trying on a metaphor
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
One Nice Bug Per Day
JBB: An Artblog!
Sweet Seals For You, Always
★
wallacepolsom
@theartofmadeline
🪼
Origami Around
Cosmic Funnies
styofa doing anything
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
AnasAbdin
todays bird
Kiana Khansmith
if i look back, i am lost
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Portugal
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Türkiye
seen from Finland
seen from United States
seen from Bulgaria
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@maydette
ANNABELLE CRESSIDA IS AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER SET IN ORIGINAL LORE, USING THE WILD WEST AS INSPIRATION. IN SHORT : SHE WORKS AS A BARMAID AT SALLY'S SALOON. HER FATHER IS A RENOWNED AND HARDENED CRIMINAL WHO SHE ONCE WORKED UNDER . . . but she's trying her very best to stay on the straight and narrow in her tiny little town. affiliated with @floutlaws and @dodgebullets. PLEASE LOOK HERE FOR FURTHER INFORMATION : RULES / BIOGRAPHY.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
he notices some heads turning, voices quieting down here and there to listen to the show he is about to put on. but he doesn't give them much attention, keeping his head tilted back to keep his eyes on the barmaid. the upbeat melody quickens and he hits the strings more vigorously as he sings the first verse. " en una jaula de oro, pendiente de un balcón, una triste calandria lloraba su prisión. " javier continues to play the same quick succession of chords, only slightly quieter when he speaks again. " in a golden cage sits a sad little lark, crying over her captivity. that's you ! " he chuckles, amused by his little lesson. it's a refreshing change to his usual saloon visit. and she's been quite interesting, challenging him to it.
" hasta un gorrioncito amoroso la oyó, y dijo: ' mi bonita ! te quiero mucho yo !! ' " he leans closer, excitedly reciting the fictional confession of love to her, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. " so, a sparrow comes along and professes his love to her ! so your lines will be : ' me sacas de prisión . . . me voy contigo yo . . . ' " javier says the words slowly, pronouncing them clearly for her to understand, to repeat, slowing down the rhythm of the guitar to not rush her. " free me from my prison and i'll go with you. i think you can do it ! "
she watches his hands, lined with experience, as they let song melt into the space between them ( beauty is a rarity in a place like this : she has wrapped her teeth around enough rot to know the familiar stinging taste of it -- ain't many men who know how to strum a song that lits the place up ). a song for the drunken is like a sermon for the holy. eyes turn towards the scene with a sort of reverent, hushed bliss, and soon he becomes the center of prayer. she, too, cannot help but be swept up in it. he laughs and gestures -- she finds her mouth has abandoned the terrible disease of unhappiness and instead curls around her own sweeping coo. it is laughter by any other name! " golden? " she teases. her eyes cast themselves around the bar, a quick challenge to such an accusation. still, there are worse places to live and die : between her father and her deputy, she knows damn well how safe she is.
she can't make head nor tails of his words, but they sound pretty in his honey - dripping voice ( a rattlesnake sting is supposed to feel good for the first few seconds, she's heard ). when he slows down, she curls her mouth silently around the words, a hint of shy nerves bleeding into the whole display. chairs have turned towards them. eyes wait, hands clasped in prayer. she blends her voice into the echo of the strings, gently, gently, gently, a little lark - shine to her song : " me sacas de prisión . . . me voy contigo yo . . . "
what a waste he'd be as a hermit. burning in the sun for all those years he doesn't believe he has any right to, hands coated in dirt ( better than blood, sweeter than silver ) and face lined with hard summers. " the quiet' would'd be the least of my worries, " he decides, " if i never saw another soul but you, how much right would i have to complain? no, rather, i think it'd be the stillness that'd kill me. sittin' around waiting for planting season with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs. being alone ain't nothing, when you've got something to do. " the waiting, without anything to wait for, gnawing at his insides, heavy as the air when thunder rolled in. but no storm would ever break. there'd be no flood, nothing to feed that sinful piece of him that feeds on the chaotic machine of a well - done robbery, the power of taking something ill - gotten and returning it to its rightful place. the world never stops turning when he's on the run, and it's better that way, lest the devil catch his hands idle.
" however, " charles continues, with the darkness easing out of his voice, his mismatched gaze fixing upon her eyes, teasingly stern, " if it's gonna cost me hard - grown potatoes, well . . . maybe i'll have to rethink my invitation. " he takes his cigarette between his fingers and exhales ( cheap tobacco : only the worst, for him ) so he might breathe in the arid cold streaming off the distant mountains freely. " and here i thought you'd visit outta pity for a poor old farmer - hermit such as myself. "
she likes the flattery. that has always been the truth of the matter -- it's why she invites in the bandits and their bitter tongues, pretending snake venom is sweet as honey ( you see, the honest folk? they ain't so good at compliments . . . all that goodness makes 'em too tired to flirt with a poor little barmaid, she's sure of it ). " i'd drive you crazy after a while. really, i'm fun for an evening or two, but only dodge's been able to handle me for longer than that. " she does not mention robin -- it is a wound that only hurts when she has to talk about it. when she ignores the peeling edges and the blood that cannot be rubbed away, it feels like anything else : a warm numbness, like your mother's hand on your sweat - soaked forehead as a temperature desecrates you.
on his better days, annabelle's father pretended to be a farmer. on his best days, he pretended to be a farmer. out here, you could be whatever you wanted, as long as you had the money for it ( and the orange - sting taste of violence ). " i think you'd find something to do eventually. trouble always seems to come to you. " annabelle understands. she, too, stumbles drunkenly into trouble most of the time : her bid to do better has always been more of a pipe dream. still, if you repeat something to yourself enough, it's bound to become a little more true. " if you aren't willing to give me some of your hard - earned produce, you have to propose something else. i'm tired of thinkin'. "
maybe we can share one.
@maydette / meme.
the look in his eye - of jejune wonder at such easy acceptance - betrays the cautious way he wonders, "are you allowed to do that?" though if he had to guess, the rules around here might be so simple as: if he doesn't tell, then no one will know. he's tugging the beer towards him, anyway, taking a sip. it fizzes uncomfortably down his throat. "drink on the job, i mean?"
like most things in her life, she can and she can't. sally will tell her off (this is less of a punishment and more of a dog collar-- a necessary evil that comes with being taken care of like a well - groomed pet), but earning the older woman's forgiveness is a game she excels at. " you gonna get me in trouble? " she smiles at him like she wouldn't mind, either way.
@maydette, brought you a present.
noon lengthens, stretches, consumes the land whole. it couldn't be forgiving, and it makes harsh work of her eyes. she squints at the far end of the fence, where the water pump bled and fractured light into her face. the windows, yellowed with dust, did nothing to shield her. you could smell the water here, and she wants cooler nights.
a knock on the door, closer than close. she starts, like half out of a dream in the wake of a gunshot.
some voice, through the door, and she places a face and a name to it later : put the blame on the heat and the state of her sleep, put the blame on the travel, how long it took, how far. her eyes brighten, alive. recognition first, smile next. she is briefer, she is sharper, she is everything she hadn't been that she should have been— but only less. [and only more.]
“ not another tale? ” she softens, if only a little. annabelle. belle, anna, and other names that are tagged onto longer ones : she thinks of bell flowers. she thinks of belladonna from some far-off, greener land. far sweeter, here. “ someone down the road, she was kind and old. a little nosy. ” she opens the door further, feels the dust blowing off the street and running amok under her feet. “ you know you don't have to, whatever it is. ”
the land is dirty. it does not yield to them-- they, with their harsh boots and their weathered hands, try to tame the land into something liveable, but it resists them at every turn (her father could have been a farmer if the world was kinder, that's what he always said). still, she enjoys the trek to sally's house. for a moment, she is an adventurer again. that, of course, is just a softer word for a criminal, but she likes the spit of it in her mouth. she likes anything that absolves her. that has led her to whiskey, and cigars, and men like dodge. oh, dodge.
it has led her to women like sally, too. the girl opens the door and annabelle smiles, temporarily lifted to sainthood. her arms reach out before sally can protest and worry her into a hug, squeezing firmly. " you like my tales! " she accuses because, really, everyone should like annabelle's tales. they are all truths wrapped in falsehoods, like every good story should be. she pulls back, arms grabbing at sally's forearms. closely, she studies her face, and decides that she has been well. it always does good to check.
she swans deeper into the little home, resting her basket on the table. " oh, well, if i don't have to, i suppose i'll take my horse and carry everything back home. god forbid i try to be polite again! "
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 rustling of leaves when the wind disturbs them from where they want to be affix. despite how he half hides his face at the angle he stares down at the worn wood separating him from the lady, he’s limned a man in trouble, the edges of his canvas daubed in darkling hues of ash & coal. it’d be laughable if anyone found out that he’s the son of a sheriff deceased long ago a legendary man of the law. she sees through him, her voice goes through him like sun beams. deep blue seas in his gaze undulate to her ; sweat highlights future wrinkles, rimose. ❝ i’m trying to show some gratitude for you still welcoming me around these parts. ❞ the outlaw remains gracefully placid as words elide. truth is a threat, but its revelation here is his shelter. finally, a hint of a smile tugs on his lips. ❝ would you rather that i bring you flowers next time ? if so, just let me know. ❞
" that what i'm doing? welcoming you? " she teases with a lightness that she does not usually feel. she feels the money in her pocket, a noose and a lifeline all at once. she has never known the difference between the two: perhaps that's why sally's saloon has become something of an oasis for anyone who wants to stay just out of the law's line of sight. funny, considering the sheriff's station wasn't much more than five minutes down the road, if you were taking the long way around. why, she can at least buy herself a nice hair bow or two, which is the only luxury that really matters out here. " now, tell me one good florist that's gonna let you anywhere near their flowers. " she rolls her shoulders until her back makes a soft noise, a little reminder of how hard today has been, and how hard the next will be, and how this is her life (there is nowhere kinder to move). " you know, it'll be empty in the saloon soon. maybe you could have a drink with me. "
" oh, i got that kinda money. " he grumbles in an annoyed tone, drunken pride hurt by the insinuation. leaning forward to move with the chair back to its normal standing position, he meets her gaze with a challenging look that lacks all the energy it would need to truly be taken seriously. " but no, that's━ that's not what i want. " he's not all too sure what exactly he wants at this moment. but more alcohol is definitely one thing. and with a swift motion said beverage is swept from the table top and brought to his lips for a big gulp. wiping his lips he reaches into his pocket, suddenly determined, and searches around for a moment before pulling out something small and shiny. as if to make it some grand reveal of a surprise, he holds the golden ring embellished with a set of diamonds out to her in a showman - like gesture, though still hazy eyes somewhat dull the performance. " you like this one ? "
she has hurt him in some way, she knows that. money was a funny thing around here. why, everyone claimed to be flush with it, but annabelle never saw any pretty tips thrown her away (ain't like she's much better than them all, anyway, considering she brags about being too good for this damn saloon every chance she gets-- if sally ever heard her, she'd get a bar of soap shoved right down her throat). soap was another thing in short supply, though sally insisted that her threat was genuine. " shame for the girls upstairs. they don't get many handsome men up there. " she hopes that sews together his split - wound pride. doesn't do her any good to make enemies, especially not the drunken kind. the ring catches her eye-- she wishes her pa was here. he'd be able to tell her just how real it was. " careful there. you start flashing rings like that and a girl could get ideas, y'know. i might just wrestle you right down to the court house. " she holds her hand out, clearly expecting for him to put it on her. " well? i don't got all day. ain't getting any younger. "
ㅤㅤJESPER GRINS, THEN. it's the charming smile, but it's also a wickedly sharp one. it's full of promise. "oh, i don't know. i'd bet on the fact i'd be one of the last standin'. " when he glances over his shoulder, it's with some interest. " you don't think i'd come out on top? "
annabelle considers. this is a question of pride as much as it is of tactic. she ain't got any interest in tellin' anyone pretty lies, though. " i think you'd hold your own for about thirty minutes, then you'd get your ass shot to hell. about ten o'em out there. you gotta take someone with you if you wanna last. "
a dreadful sense of loneliness oppressed me . ferris!
ㅤ" must be oppressin' you real rough still if you think i'm the sorta fella who'd care to listen to that sorta yappin' . " ㅤferris rasped through his teeth . he was far too enamoured with the dish before him to pause on his chewing ; LAMB'S HEAD . the man had at some point during his meal grown frustrated with the cutlery and decided to peel off the rest of the head's fleshy cheeks with his own two hands . thick fingers were shiny with the gelatinous contents of his supper and his dark eyes were glued to the lamb's own . the guy looked like a damn animal ( but who could blame him ? ) . he hadn't had a proper meal in days ! after wandering for weeks throughout open land , annabelle's little saloon had been a sight for sore fucking eyes .
his overenthusiastic eating caused one of his elbows to knock his empty beer cup onto the floor and , ferris o'phelan who had every intention to eat and drink until he passed out , instinctively bent to grab it ㅤ─ ㅤ it was then that he noticed the seam of anabelle's dress . his gaze slowly climbed over her skirt , her bodice , her lovely neckline ... and when ferris found the barmaid's eyes it looked as if THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME HE HAD LOOKED AT HER ; really looked at her . ferris rubbed his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt .
ㅤㅤ" pretty thing like you ㅤ─ ㅤ toss any of these dogs a bone and they'll be sniffin' at your skirts for the next coupl'a years . " ㅤsomething cracked between his teeth when he spoke that horrible sentence into existence ; cartilage perhaps . or just a shard of bone from the animal's skull ... either way , he didn't seem to care because he still offered annabelle a rotten grin while lifting the cup from the table .
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ" fetch us a beer , will ya ? pretty please . "
he eats like a beast-- it reminds her of her father. it is the sort of lateness that could be mistaken for earliness and they are alone (unless you counted cooper's sleeping form not too far away from this man's table, bent over into an odd shape that surely couldn't be comfortable but, gee, she knew better than to wake her brother). " it ain't yapping, " she protests, a little sore by the comment. " most o'the men that wander by at this time a - night like a little conversation with their meals. " it ain't anything fancy. he'd asked for food, or demanded it, or done something equally antisocial. she had thrown whatever she could find into a pot 'cause, well, he did look hungry, and she was still technically on the clock. twenty more minutes. she wouldn't let sally hassle her into the morning shift ever again.
he drinks her in. she lets him. it ain't any different to how the boys in town look at her, hungry eyes that don't ever really mean anything. it doesn't look like she's been stripped of her clothes, though-- it looks like she's being stripped of her flesh. something cracks in his mouth and, for a beat that makes her tense, she worries it's a little part of her. but she ain't ever been scared of men, not of their teeth and not of their guns, so his rotting mouth doesn't steal more than a shiver from her.
" it's on your tab, sweetheart, not mine. i'll get you whatever you need. " she grabs the cup without touching him, skirt flowing like a banner as she walks behind the bar. her brother snore - snorts, low and brutal. she wonders if the man is still listening to her. why, she ain't had anyone to talk to all day, she's jonesing for it. " like i said, " she repeated, " it can be terribly lonely around here. most people leave real early. whatcha doing in these parts? if you're looking for a place, i know meryl's just gone and moved out, she lives up near the mountains, you know, the rocky ones. "
my silly little cowgirl annabelle... she's everything to me
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
AS THE HAZE OVER REALITY CLEARS, Sulu finds that he's tucked in a small wooden room, feminine touches sprinkled throughout. It feels warm and cozy. Nice, even. It draws up memory of Asuka decorating her dorm for college. At the thought of his sister, the Captain's heart clenches in his chest as he moves to sit upright.
Coughing, he looks around some more and finds that he is not some place modern. The woman's dress and accent gave it away. But now he's double sure. Unless this is some virtual reality he's stuck in...He wouldn't be surprised.
"Your town is called Phantom?" Brows sweeps down, wrinkles forming between them. Hikaru takes the offered water and gulps it down. It doesn't taste very clean but he doesn't comment. Instead, he offers the glass back. "Could I have more?"
Looking down, the Captain notes an reddish orange stain on his shirt. He'd been wounded. When had that happened? How had it happened? Did it happen when he'd...walked here?
"Could you tell me what happened? How I ended up here or how you found me?" Sulu tries to recall the events leading up to this moment but his mind is blank. He doesn't recall drinking or dreaming. He'd been in the Captain's chair one moment and the next....empty memories.
the question makes her laugh: he really isn't from around here. phantom comes with a reputation (it scars every soft face, mars every ruined hand, blackens every attempt at a smile-- there is a joke to be made about the people of phantom being little more than ghosts, but it isn't funny, so annabelle won't tell it). she's never heard of anyone who ain't heard of phantom. she checks his face. he could be pulling a fast one on her, she knows what menfolk are like and all, but he seems sincere in a way that usually tugs right on annabelle's heartstrings.
" you got a memory like my pa's. i'd tell you to go see the doctor, but he's currently suffering from dysentery. best to leave him alone. " taking the glass, she leaves the room for just a blink. when she comes back, water touches at the rim, threatening to slosh over if the cup isn't handled with care. she places it on the side rather than handing it to him, trying to be respectful and all that. " ain't much of a story, i'm afraid. definitely won't make the papers. you were passed out by the cowshed, over yonder. thought you were just one of the locals who couldn't handle his liquor, you know the type. but i saw you were bleedin' and, why, i felt real bad. never seen you before, either, and i remember every handsome face. there's so few of 'em, anyhow! anything coming back to you, mister? "
she’s afraid as a barmaid should be . one who hasn’t had all the time in their life to make certain they can defend themselves , anyways . maybe she can . he’s met far too many women willing to holding a knife in their hands to think like a fool . he’s known several more who can hold a gun without their fingers shaking , who can spit blood at the ground and keep going who , by all means , could pounce and rip like rabid dogs and carry on without losing a bit of resolve or strength . those , though few , at no impossibility , but they don’t namely exist in such a softened , vulnerable disguise . they exist as bare to the world as wild animals to ward away those who can’t heed the warnings . arthur knows better than to assume anything .
still , he assumes . ❝ you don’t gotta worry ‘bout me usin’ my gun . if i wanted to , i would’ve already had it out the moment i stepped through that door . ❞ he nods to that door in question . he hadn’t come in with any intention of robbing her . to allay her worries which he can see , when he moves his gaze to her face , plastered clearly in her expression , sitting in the wrinkle over her brow and at the edges of her eyes , some sort of fierce protectiveness come to eat away at her nerves he moves his arms over the counter . nothing but his bottle sits between his fingers . he’s nowhere near his guns .
❝ i ain’t askin’ for no help . ❞ he taps his fingers twice on the bottle , then leans back to take a swig . ❝ unless you wanna tell me , say , if you seen anyone come in here you ain’t familiar with ? aside from me . ❞
he makes threats so easily : he has no fuckin' idea who she is, then. in truth, a part of her almost likes it that way (without her father's reputation held over her like a painful reminder of everything she wasn't, she has no one else to be but herself, for whatever that means-- whatever thoughts he has of her, it is clear that they come from who she is, not whose last name fits over her like a noose). sure, it didn't seem like he had the best impression of her, but at least it was a honest one. her impression of him, though, is tainted. thought she might not be able to pick his face out from the thousand of wanted posters that litter their tiny town, he still stinks of trouble.
" if you came in here with your gun out, sally would match you blow for blow, sweetheart. " it is almost a joke, if not for the fact that it's the absolute truth. sally didn't open up a bar just to be walked all over. she was dangerous with a gun (hell, she was dangerous with just about everything she wrapped her greedy hands around : annabelle sure as shit wouldn't fuck with her). " you've got a real death wish if you want to take your chances with that old broad. "
well, had she seen anyone new around? the question caused her head to swivel slightly, this way and that way, as if she was checking to see who else was listening. a few people had taken an interest in their conversation, but they seemed drunk enough that it'd slip right from them the second they stumbled out of the saloon. " maybe, " she hummed, fixing him with her best smile. " i don't give away anything for free though. you never know when you're getting hustled-- i steer away from all charity. "
i bet we would have been best friends as kids.
she was never quite good at making friends, always being told she was too loud, too much, too messy or too trashy... so she thinks about it hard, a grin stretching over her face. @maydette may be right (& in this moment maybe rose is just reflecting on all the things that compiled over her childhood years, the jokes thrown in her direction for where she lived, at expense of her mother), but still rose looks her over to consider it intensely. "yeah?" a huffed laugh comes out of her parted lips, & truly she starts to believe it. the friends she did make were never the classic preppy girls or guys, never the jocks or athletes, but the weird ones out, maybe annabelle was truly right. "i'd love to have seen it, bet we would've made teachers pull out their hair." & now a proper tyler smile slips across her full features as she nudges the other. "i wasn't much of a good kid."
annabelle's teacher had always been the same woman: amanada monroe (she had once been something of a well - known beauty, all eyes - like - moonstones and a jawline - that - could - kill, but she turned hard and mean after her husband died in a shootout). whenever annabelle was late, which was more frequent than she'd like to admit, the older woman would put her hands on the desk and hit them with a ruler until they turned a screaming red. " you don't gotta worry, darlin', " annabelle assures. her eyes sparkle with something dangerous as she grins at @allthatwas, letting her own moonstone eyes turn hard in a way that could only mean bad luck. " i was just as much of a terror, i can tell you that. " there was a dagger of pride in her chest as she spoke-- it must have been inherited from her father. with a sweep of her hand, she's pouring them two new glasses of something heavy and honey - soaked. sally's little thing had brought it in last week and no one had seemed really ready to try it, but annabelle just couldn't get enough of the stuff, even if she wasn't much of a drinker. " what was the worst thing you did, then? "
he's not gonna be mad at the quiet tonight : half the time he's awake, he's chasing chaos down, so he figures he owes it to himself to spend the other half pretending to be peaceful. not that there's ever much chance, with all the new money that's been flooding in, chasing promises of gold and wealth and wide - open countryside, ready to be farmed. looking out over the quiet dirt street as he lights himself a smoke he shakes his head at her warning : " ain't much fun when everyone else is around either, i figure. i'm considering becomin' a hermit when i retire, if the law doesn't catch up first. or farming. however hard it is, it's gotta easier than what i've been up to. "
he leans back, only for a moment, because he has every intention on coming in, if she'll have him, then rises out of his seat, and with his cigarette between his teeth, holds out his hand to help her up. " if you're offering, i couldn't turn you down. " glancing back at the reddening sky, he exhales, smoke clouding his face. " would you visit, if i turned to farming? save me a trip into town? "
a hermit. why, she laughs like the first touch of sunshine after the rain has drowned out all the good in the world (she tips her head back and lets herself feel it: it's been a while since she's really laughed). ' why do you gotta wait until you're old and grey for that, huh? you could just become a hermit today, if you really wanted to. ' annabelle isn't dumb enough to convince herself that she'd like that sort of life. god, it really did sound hellish-- if she wasn't around people, she'd drive herself crazy. ' you don't think you'd start to lose your mind a little? all that quiet. the only company you'd have is yourself. '
if loneliness didn't kill her, she wasn't sure she was above putting a gun in her own mouth. hell, she could probably find someone willing enough to do just that if she looked hard enough. ' you'd want me to visit? ' she flutters her eyelashes, playing at sweetness despite the bitter root of her tongue. ' sounds like a real long trip. what's in it for me? you gonna start paying for my company in potatoes? '
having an oc is crazy what do you MEAN i feel this mentally ill over a girl that lives only in my brain and sometimes on tumblr dot com
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
she moves to boil up steam and herbs , and arthur , in curiosity and in silence , watches closely . there’s no mistaking the way she moves so soundly to close the curtains in the windows and seeks out that pot in one of the cabinets nearby the chimney . she moves with a sort of practised finesse that no inexperienced individual would ever possess . she’s been through this before , or lived some life like this before in her past , or done something in her life that had caused her to have to fill an abandoned home full of living smoke and signs of life . she’s too quick at this otherwise . somehow , the thought that she would have lived a life different from her little barmaid stint simply hadn’t occurred to him yet . a minor slip-up , if the situation had been any more dire toward him .
❝ ain’t no good lyin’ about a situation you ain’t sure gonna turn out good or not , ❞ is his stern reply . he had learned that when he hadn’t hit a decade old , and it had stuck for him the entire rest of his life . ordeals are made worse if one expects the best : isn’t that how it always goes ? he wanders near , letting his breath out slow . ❝ but i’ll try my best to make it so you ain’t scared of nothin’ else here . we got guns if they show at the door . and if they don’t , well … ❞ he gestures around the cabin . my , but it is smaller than he’d realised . only enough room for a stove , a few cabinets , a bed pushed up against the wall farthest from the door , a table and a single chair . ❝ we got four walls around us and a ceilin’ above our heads . can’t ask for nothin’ more . ❞
he pauses , gaze straying to her and landing on her back . her shoulders are tight in fear , arms wrapped tight around herself . it’s a sad sight . pitiful , maybe , but … clicking his tongue , arthur makes short work of the distance , carefully setting a hand at the back of her shoulder . ❝ i’m sorry . but i ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen . all right ? ❞
she's lived in worse places. when she was little, before they'd really settled down, her father would sometimes be gone for months (those were hungry months, made only of open mouths crying out to be fed-- her mother had tried, god bless her heart, but they were a big family and there was only ever so much to go around). they'd relied on the kindness of others: it was a limited resource. they'd lived in cat - houses and above saloons, the places where there was too much noise and not enough happiness. really, the fact that this place has a bed makes it nicer than some of the spots that had ruined her childhood. but her papa had made it good, eventually. or made it real bad-- she'd hit her teen years like a hurricane with her father's money following suit, pouring itself into their pockets (and annabelle had bought pretty dresses and soft linens for the tables and enough food to never go hungry again... she wonders what her little brothers, too small to even remember the bad days, would think of a place like this). why, they'd probably be beside themselves in pity. or running to rescue her.
' i ain't easily scared. you don't gotta worry about me. ' with the pot steadily boiling away, she lets herself relax into the scent of sweet fruits that fill the air. even with that comfort, she wraps her arms around herself, holding on tight to nothing. even if she's stayed in worse places, it had been a long time since she's been lonely. that's worse than fear-- she already knows that there will be long days ahead of her. how long is arthur gonna stick around for? he seems like a flight - risk, almost as bad as annabelle herself (like a lost pup running back to the boot that left its imprint on her tender fur, she thinks of how easy it would be for her father to fix everything: loneliness always makes you crave a god).
his hand presses against her shoulder and something inside her shakes apart. ' goddamit, ' she huffs. her voice is wet with a sob that she had meant to keep inside-- it seems like everything hits at once. her hands come up and wrap around his shoulders, clinging to him in search of a comfort he can't really give. ' i got a cat i really didn't wanna be saying goodbye to. who's gonna feed her now, huh? '
with a poorly concealed smirk he mouths a shocked what?! up at her before turning to look around the room in an illustrative 'search' for the men with guitars. " 'n' here i thought most men carry a gun and aren't good at shootin' it. but if this actually is the case, then i really gotta be concerned. " he reaches for the guitar and sets it down upon his lap, ready to defend his station. resting one arm over it lazily to reach the strings, he lets his hand wander over them to produce the intro notes of an upbeat melody, cigarette balanced between index and middle finger.
" well, i can tell you a story. it's about a sad little birdy trapped in her golden cage. if you're feelin' that kind of melancholy now. but i have to warn you, she's not as innocent as you'd think. " he narrows his eyes at her playfully, craning his neck as he looks up at her. " en una jaula de oro . . . pendiente de un balcón . . . " he sings sofly, each line accompanied by just a single chord. " or i can teach you her words, and you can chime in. "
his voice sways softly in the air, a tease of lightness in a place stretched thin with tension (he's charming and she likes being charmed-- he's caught her in a good mood tonight, the sort of oil - thick sweetness that's all smoke and mirrors). eyes turn towards them, captured by the thrill of music: everyone likes a good time. the stress of waiting for something bad to happen gives way. it breaks apart in their hands, cracked open by the smooth twang of guitar strings. well, if they want a show, she might as well sing for them. she half - wishes her little brother was here-- his voice was sweeter than her own, syrupy in its richness. but he'd make things worse, surely, trailing behind his pathetic gang, the leftovers of her father's name sticking to him.
' why, look at you. ' and they were-- eyes had caught themselves all over their sharp edges. she smiles with her teeth: perching herself on the edge of the table, she looks at him through the shadows of her eyelashes (she could play pretend, act shy about singing, but she'll just be delaying the inevitable). her honey - warmed voice wants to wrap itself around a different tune, desperate to escape the murmur of her own voice. ' sure. teach me. we got all the time in the world, don't we? '
