver chases the spine of the hayseed that dangles, lazily, at his lip. By now she's ensnared him within the lavish dark of her shadow, the ferocity of her sneer withheld by the many spires of a bright and blinding sun, rendering an unlikely escape as her immediate audience; she attests to the existence of big daddy's wrath should he become privy to it. Jesse's tongue moved before his mouth did. "You promise..?"
It was a good thing that he could not see what his acerbic quip might have wrought. It was unbecoming to mention the macabre to a lady, especially death. But this one sounded more like a hornet than a honeybee and he hoped, selfishly, that poorly-demonstrated decorum from a boorish brute would encourage her to leave him for the briefest bout of peace.
"If yer lookin' for entertainment, you ain't gon' find it here." Shoulders flex against an unforgiving trunk. "Git, girl. I ain't gon' say it again."
CAN YAMAN - LA REVUELTA (Spain)23/10/2025
hello i have been revived
HELLO, HERE AND WRITING! EDITING @kosekiguro ON THE SIDE, CLEANING UP @embrosyn AND MAKING SOME ADJUSTMENTS TO @sverance! FIND ME ANYWHERE!
hi i'm not trying to be rude but how come your portrayal still uses the jesse mccree name? are you not aware of why they changed it or? (the real guy they originally named him after was fired for being a sex pest). surely you dont want you and your portrayal associated with that kind of behavior?
good question! i am keenly aware of the history behind jesse — the overwatch character — and his namesake, that belonging one of the game studio's developers. but i'm happy to report that my jesse has nothing to do with either of these as my rendition of him is not only private but personal! if the people i write with cannot make the distinction between my characterization of a foul-mouthed cowpoke and a now-defunct, disgraced game developer whose monstrous behavior has earned him proper obscurity in the shadow of his name, i am simply not the account for you. the name is all they share in common— and even that, frankly, has been frankensteined to better suit my jesse.
CAN YAMAN - LA REVUELTA (Spain)23/10/2025
writing in a bit!
THEIR EYES ROLL AT THE EXACT SAME POINT, a pair of synchronized clocks chiming midnight. with her back to him they’ll both miss that harmonized gesture, but so will the almighty — between the drawn curtains and the thick cover of the rainfall, they've got god shuttered all the way out. that sure hasn't stopped him from trying, though. throwing down buckets so as to make an endless number of reflective puddles in the parking lot, like a naughty pubescent boy sticking a mirror under the door. using cheap tricks to peep at something he shouldn't.
it's no use. whatever is going to happen in this motel room will occur in a blind-spot. it's part of why dove's got a lick of warm honey dripping somewhere below her navel: you can do an awful lot of shameful things in the dark. especially one as black as all this.
could do. he's going on about wolves and teeth without seeming to recognize the terribly dispiriting irony that not a single one is fitting down into the exposed tendon she's offering him, posed and all. you and all the rest of them are dogs, fingerpads drum silently on her glass. need to hear a damn command before you know what to do.
dove's eyes get stuck up on the ceiling as the cowboy drawls, tracing the watermarks as a way to pass the time. tongue curls into the side of her mouth. he's been crossing and tying up the line like its his own personal lasso from the minute they met, but the moment she throws him a real rope — a you wanna take care of me so he can get up and show her how; an i barely know you extended, openly, so he can solidify honey, you been knowing me all your life. i'm your daddy — he lets it fall limp in his lap?
that make you happy?
"no." dove casts it over her shoulder, light and offhanded. insouciant enough that hopefully even he'll get it. she turns a beat later to follow the discard of her answer, recentering so she's once more full-frontal before him. more of a tits than an ass man, than.
"you shoulda told me that they've been working you so damn hard up at that little ranch of yours you don't know how to play no more, wes."
she puts her mouth around the name like she might really believe it. to press the point, light brows concave at their innermost point, an expression of false condolence. it stays fixed as her head cants from one side the other. a pretty blonde scale.
the rung of a dress strap falls slowly off one shoulder — tipping him in the right direction.
"how bout that rope than, vaquero?"
His mean old man'd taught him young, one Arizona night in mid-October, when the nights ran hot but the booze ran colder. Between the mosquito songs and restless frogs, red-eyed Bill slung an arm over his shoulder and with a twitch of his fat, dirty fingers, gave a half-slurred sermon on the wants and whims of women everywhere. You work yer hide off, son, git some gravel in yer gut and some spit in yer eye and you do it fer the slice of Heaven between a beautiful woman's thighs. He'd collapsed not ten minutes later; it'd been Jesse who'd dragged him to bed.
It'd been a calmer night than this and no tempest to speak of, but if ol' Bill could see what stood before him now, they'da both been on their knees in prayer.
The gilded strap of her dress fell enchantingly along the pale crescent of her shoulder. A trick of the light, perhaps, but the shadows sunk within the skin of her contours and the peaks her of bounteous physique were only accentuated; the intimation of her pale breasts looked as large and as vast as the rain-soaked mountains beyond their cheap floral curtains. The cowboy drew smugly back into his chair, equipped with insouciance and only the vague suggestion of deep satisfaction. "Well, shit.." A stroke of white beneath the dark brim of his hat. "I ain't need no rope with these hands, girl. An' you wouldn't be tied up for long." The great sky thundered and the whirring at his temple was louder than ever now; the old air conditioning unit in the corner closet hummed with half-life and the dying alarm clock ticked from the beside table with raucous anticipation.
Shrill air traversed the slight gap made by his mouth, a whistle so loud that rattled the empty bottle left abandoned on the table-top like a man calling affectionately after his horse. He knew no other way. "Night's been long as it is, honey, this ol' body's tired.. Gotta conserve energy'an whatnot.."
[...] "Come help an ol' cowboy take his shirt off. I'll do th'rest."
Armenian Sketches, Vardges Petrosyan (tr. tathev simonyan)
Midsummer in Savannah silence under the great magnolia trees, blue bliss beneath the rustling leaves. It was July, after all, @glossfang.
Restless aphids surveyed the buttonbush with cursory displeasure, burdened by wings too fragile to carry them elsewhere but the plains and he, burdened likewise by unfortunate circumstance, sat listlessly among them. He watched with dull envy as they filled their throats with what vestiges of dew remained and shimmied their hirsute backs with silent contentment, bitterly lusting for the simplicity in which they so seamlessly existed. Jesse drove the toe of his boot further into the sodden earth; and beneath his arid breath, cursed the sun and sweltering summer heat — this damnable locale nestled within the devil’s bosom somewhere between fertile prairie and swampland.
As did the fauna, so did the women the humidity made them restless in their bustles and naturally, they sought relief by way of tormenting their thicker-brained counterparts. The men could do nothing but suffer the lashings of their impatient tongues, wordlessly hoping the satin shades of their parasols might alleviate some modicum of ire and spare them further torment.
[ ... ] The cicadas screamed. A rogue wind blew back his chestnut hair and the limbs of the magnolia shivered with delight.
"Ain't you got somethin' better t'do, girl..?" Tobacco tongue seeped in molasses clicked against the backs of his teeth; hands clad in cowhide leather tugged the brim of his hat over his eyes. His back rests against the peeling, portentous bark.
He could tell by both the taffeta of her skirts and the gentle curl of her hair that she was no barmaid. "Yer daddy's gonna come an' put a bullet in my head if he sees you talkin' to me and I ain't feel like gettin' shot today."
