TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Misplaced Lens Cap
Cosmic Funnies
if i look back, i am lost
@theartofmadeline
i don't do bad sauce passes
RMH
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
ellievsbear
Claire Keane
$LAYYYTER
⁂
★
🪼
pixel skylines
YOU ARE THE REASON
almost home
No title available
Sweet Seals For You, Always
h
seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from Zimbabwe
seen from Colombia
seen from Türkiye
seen from T1
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Finland
seen from Türkiye
seen from Singapore
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from T1
@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.
DOVE CANTS HER HEAD TO THE SIDE, a motion that turns the pillar of her neck into a fluted column. veins straining protrusive and tender beneath the soft of skin. she watches as his palm swallows the bottleneck from this angle, a fingernail trailing down the large arris of her jugular, and finds herself thinking — to a debatable degree of vulgarity — something more or less like pick on someone your own size.
THERE'S NO WAY AROUND THE EXCHANGE OF THEIR MOUTHS NOW. she keeps herself from frowning only because something about the size of him settles her like a paperweight — solid, heavy. dove can still feel her edges stir every time a clap of thunder erupts through the room, but his presence keeps her midsection — core and all the vital things within it; heart; gut — secure. it's a little like the sensation of a palm flattened and pressing below her navel.
a little. enough.
"mm." she hums, noncommittal, the sound sticky and thin. a trickle of honey down the side of their conversation. as slow as that drip: "you don't say." dove takes another sip of whisky, sitting gracefully through the burn in order to feel the warmth. she slips lower into the seat. her whole body moving imperceptibly with the gust of an exhale. "i bet ⸺" one half of her mouth curls, just enough, into a smile. a curve like a little wager, like a single coin. "that's where that daddy of yours lives. am i right?"
rain continues to thud on the exterior of the motel. god's great set of fingers, drumming against the walls. waiting for something to happen.
"neither am i, honey. i always tend to be more concerned with..." dove looks up from underneath her lashes. salome watches from beneath her black veil. "—what's walking through them."
She steals another sip; he does the same. It is a queer ritual they perform, silently drowning between insincere smiles, helplessly sinking further and further into the lavish abyss of drink and aleatory dalliance.
That's where daddy lives, right? She asked if she'd guessed correctly without waiting for the suggestion to settle among the thunder. The ghastly imitation of biology and blood twitches where great veins should have been; perhaps the wires within had a miraculous and momentary crossing. The skin where metal met flesh ached terribly — a trivial though bothersome consequence of the weather. He'd lost his arm there once.
The cowboy laughed, amusement low and brusque, slurred like he'd a mouth full of water. "Yer guess is as good s'mine, honey..! Always figured he'd end up south of the border. If there's any such thing s' justice in this world, sonuvabitch is dead n' buried somewhere cold."
Old red-eye ——— hard t'love but harder to kill. The man would've toasted to that himself.
"Nah, I didn't much know 'im. Coal miner in Black Mesa, died when I was a boy. Lung disease. Whussat look for..? He was meaner 'an a rattle-snake."
"An' your daddy..?" A glint, perhaps, of sober curiosity. "You ain't ever told me what you're runnin' from."
if the sudden laughter surprises dove, sets her off-kilter ⸺ wide and deep and still expanding, filling up the emptiness of the room, brushing against her arm ⸺ than the indecency puts her right way up again. in proof of as much, her eyes roll. heavenward, now that she's not leaned to the side by unexpected warmth.
"dirty old man."
and almost entertaining for it.
on the other side of the table, his inhuman eye glints like a coin spun up into the air. a wager placed on a losing bet.
"ain't got time for what ⸺" she starts, amused. "people?"
even as she asks, dove already believes it. the man's a dog, and one that's been at her side since the moment she got out that elevator; but for all the way he's been leaning his fur into her calf, desperate for a scratch, it takes a solidness of self to exist in solitude ⸺ and the cowboy is substantial to the point of dense. you'd have to be, to keep throwing yourself at her like that. you gon' give me a taste?
"honey, i'm in entertainment." the kind that makes money on a stage, "not entertaining." not up close and personal. for all the vaquero leans forward, hoping to usurp space, she stays curled back, offering none. arranged artistically against the back of the chair.
"'sides," she purrs, an echo of his patois, her mouth shaped around the repetition in a way that's purposeful, insouciant. teasing. eyes reach across the table where her body won't. "i'd probably spill it all over your lap."
lightning, a coward with no spine of thunder buried behind it, pours through the hotel curtains in a flash of sweet light: a spotlight for the bottle dove pushes to the other side of the table. your pour.
"you running to the desert, or away from it?"
"Tha's right," he glumly confirmed, without anything sarcastic to add. All the hellish horrors he'd descried throughout desert wastes and urban slums and somehow, people were always the worst of 'em. He preferred horses.
True to her nature, or what coquettish sliver of it he'd unwittingly become privy to that evening, she flashed him the underside of her pretty sloped nose before casting the lavish, velveteen or French-satin shadow of her elongated feline eyes. She airily mocked him with his own churlish pronunciation and where the seeds of ire ought to have sprouted, amusement emerged instead twisted and pungent, sweet yet sour; titillating like a punch of rum. "Nothin' yer pretty tongue can't clean-up real nice."
THUNDER, RAIN, WANTING. CALLUSED PALMS TOOK TO THE BOTTLE'S SLENDER NECK WITH AN AVARICIOUS CLASP, BASE FEATHERLIGHT IN HIS BIG, BRAWNY HAND. IT FELT AN AWFUL LOT LIKE THE INCIPIENT WEIGHT OF FLEDGLING REGRET.
The vaquero chose to steal his first sip from the bottle's ledge, diamond droplets becoming ensnared by the unruly hairs of his mustache, furred upper-lip wincing therein with neither perceptible pleasure nor ostensible disdain. His tongue momentarily twists in his mouth. "D'unno. Haven't decided yet. Figured I ain't darkened Arizona's doorstep in a minute, see if I couldn't find my happy ass down south. Mexico, maybe. Speakin' in the general, sugar, I do what I feel like."
[ ... ] "Right now..? Well, I ain't worried none 'bout what's outside those doors."
CAN YAMAN - LA REVUELTA (Spain)23/10/2025
putting out a slight addendum to the status and standing of this blog today:
* PRIMARILY – IF NOT SOLELY – NARRATIVE-FOWARD AND WRITING HEAVY. THIS IS A WRITING (FIRST) BLOG. * CONSTANT, REGULAR, ESTABLISHED WRITING-PARTNERS. DISCUSSED AND PRE-PLANNED DYNAMICS.
from a letter to Michael Tolkien, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien
how do i say this delicately....... jesse is NOT for the fainthearted
The moonlight, like the flat of her white temples, is pale scintillating if not suggestive, somehow vulgar though not entirely immodest. The sky above Redhill boasts an indigo-suede embellished by winking starlight behind a misty moon and she wears her likeness like a shawl over lily-white shoulders. The dusk is old and their shared gaze only fleeting, @vivrez, ✩.
Even as he pored over the scene as it had been laid before him, the details remained out of focus; hazy, vignetted by memory and illusion, perhaps gratuitously ornamented by what could have been or what he could have possessed in the strange moment they met eyes. "Easy, girl," he chides with a crooked smile, hands willing the ease of her malice by gesture alone. "I ain't wantin' no trouble now, 'm just passin' on through was told by a drunkard north o' here that this town was good fer the weary needin' respite and boy, do I need me summa that!" A Nevada whore once told him that lying made his smile 'more handsomer.'
"Check my pockets if you need to. Nothin' but dirt and tobacca.."
Midnight was as good a time to die as any. "And, well.. I won't spoil th'rest for you."
It emits as a low and distant grumble, something preternatural and unpleasant, and the words are reluctant to flee his coarse, callused throat. It is with a rare stoicism that he utters the truth of his predicament, somber tone scratching against the humid air like hard-beaten gravel . . . @azarathian, ✩.
"Ain't lookin' good fer me, is it..?" asks Jesse, the wound wrought along the flat of his forearm wide and bloody like a desert canyon. There is a brief shimmer of ecru, the pale pith of exposed bone; there is, too, something more sinister. A queer darkness clots the abundant ruby drippings. "You ain't gotta say it. Knew as much when the bitch got me [too vexed to excuse his abrasive swears]."
* varying-length starter round-up, ✩ ⸻⸻
!! (comment sentence, semi-para or para+)
Hmmm. Not entirely unlike a cat, she softly claws at the bartop as she contemplates just exactly how she's going to walk down this path with him. It's not something she isn't familiar with, after all, men who utter imperfect promises often end in pools of blood, if she isn't feeling peckish, that is. Whether he had laid a hand on her or not; the chase is fun, and she loves playing cat. ❛❛ Maybe I'll tell you. –––Maybe I won't. Patience is such a virtue these days, eyes dart to the array of men hunched over their tables, don't you think? ❜❜ a question, spoken like a blunt statement.
Pretty little head lifts upwards slightly in tangent curiosity, then quickly back at the cowboy, inspecting every hair on his face; his nose, his smell. She can almost imagine just how his blood tastes. Eye contact never held long enough, screaming you can't catch me! with a sardonic tinge of amusement. Ultimately, a tease; a bite of sour sweetness that tingles your tongue just enough to keep you thinking about it for days later. . .
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤRosalie won't treat Jesse to that kindness just yet.
The truth is, she hasn't drank in so long and this game feels too extenuating to complete. Over the past few months, she's decided that vegetarianism is simply not for her. But again, neither is killing a man that could be so helpful, in more ways than just one. It displeases her to kill, but animal blood is only so useful for short term cravings; panthers can only survive on mice for so long. ❛❛ What business does a man like you have in this (...) fine establishment anyway? I could take you to an even better one, if you'd like that. Spoken so softly, so coyly... you could never tell what she was thinking. ❜❜
The coyness of her simper, too, shimmers like gold; a quiet glow that is seldom, fleeting a spot of warmth in winter between bare-limbed trees, sunlight against glittering patches of dead, powdered earth. There and then gone.
"Wasn't born with none myself," he candidly replies, and the confession is one made in earnest. Golden eyes watch hers like a hawk watches a January hare flitter through unkempt brush. "Patience or virtue. Was born a hungry, dirty dog an' I'll die 's one too." Punctuated by the release of his highball against the bar counter, empty.
. . . Hell, if that bourbon weren't strong..!
The rear of his throat burns while his arrogance blazes all the same. The brawn of his shoulders draw inward and he leans beside her like he'd been born to do it, a flash of a silver canine in her nebulous direction; it may as well have been them alone in that dingy old bar. "Honey, you could lead me like a lamb to th'slaughter and I'd be a happy man.."
Only three drinks deep too early for honesty. "Cattle rancher. Got a few parcels out west and I come here when I'm fixin' to do business. It don't look like much, just a waterin' hole in the middle o' nowhere but.. This is where all the big wheels come to drink 'emselves stupid." He pauses, grants his tongue a brief respite, and in the moment before he resumes speaking, looks at her as though he wants to take a bite. "You ain't gotta tell me that you ain't from here."
Ta-Nehisi Coates, from Between the World and Me
Text ID: And that is the deeper meaning of your name—that the struggle, in and of itself, has meaning.
