#Redneck Paint Job

[catfern]

outback.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: trucker!abby x afab!reader

music: her - unloved

word count: 1.7k

summary: the night shift at a remote petrol station sounded like easy double pay. but nights get lonely. you've gotta find something to keep yourself entertained.

warnings: porn with a smidgen of plot, fingering, some perverted staring, tiny tiny implied age gap, australia. this is rlly just porn

fern says ⎯ THIS ONE IS FOR ALL THE AUSSIES IN THE AUDIENCE MAKE SOME NOISE!!!!!! this truly is self indulgent cause i miss flirting with hot women who call me darl.

you brought this on yourself, really.

the pale blue of the bug zapper fought a contrast with the dying fluorescents, painting half the aisles in an eery, twilight movie shade. the heat of a high december night was creeping, clinging to your shitty polyester uniform as you camp out in front of the only standing fan.

you had begged for a job, pleaded for it really, in the wickedness of this economic climate. you had run, tail between your legs, from your local chain grocery at the sight of the price of an avocado, and thrown yourself at the feet of the next passing employer. like a squire to the knights of old.

you just hadn’t expected it would be this job.

the gatekeeper of one of the last vestiges of civilisation. the night shift at a deserted highway petrol station.

the flickering floodlights by the pumps fighting an uphill battle to keep the creeping night at bay, you can do nothing but stare, eyes adjusting, ‘unadjusting’, readjusting to the dark over and over again. you’d had a total of two customers since you took over from the day shift crew. one just threw a gatorade your way in exchange for the bathroom key.

the high beam headlights of an oncoming truck shake you from your fading thoughts, baking you into the linoleum tile as you squint, blind. asshole.

you’d been warned about truckers, briefly. handsy rednecks, your manager had called them in passing while giving you a tour of the storage room. desperate old fucks who crawl like dogs to anything with a hole.

you watch with an almost bated breath as the peeling yellow cabin of the long-haul truck pulls into park, your eyes following its jaunty movement through the glass of the front windows. you’re starting to think maybe you should have brought an illegal switchblade to work. if you had one.

you avert your gaze quick, grabbing at something from the magazine rack in desperate hopes to appear disinterested, unapproachable. 15 Ways to Homeschool Your Kids. sure, that works.

the bell above the door chimes, you spy the scuffed leather boots crossing the plastic tiling with heavy footfall. 

“y’got a lounge?”

standing at the counter, you have to admit, she’s not what you pictured when you saw the truck. not that what you see is at all worth of complaint.

a thin sheen of sweat clings to her, echoes of the heat of the road. her skin is flushed, the contour of her muscle sitting, almost man-made, in a thin, cotton singlet. her hair is tied tight, her features, sharp, discerning, eyeing you down. you try not to stare, too obviously, at the soft outline of her nipple piercings beneath her shirt.

“hm?” you’re distracted.

“a lounge, darl. trucker lounge?” she repeats slowly with a bite of a smirk, looking at you like you were only a little bit stupid. your stomach drops with the honey of the nickname.

your eyes dart around the small space of the shop. you barely had space for the 3 aisles and the dingy bathroom. you clear your throat, trying to shake the feeling of fascination, “oh — uh, nah.”

she scoffs, a wicked, small laugh, before retreating to browse the snack section.

you watch her, when you think she isn’t looking. small, caught glimpses in your feigned disinterest. she’s been on the road long, a tension in the broadness of her shoulders obvious as she readjusts her posture, eyeing the chips. you try bury whatever rears its head in your stomach when you hear her groan as she squats to better see the canned fruit. a roughness in her voice, lead with age and smoke.

you drop your reading material and smile, tight lipped, polite, as she approaches the counter. a cold meat pie and a ginger beer.

"and uh — pack'a rothmans, thanks, love.”

you nod, turning to wrestle with the rusting cigarette cage behind the counter, when you hear her chuckle, breathy and deep as she talks,

“y’look a little young to have kids.”

spinning back so quick you make yourself dizzy, you swipe the shitty magazine off the counter, discarded and unimportant, “nah, i… i was just bored.”

she rakes her eyes over you, slow, and you can’t help but feel the pull, magnetic, a knot in your stomach as she studies you. you feel caught in a trap, under her gaze. looking up at her, her looming presence is becoming all too real.

you slide the pack of cigarettes over the counter, trapped meeting her eye. a smile, something sly, plays on her lips as she thanks you, moving to catch a breeze of the fan.

an uncomfortable beat of silence passes between you. well, it’s uncomfortable for you. no longer able to hide behind disinterest behind glossy paper, you instead wrestle with yourself to seem at least neutrally interested, not utterly obsessed. you wring your hands behind the shelter of the till.

the woman shakes a cigarette free from the pack, holding it between the skin of her lips. “you smoke?” she’s looking at you, through the corner of her eye.

no, never.

“uh, yeah.”

you follow her out the shop, tied to her artificial shadow in the fluorescents. something is crawling in the night, when you step outside. a cicada silence echoes across the gathering dirt and dust.

she offers you the cig she had been holding, you take it gingerly, holding it in your mouth as she holds her lighter up. she brings her hand to cup the flame, to keep the absent breeze from destroying it. you feel, just slightly, the brush of her calloused palms against the low of your cheek, and you pray that the navy hue of the bug zapper is enough to hide the heat on your skin.

smoke fills your lungs, foreign and quick, an itch inside you that feels impossible. you cough and splutter to the chorus of her raspy laughter.

“you haven’t smoked a day in your life.” she says with a lopsided smile, plucking the cigarette from your hand and bringing it to her lips, taking a long, constrastly confident draw.

you shake your head in between wheezes, “is that what everyone is always going on about?”

“you’ll get used to it, here,” 

she hands it back to you, you feel obliged to take it. to try again, as she so quietly commands. your second go is met with an only slightly irritating tickle in your throat.

“that’s it, good girl,” something that seems so unsure rolls off her like syrup, something you had never known you were so desperate for. her hand finds the small of your back, her fingers dancing circles in something akin to comfort, to praise.

you look up to find her eyes already on you, tracing the contours of your neck in icy blue form.

the smell of artificial pine and day-old dust clings to her, swallows you whole as you fall victim to her touch, light-headed and weak at the knees as her breath fills your lungs.

she’s nothing if not vocal, desperation falling from her lips in tortured moans as she presses herself into the crook below your jaw, drawing your soft skin beneath her teeth, softly licking the littered aftermath, a trail down your chest.

she’s quick to undress you, pulling impatiently at the scratchy fabric of your worn company polo shirt. she’s not phased by any forgotten need for privacy, for decency. she’s only here in passing, after all.

“oh, sweetheart,”

the lace of your bra is a temptation not lost on her, a delight she so happily indulges in after days on the road. in some perverted part of her mind, you wore it for her. maybe, in some cosmic, fated way, you did.

her hands snake down your body, helping themselves to the lux of your curves as her lips press, all-consuming, against yours. her fingers lightly spreading your legs, a mean chuckle souring the kiss.

she’s not at all easy, or kind, the way she pulls you open, watches you fall apart in the brutality of her control. she touches you like she aims to destroy you, her fingers working relentlessly to the pull of your walls, unheard to your pleas to — please, slow down.

“that’s it, darling. come on,” it’s sharp, delirious and oh so pleased to hear you, a whisper tickling the dip of your chest, watching you through the blonde of her eyelashes as you throw your head back, your body rocking to the rhythm she sets.

“p-please, fuck, jesus, fuck!” if she was any meaner, she would have laughed. but god, she’s distracted. driven mad by her own dripping need.

“you wanna come, baby? yeah, yeah?” she’s slowing down, and you chase her question with a desperate, shakey nod. “yeah, you do. come here.”

she takes your hand in hers, delicate, kind, a wicked contrast. under the guidance of her touch, you grip the stiff denim of her jeans, tender, unsure, until she leads you to the heat between her legs and you nearly melt. her hand goes to fiddle with her belt, her eyes finding yours, bleary, in the haze.

“think you can help me out, sweetheart?” she nods along with you, and you’re unsure if she’s copying you, or you are her.

“yeah — i can, please, please,” you whine, your hips still rutting a lazy pace against the now stagnant force inside you. your hand pulls, impatiently, at the waistband of her cotton boxers, pulling them down to sit unceremoniously at her hips.

“fuck, good girl,” she seethes at the languid circles you draw on her clit, gentle and paced, as you chase your own euphoria on her fingers, “come on,” a whisper, hot on your neck, “i’ll go faster if you do, darlin’.”

you pick up in a daze, so compliant to the whim of her demand, so desperate to feel her calloused fingers trace the tide against your centre. rushing that feeling, wretched to have her tear you apart.

her fingers rock against you without care, wrenching every ragged moan from the cut of your throat as her speed picks up, “that’s it, fuck, you feel so good, sweetness. keep — keep going.” hoarse whispers against your chest as she presses sloppy, undone kisses to the ghosts of your ribcage.

you watch, above the broadness of her shoulder, as a peak of the sun paints the horizon a muddy pink, your moans a soundtrack to the emptiness of the desert as you practically bounce on the stranger’s fingers, loud for your own release.

yeah, you lost your job.

⎯ kofi

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

[talesfrommedinastation]

My Redneck Neighbor Doug has watched The Bad Batch Season 3 opener:

LEEEEET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE!

This is more pithy than normal: Doug's been busy with work, as have I. But I'm determined to hear his thoughts on The Daddy Warcrimes 'n Company so here we go!

These were all via text messages, btw.

CW: Doug Doug's as you know Doug will do. Away!

---------------------------------------------------

Episode 1: 'Little Orphan Blondie's Shit Internship at The Museum of Science and Industry'

Poor Little Orphan Blondie, stuck in The Museum of Science and Industry in a shit summer job because they got bills to pay. Except they got rid of the dinosaurs and walk in heart and filled it with gross shit.

Hey look, they still got the coal mine exhibit! Man I miss Chicago.

(Doug, that museum has never had dinosaurs. “What, since when?”)

MUTANT JIMMERS EVERYWHERE! Aw, Little Orphan Blondie gave one her chicken nuggets! And it’s shy, aw, I hope it’s okay.

Poor Mutant Jimmers…she named her?! Swear to Christ Almighty if that dog gets Old Yeller’d I’ll just lose it. 

That freaky alien thing that ran the mall on the ocean looks sad, I bet she wishes she fell into the water and got eaten by a shark or something. I wish you did too, lady. 

The Sons of Robocop really are everywhere, they must be a cult or something. They look cool, I’d join, why not. Think they get 401ks?

Oh man, Daddy Warcrimes is down bad. Poor Daddy Warcrimes. Man, all my clone boys are stooped and sad…this ain’t good. 

At least Little Orphan Blondie can craft! Man, she should start selling those at the Museum of Science and Industry’s gift shop. Maybe Tarkin can bring one back for the grandchildren he’s not allowed to talk to since the restraining order was put in.

Oh, there’s Stepsister Beth, she seems on edge. Must’ve gotten divorced recently, don’t blame her ex, I bet she screamed at him for leaving cabinets open who knows. How do her eyeballs not hurt after wearing those dumb glasses all day?

Episode 2: 'Night Elves and Neverland Ranch'

The night elves from Warcraft invaded Star Wars and got horns or something and now they have a castle that looks like a boss level in Diablo IV or V or how many Diablo games they got now.

Now they yelling at people and throwing them in the basement today. Makes sense, gotta fight the orcs and stuff. Think they fight the orcs in the basement?

The Night Elf Horned Queen hired Daddy Rambo and Julio to get people, I guess they’re turning into Boba Fett or something. They got her son's horn back, guess that's good. Oh they need new paint jobs on their armor.

Do they end up in the basement in the Diablo Boss Level? No? And off they go! 

Daddy Rambo and Julio are in their homeland of FLORIDA! Hell yeah, SPACE FLORIDA! And they’re bringing the talking trashcan with them using straps! Go Julio go!  Yeah, boa vines, this is TOTALLY the Everglades! 

Escaped clone boys! Oh man! Shit, is Neverland Ranch in the jungle? Oh man–oh, they know what they’re doing. Good kids. Real good kids. Oh what happened to the rest of them? Oh Meat Muffin, this ain't good :(.

You know what? Them clone boys are smart, take it back, this ain’t Space Florida, this is Space Louisiana! Them baby boys gone get feral and run off into the bayou and live in the caves and now you know my origin story, Meat Muffin! 

If this was Florida they'd just end up working the late shift at Zaxby's and smoking rocks in the parking lot. We know better, we French and all.

I bet they’ve been living on nutria and half-empty chicken boxes from behind the gas stations. Resourceful scrappy kids and I can tell its making Daddy Rambo proud.

Oh holy SHIT, there go them vines! It's like the kudzu all over again, maybe this is LaFourche Parish?

See, them boys are definitely white trash, Mandalorian rednecks. Look at em, living in the woods and hijacking a plane, but they good kids, saving their brothers. Even saved the robot too. 

Man, all the feels, them poor little boys. What will they do now?  Oh, they're going to Space Daytona! Good, wait, I saw the trailer, doesn't the Empire invade it? THIS AIN'T GOOD MEAT MUFFIN!!!

Wait...where's Toaster Strudel and Rex?

Episode 3: 'Blondie Got a Gun'

Well here's the Emperor. He wants to be immortal. Gotta make that other movie make sense or something.

Where's Darth Vader? Is he running the government when the Emperor is running around giggling?

Don’t you DARE kill Mutant Jimmers, you damn droid. I hate that ugly assed stupid thing. It looks like its scarecrow daddy fucked a microwave and then left it enough money to go to Planned Parenthood but instead spent it on crack and there ya go.  

Oh shut your goddamned yap, Jimmy the Scientist. I bet he gloves that hand up because he keeps shoving it up his own ass and that's why he walks funny all the damn time.

The Emperor also has a Diablo IV or VIII boss level all to himself too at the Museum of Science and Industry. How many Diablo games are there, Meat Muffin?

YEAH, LITTLE ORPHAN BLONDIE! GIT ER DONE!!! They're out! Oh wow! There she goes with Daddy Warcrimes! Kill em all and let GOD SORT THEM OUT! That's my GIRL!!!!

Blondie’s got a gun 

Blondie’s got a gun

Her whole world's come undone

Shooting droids is FUN!

GO MUTANT JIMMERS GO!!!! 

YEAH BLONDIE DADDY WARCRIMES AND MUTANT JIMMERS!!!!!!

I AIN'T A BULLS FAN BUT REPEAT THE THREE PEAT! YEAH!!!!!!

....so when we gonna get Toaster Strudel and Rex? Next one? Where's my reg boys?!

-----------------

Tagging those who missed my Cajun neighbor. LOOKS LIKE REDNECK DOUG IS BACK ON THE MENU, BOYS!

@skellymom @amalthiaph @eyecandyeoz @cdblake1565 @sued134 @merkitty49 @supremechancellorrex @yeehawgeek @wrenkenstein @techs-stitches @deezlees @autistic-artistech @perfectlywingedcrusade @auntie-venom @megmca @thecoffeelorian

[isoldmysoulforcheese]

Stay Still

Paring: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader

Era: Season two

Summary: Daryl loses control once finally alone with the girl he’s been chasing for months.

Warnings: Swearing, smut, hand jobs, and oral (male receiving.)

Word count: 5,329 words.

(Sorry if this is bad, this is my first time writing any sort of smut.)

Daryl and I hadn't had a moment alone, practically sense we met one another, and our constant, discreet flirting, my fingers caressing his arm, his eyes scanning my figure, someones hands miraculously landing upon the others, all of it was becoming too much. I was starting to lose control over both my mind and body; I was constantly checking him out, my eyes were like magnets, always drawn to his figure. I would dream about the male at night, often waking up in a cold sweat, my palms clammy, and extremely turned on. I was sure, if we had a moment together, even just one second, unattended, we'd let our animistic instincts overcome us. 

“Carol,” I called out to the short haired woman as she came down the hall, and when she finally noticed me, glancing up towards the source of the unexpected noise, I continued my sentence “Daryl. How is he?” 

I couldn't lie, I was becoming slightly attached to the redneck, a thought that entirely grossed me out, finding a hick attractive. But God was he hot, that was an undeniable fact. 

I was always worrying when he went on supply runs alone, practically praying for his safe return home. I would pace around my tent, stressing about his well-being whenever he would practically disappear from the camp, wandering off to be left to his own devices whenever he wanted to become a recluse. 

“He's good. You can go in and see him if you'd like. I'm sure he'd appreciate that.” The woman said, a small smile slipping across her face. 

Her kind words shot straight through my heart.

Although Carol was most likely speaking just out of both the kindness and generosity of her soul, my brain insinuated her sentence in a completely different manner. 

My thoughts took her words and contorted them, thinking that the underlying tone in her statement was hinting towards that fact that Darly felt the same way towards me, absolutely smitten and lust driven. I pondered upon the idea that he possibly may have been telling Carol about me in passing, maybe dropping a few hints about his appreciation towards me, or secretly talking about how cute I was. But considering the fact that it was quiet, loner, Darly I was thinking about, the odds of that actually being accurate were very low.

I nodded politely, wiping away the remnants of my small, flustered smile with the back of my hand before sneaking down the dimly lit hall. 

I tiptoed towards Daryl's room until I finally arrived outside the door, and although I had no reason to be sneaking around, it still felt oddly necessary. I silently stood outside for a moment, eying the wooden door frame placed in front of me, sparks flying through my nerves as I struggled to reach up and turn the door knob, due to the fact that I knew what would happen the moment I entered the bedroom: it would start off civil, maybe we’d exchange courteous words back and forth, then we'd inch closer to one another, but that would just continue on into a ravenous make out session before finally ending with his dick stuffed inside me. The timeline was almost completely visible in my head, but, although I was almost 100% ready, I was still nervous. 

I peaked down towards the floor, noticing the light that flooded out from beneath the door, pooling across the ground as I reached up towards the paint chipped wood, letting my hands curl into a fist before carefully knocking upon the thick, wooden planks.

It was silent for a moment before he spoke:

“Come in.” 

His voice single handedly drew butterflies to my stomach, an infatuated warmth growing across my skin as his gruff voice echoed inside my ears before finally shooting straight through my heart. 

I ultimately allowed my hand to fall down to the doorknob, my fingers rubbing upon the metal oval before turning it, the door opening with a slight pop. I slowly pushed the door open, just enough to slip through before stepping inside.

“Hey.” I said timidly, shutting the door behind me before resting my back upon it.

A smirk drew across his face as his eyes landed upon me. Once again, I observed as his vision scanned my figure, as it always did; his eyes started on my face, circling around my features such as my eyes, nose, hair, and finally hovering over my mouth before sliding down my body, momentarily pausing upon places such as my waist, thighs, and especially my breasts. His shameless staring sent shockwaves coursing through my veins, ending directly between my legs. 

He didn't look too bad himself, he actually looked quite hot all bandaged up while resting comfortably upon the bed. His chest was exposed, the muscles were slightly toned, his buff stalkiness adding to my attraction towards the hunter. Darly obviously didn't bother covering his midriff when he noticed it was me entering the room. His shimmering skin was littered with scars and other sorts of marks covering his body, the rugged look was another aspect of the brunette that made me quite fond of him. His head was tightly wrapped in some sort of binding, an obvious attempt at helping his skull heal from the bullet that had just previously grazed him, and to be honest, the gauze was kind of adorable on him; short, thin strands were poking out from underneath the bandage, giving his hair a messy look. His arms were placed by his side, the muscles upon his limbs causing me to momentarily draw my bottom lip between my teeth as I observed his appendages. 

I wondered what else would be revealed underneath the sheets that were lazily draped across him.

“Hey.” He responded, his voice raspy but the grin upon his lips was still extremely evident as he picked up upon my obvious staring. 

I couldn't help but smile back at him, just the thought of finally being alone with the male had my cheeks turning a slight reddish hue. 

“How do you feel?” I asked, unsure how to make progress in this situation.

My eyes followed his arms as he drew them out from under the sheets, placing them behind his head. He knew what he was doing, the position he was currently laying in: arms placed confidently behind his head, cocky grin drawn sloppily upon his lips, and his strapping upper body exposed to my hungry, desperate eyes. 

“Amazing.” He responded sarcastically.

It was a stupid question to ask in the first place; getting knocked off a horse before falling down a cliff and landing upon his own arrow just to have to fall down once more and fight off walkers before successfully making it to the top just to have to limp all the way back to the farm before finally getting shot at obviously wasn't gonna make him feel “amazing,” as he jokingly said himself. 

The room was suddenly filled with an awkward silence, a tension so thick even a knife couldn't cut through it as we just stared at one another, our faces reflecting an overwhelming feeling of lust and desire as we gazed upon each other. 

We both knew what was soon going to conspire in the small, farm house room. It was like we could read one another's mind, hearing each other's thoughts as we fiddled with the idea of what we were gonna do to one another. I could practically read the devious look upon his face, staring at me as he prepared himself for future actions that were long overdue.

Daryl knew why I had come in here and I knew that he was absolutely ecstatic about it. 

“Can I sit?” I finally asked.

My question seemed to surprise him as his eyebrows raised in shock. He drew in a deep breath as he slightly nodded. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

I slowly made my way over to the side of the bed, my feet silently sliding across the old, wooden floorboards before I placed my palms upon the mattress, fiddling with the soft sheets between the pads of my fingers, allowing the fabric to slide between my skin. I took a seat on the bed, resting beside Daryl’s hips as I admired his stature, his arrogant smile began to slowly fade as he observed me. After a long moment of letting the two voices in my head have a war over whether or not I should go through with this: the angel on my shoulder advising that I should respect the man, to discover his actual feelings towards me before continuing with my distasteful intentions, while the devil upon my shoulder begged me to do it, pleading with me to finally let go of all my pent up sexual frustration and beseeching desire, to let it all out onto Daryl. I finally let my hands glide up his body, landing upon his chest.

At first, he drew away, his stomach concaved, jolting inwards in a violent motion in an attempt to avoid my touch as he seemed to strongly dislike physical connection. My fingers faltered, jerking backwards out of both fear and pity. I didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

My insecurities got the best of me when practically a gallon of doubtful thoughts came flooding into my mind; what if he didn't reciprocate my feelings? Were all of our passing glances and delicate interactions all just a figment of my imagination as he was just trying to be friendly and I had just overstepped his boundaries? Did I just ruin our friendship? 

And then he calmed, his abdomen returning to its original state as his stomach expanded and he relaxed into the mattress below him, inviting me to place my hands upon him as he joyfully watched from his position on the pillow. 

My digits moved forward with shaky movements as they approached his body once more, my heart pounding with a mix of both anticipation and nervousness as I neared his vicinity. And when my hands landed upon him, feeling his toned body as my fingers glided over his skin, I exhaled, letting out a quivering breath I didn't even know I was holding. My fingers skimmed across his flesh, making sure to avoid his bandages or any bruise in the process, no matter how big or how minor, so as not to hurt him in any possible way. I glanced up towards him, noticing that he had his eyes closed momentarily, most likely basking in my soothing touch, finally feeling my skin upon his. Either that or he was really just trying to get some sort of rest or relaxation after his accident.

My brain was cleared of all its previous thoughts; forgetting about all my insecurities, worries, and problems as I too relaxed, letting myself enjoy the moment. His body felt perfect in my grasp as I allowed myself to feel him up. I palmed his chest, allowed my fingers to sail upon his abs, evening letting my fingers graze into his happy trail for a short moment. The entire experience was like pure heaven to me, my underwear dampening while my lips were slightly parted, my breaths labored while I simultaneously observed every move my fingers made as I stared down in complete astonishment.

I slightly jumped when I felt one of his hands land upon my free arm, too entranced while marveling over his silhouette to even notice him remove his arm from its previous position. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, his nails slightly digging into my skin as his fist practically dominated my hand. I can't lie, the controlling grip he had upon me was both thrilling but also a bit petrifying. It went on like that for a minute or so, the two of us sitting in comfortable silence as I traced over his scars and other parts of his body, his hand calmly placed upon me before he finally used his strength, although it didn't take much, to move my limb elsewhere. 

In that moment, my heart started to pound afresh; it was rattling around in my chest so violently I was sure Daryl could hear it from his position as he used my wrist to trail my hand down towards his crotch. I thickly swallowed as I allowed him to do as such, my face becoming extremely hot as the situation got much more serious.

Soon, my palm was met with the feeling of his slowly hardening dick, half erect and twitching at the mere thought of finally being able to be intimate with me. I practically had to choke down a moan when we finally connected due to both his rapidly growing size and the flattering compliment he was unaware he had just given me. 

I glanced up towards Daryl once more just to find him already staring at me, licking his lips as he gazed at me through hooded eyes, staring in anticipation. I so desperately desired for his body to be rid of the blanket so I could finally admire him in all his glory. 

I licked my lips in suspense, I needed to see him, to feel him, to kiss him. 

I looked up towards him just then, my palm beginning to frantically grope at his, now fully stiff, groin, just to find him looking back at me. His bottom lip was pulled taunt in between his teeth as he stared down at me, relishing in the fact that he was finally being touched and grabbed by me, by my hands, with my passion. 

I leaned forward abruptly, stunning Daryl as I caught his lips between mine, kissing him with all my pent up covet. Our mouths were practically glued together as we frantically made out, sloppily smashing our lips together like it was our last day on Earth. It was a possibility. His mouth felt perfect on mine, like his kiss was made for me to receive as our lips fit together like puzzle pieces. His mouth was soft and inviting, luring me into his domain as I leaned in closer to him, wanting to taste every inch of his mouth as his light stubble tickled my jaw.

I needed to be closer to him, I desired to feel his heaving chest against my own, praying to feel his arms wrap around me and to be able to bury my head in the crook of his neck as I let my fingers card through what was available of his hair. I wanted to feel him all around me as I kissed his lips, jawline, neck, skin, everywhere. 

Daryl groaned as I pulled myself onto his lap, tossing my leg over his torso to effectively straddle him, to get adjacent with him as our kiss deepened, his hands finding their way to my hips, burrowing under my shirt before settling upon my warm skin. His touch sent a zap of pleasure through my body as I finally felt his hands upon me, touching more than just my arms or hands. My flesh was soft compared to his rugged finger tips, his work withered hands wrapped tightly around my torso as he helped guide me onto his lap, assisting me while I did my best to find the perfect position to sit upon his dick. 

He groaned when we finally found it. 

I attempted to begin to grind upon him, to relieve myself of, at least some, pressure by granting a little friction, dragging my aching and throbbing crotch down his own.

“Ahh!” He practically cried out.

His grip upon me grew stronger, his fingers secured themselves around my hips before pulling me up and off of him. He held me so I was hovering over his crotch, mere inches away as he winced in pain, his eyes slightly squinted and his jaw clenched causing his teeth to grind together. The pure force he used to yank me from his lap was enough to most likely leave bruises upon my skin, red and purple marks in the shape of his hands that I’d have to give a half assed excuse about if they were ever spotted by any of the others. That thought, the fact that he could probably throw me across the room or carry me in his arms with little to no effort, it both scared me while also making me so much more turned on than I already was. 

“I'm sorry, Daryl.” I said quickly, the words practically spilling from my lips, fear filling my brain as I stared worryingly down upon him “A-are you okay? Did I do something wrong?” 

I was scared that I had ruined our moment, stressing over that idea that I had somehow hurt him. Maybe I had possibly added too much pressure or accidentally pressed upon him in the wrong way. My heart aching at the idea that I’d have to get up from his lap and remove myself from the situation. Was I really that bad at this? 

“No,” he said, taking in a few small breaths as his eyes winced from the stinging pain “I got stitches.”

My eyes traveled down his body once more, tracing over the veins visible in his neck, skimming over his collar bones, down his chest, across his abs before finally landing upon the patch tapped over his ribs. Gauze was sticking out from underneath the slightly stained red bandages that were placed upon his body. I brought my fingers down to his wound, my nails lightly tracing over the medical tape causing Daryl to quietly hiss to himself.

The two of us were silent for a while, the fact that this was one of our only chances to be alone with one another and we couldnt even fuck like wild animals had dawned on us. He hadn’t healed enough to be doing that sort of rigorous work out, straining his muscles could possibly mess up the entire healing process. The sound of Daryl's delayed breaths were the only sound to be heard in the vicinity, his gravely gasps echoing throughout the room as an idea washed over me. A devious thought that caused a small smile to grow across my lips.

“Here, relax.” I said as I pulled myself from his lap, his fingers lost their grip upon my torso as I did so, loosely falling beside his body causing the bed to slightly rattle “Let me take care of you.” 

I maneuvered myself so I was perfectly settled in between his legs, creating a spot for me to comfortably sit before our future actions ensued. I took a deep breath in, allowing myself to relax, trying to quickly shed my nerves in the hopes that they would be replaced by confidence before bringing my hands up to the sheet just barely ending above his pelvic region. His V-line was now visible, his happy trail beginning around his belly button, thin and frivolous dark brown hairs growing from the skin circling the omphalos of his stomach before making its way towards his groin, disappearing underneath the blankets past what I could view. 

Daryl was still admiring me, his eyes practically burning holes into my head as he observed me from above, unable to pull his eyes away from me. I told myself that in that moment he was just overcome by my beauty, waves of lust splashing through his body as he watched me, but his attentiveness only caused me to become more nervous; the previous quivering returned to my hands. 

I once again tried to steady myself but irrational thoughts were over powering my comforting ones.

“Come on now, I'm not gonna bite.” He said in an attempt to reassure me. 

Overcome by embarrassment, just wanting to please the dominant male laying below me, I finally removed the cover, greeted by his straining cock; the tip was red and irritated, practically begging for me to relieve him of the aching pressure flowing through his dick. His shaft was twitching and throbbing as a result. The veins spotting his skin were extremely visible, pulsing underneath his flesh causing my mouth to water.

I marveled at the delightful sight in front of me; his cock was perfect in my eyes, considering the fact that it had been all I ever thought about for the past couple months, the idea littering my brain before I went to bed, when ever I took showers, and even when I was attending to other duties such as hunting or guarding, but it was much better than I could have ever dreamed of. I had spent numerous occasions shamelessly staring at the crotch of his pants, trying to decipher just what he could possibly look like under his clothing, and now it was finally being revealed to me. 

Darly suddenly cleared his throat, the abrupt noise echoing throughout the room and causing my eyes to dart towards him. He had a shy look upon his face, his cheeks a slight shade of pink and he was avidly chewing at the inside of his mouth, obviously embarrassed by the amount of time I had spent staring at his lower half in complete awe, practically drooling over him. 

I took his reaction into consideration as I was also finding it hard to wait much longer, my hands thrusting forward before finally landing upon his crotch; I needed to touch him. 

It was warm to the touch, pulsing in my hands as Daryl let out a quiet groan, one that was only audible due to our close proximity. He felt perfect in my grasp, my fingers barely wrapping entirely around him as I searched for a comfortable position to clasp my hand around him. I could feel myself getting wetter by the second when I finally situated myself, my hand placed towards his tip. My movements were slow at first, trying to figure out what made the Dixon above me feel the best, picking up on any sort of sound he made, whether it be a moan, groan or any sign of discomfort. 

Once I found the perfect pace, my hands worked at Daryl in a steady rhythm; one hand was wrapped around the base of dick as the other was swiftly pumping away at his shaft. The friction caused Daryl’s eyes to screw shut against his will even though it was evident that all he wanted to do was watch the girl, the female he had pined over for months, jerk him off with her seemingly magical hands. I kept purposely doing this thing with my palm, twisting my wrist as it met the head of his cock, an action that caused the biker's jaw to drop, small breaths being exhaled from the depths of his throat. 

This carried on for a couple minutes, my hand gliding up and down his shaft, successfully pumping him, before, just when the hunter thought it couldn't get any better, my mouth suddenly appeared upon his dick. I started with the tip, creating small circles with my tongue, swirling my saliva around his aching head caused a deep groan to escape from Daryl's mouth, a sound that was like heavenly music to my ears. 

 I lapped away at his pre-cum that had coated the head of his dick. It didn't have a really out of the ordinary taste, although it was slightly sweet, causing me to desire more, practically trying to suck it out of him. He was warm in the chambers of my mouth, heat radiating onto my tongue, spreading through my cheeks and bouncing towards the roof of my mouth. The fact that his cock was stuffed into my mouth caused my face to turn a deep red, my skin was burning, my ears were throbbing and the heart beat between my legs became much more intense. 

The warmth pooling around him was perfection to Daryl, a feeling he hadn't felt for what seemed like years, and that fact made the entire experience ten times more pleasurable. All the different sensations became extremely overwhelming for the male, my lips wrapped around him and my hands pumping at the base of his cock, he was already close to blowing his load before I had even taken more than an inch of him into my mouth. 

“Jesus.” He mumbled under his breath as his hand trailed down to my hair, tangling his fingers into my locks, lacing the strands between his digits in an attempt to help me find a rhythm, bobbing my head up and down.

I enjoyed his help for a while, his dominant movements causing a wetness to pool between my legs. I appreciated his hands upon me, directing me towards what he found pleasurable and what he disliked. I was absolutely basking in the moment, well that's until he attempted to force my head downwards onto his shaft.

“Daryl.” I scolded sternly, pulling my head from his cock.

He seemed to receive the memo, nodding frantically, most likely due to the fact that his body practically yearned for me, rything after going without me for just a few seconds. I stared at him momentarily, watching his distressed eyes dart around my face, focusing on all of my features separately, my eyes, nose, cheeks, but especially my mouth. I liked being dominant over him, being able to take control and make him distraught over losing me for just mere moments. I liked hearing his moans from above me as we went at my chosen pace. His blue eyes were practically begging for me, his eyebrows furrowed together while his eyelashes fluttered upon his skin caused me to finally return to my previous activity: blowing Daryl Dixon. 

I took his member into my mouth, another inch further than before while still following a slow and steady speed as I wanted to draw out this experience for as long as possible. I wanted this moment to be burned in my memory, engraved in my mind so I would have the delight of being able to reminisce upon it later; during late, sleepless nights when I was too horny to rest and all I could think of was him and his beautiful cock stuffed into my throat. 

But I also liked torturing and teasing the poor man; I wanted him to beg, to plead for me to make him cum. I desired to hear his moans and grunts from above me as I pleasured him. I wanted to make the experience so agonizingly amazing that it too would be burned into his mind as well. But with loner Daryl, it was highly unlikely.

Suddenly, he bucked his hips upwards, attempting to thrust himself further into my mouth as he became increasingly impatient, observing me from above as I took my time, practically ridiculing him as I kitten licked at his crotch. All he wanted was to have me choking and gagging upon his dick as he fucked my mouth until his cum flowed down my throat.

“Ah,” he hissed once more, a reaction to his attempt to fuck into my mouth, his wounds stinging and throbbing as a result “fuck. Go faster, would ya?...Please.” 

His words were like music to my ears. He was begging. I had to practically fight away the smile that was creeping upon my face, inching its way across my lips at this phenomenon. 

Next thing I knew, I was deep throating his member, slurping and sucking at him like he was the last meal I'd ever eat. I was practically unable to control myself as I shoved him between my lips and did my best to not gag upon him, composing my breathing and relaxing my mouth as he rammed into the back of my throat. I squeezed my legs together, hoping the pressure of my thighs would relieve me of some of the throbbing between my legs as my excitement was taking over, and although I had wanted to drag this out, to make him whine and plead, I couldn't help myself. 

My unexpected actions caused Daryl to practically break out into hysterics. His breath hitched in his throat before he let out a string of low groans. He became much more vocal in that moment, exclaiming things such as my name, vulgarities, and various types of moans, not taking a second thought about the other residents of the household as he groaned explicits and moaned my name under his breath. Even whimpers occasionally fell from his lips.

“Sh-shit, (Y/N). All I hadda do was b-beg?” He breathed out, his unsteady breath and stuttering caused me to practically moan around him, also hoping to get the point across that yes, all I wanted him to do was plead with me. 

 The sudden vibrations wrapping around his dick sent shivers crawling down his spine as a result. He let out a deep growl which merely made my pathetic excuse of trying to relieve myself of some pressure by rubbing my legs together no longer enough. His animalist groan caused me to moan again, which in turn caused him to let out another beautiful noise, it was practically a never ending cycle.

 “I-I’m…” He paused momentarily, like he was almost unable to form a proper sentence as the pure pleasure that washed over him became unbearable “gonna cum.” 

He huffed out the last part of his sentence, his voice practically made me melt. Not only were my sudden, erratic movements practically sending him over the edge, but I’m sure the fact that something of this nature hadn't happened to him in such a long time added to the satisfaction of it all, the effect hitting him ten times harder than it normally would. This was certainly much different compared to his own hand.

With one final bob of my head, successfully taking him all the way down my throat as my nose pushed plush up against his lower abdomen while I prepared myself for the evident outcome, he came. With his cock stuffed deep into my mouth, twitching while his tip poked and prodded at the back of my throat, warm liquid shot down my throat. The hot, white ropes spilt out in quick spirits as I lapped it up like I was a starving person who hadn't eaten in months. His seed filled my mouth, splashing against the inside of my cheeks as I did my best to swallow it all, but inevitably, some escaped the confines of my jaw, dripping from my lips before beading down towards my chin, dripping onto the sheets of the bed below us. He tasted practically the same as he did earlier, slightly sweet and amazingly delicious, my brain screaming for more as my mouth collected the most it possibly could. 

Due to the sheer amount, I concluded that this hadn't happened to him in quite a while. 

Daryl was moaning like a mad man, my name, and multiple different swears, tumbling from his lips as his hands yanked and pulled at my hair, finding it extremely challenging to lay absolutely motionless. The way he teared and pulled at my locks sent small shocks of pain stinging the skin of my skull, but I couldn't care less as I was too busy with the object still left twitching in my mouth.

Once I had successfully cleaned his dick spotless, I let my hands drop from his member, sliding down his thighs as my mouth fell from his cock. He spasmed slightly as a reaction to my hands gliding upon his skin, skimming dangerously close to his worn and highly sensitive crotch. I massaged his legs as I felt my jaw grow weak once it finally snapped shut, aching and throbbing as a result of being left in the same, tense position for the last ten minutes or so. 

“Dear lord,” He whimpered out once I was finally done with him “I think that's possibly the best blow job Ive ever gotten.” 

[imhereonthekitchenfloor]

Rating Taylor Swift songs based on how they would be perceived by medieval peasants*: Debut

*context: I'm imagining showing medieval peasants how awesome the future is by playing them the greatest music of our day and age (Taylor obviously). I am also trying to have them not go insane nor have me be accused of witchcraft.

Tim McGraw: Jeans? Chevy truck? Radio? Georgia??? There hasn't even been a king named George let alone a state or country.... but that moon really DOES shine like a light on the lake and provide light to dance to all night. The vibes of the song are still there. 5/10

Picture to Burn: redneck? pickup truck? The relationship status is VERY confusing here because she is telling his friends he's gay (jolly) and then striking a match with someone (in a romantic sense?) and then admits to adultery ("goin' out with all of your best friends"). Fairly unsettling. 3/10

Teardrops on my Guitar: what's a guitar and why are you crying on it? Also a car? You have his picture and yet he's in love with another girl??? This is scandalous and tragic. 7/10 for relatability.

A Place In This World: a girl traveling down a road not knowing where she is headed? She must be a traveling performer! Maybe a jester! Good for her! How freeing life must be without a master. Although who knows what a radio or blue jeans are? 9/10

Cold as You: She was in love with an an artist (he painted his walls gray) and he rejected her? I wonder if it was social class differences or something else? This song hits hard regardless of the age. 10/10

The Outside: So has she been shunned or does she simply not have a master? Is this the traveling performer from a couple songs ago? Tbh it all makes sense but its pretty unrelatable. 4/10

Tied Together With a Smile: the waters high and you're jumping into it and letting go😳 and no one knows 💀 I knew serfdom was bad but wow it's BAD bad. That's depressing but relatable 8/10

Stay Beautiful: jungle and radio? Weird start but Cory seems highly sought after. I wonder who will pay the highest dowry for marriage? He seems like a wonderful muse. 7/10

Should've Said No: So I don't know the situation... your class will greatly affect this... but you know women may legally divorce their husbands for adultery, right? I do reccomend it. 3/10 because the vibes are NOT like the normal medieval music

Mary's Song: Brava!!! An arranged marriage that's also a love match? Unheard of! After the marriage, the property is even inherited!!! What a lovely start for family life. There was one confusing word? Truck? Idk the romance was so perfect I didn't even notice it. 10/10!!!!

Our Song: Half those words don't exist and the ones that do don't really make sense. Good job respecting the sanctity of God. The Church ™️ would approve. Still it's a 2/10

I'm Only Me When I'm With You: What does crazy mean? What do you mean you're flying? We're missing context but this could be a lower class marriage? :/ 6/10

Invisible: There's a fire inside him? She is invisible spying on him? This SCREAMS of witchcraft. Please do not play this song for a medieval peasant. You will be collateral damage in the trial and will likely also be burned at the stake. 1/10

A Perfectly Good Heart: First loves! What a luxury! You know very few people marry for love as relationships are to further the agenda of God🙏 apologies for the betrayal but hopefully your parents can pay the dowry for a better man. 5/10 just because this song isn't pleasing to the ears of the time

[cybertron-after-dark]

Questionable Beast Wars Headcanons

-Optimus Primal isn't usually that into Earth culture, but sometimes Dinobot shows him bits of old human media he ends up really liking. Mostly old Earth songs from just before the war: the Beach Boys, the Beatles, and, coincidentally, the Monkees. He just really appreciates the chill, fun vibe.

-Rattrap and Rhinox like making silly little romhacks for old videogames. Mortal Kombat and DOOM are their favorites because the old basic sprites make alterations really easy, but no game is immune to Rattrap replacing the final boss with mildly insulting scans of Megatron.

-Cheetor is gay, but he hasn't figured it out yet. His crush on Blackarachnia was 100% comphet.

-Dinobot takes Cheetor out hunting every week. They're both carnivores, and their beast mode programming makes them kind of antsy if they don't chase something down, and it keeps morale high for the whole team if everyone has extra rations. Dinobot uses it as an opportunity to teach Cheetor more advanced battle tactics. Cheetor just likes getting out of the base and doing awesome shit with the guy he thinks of as a cool older brother.

-Rhinox actually knew Optimus way before they both joined up for the exploration crew. They dated for like a month, decided they were better as friends, and stayed amicable afterwards.

-Rattrap had a job as a bartender twice back on Cybertron before he got fired for drinking on the job from the first time, and getting into a fight with one of the patrons the second time. He still knows how to make most of the cocktails, including some he made up himself that are practically stronger than paint thinner.

-Megatron met Dinobot through a theatre troupe they'd both recently joined. They did two shows together: Hamlet, and Macbeth. Through the whole production of both, Megatron had been slowly converting Dinobot into more and more of a radical, convincing him that direct, brutal action was the only option to restore the Predacons to glory, and that the best action would be to join his crew and steal the Golden Disc. As the final showing of Macbeth ended, and the curtain fell, Dinobot finally agreed to go with him.

-Skorponok was not in the theatre troupe, he was one of Megatron's coworkers at their day job, working at an energon refinery, but he bought tickets to every show Megatron put on.

-Waspinator was the only Predacon on the Darksyde that had been to Earth before the incident with the transwarp engine. He lived there for about a year in a small backwater Predacon town to get away from the big city on Cybertron. He subsequently decided he hated it because redneck Predacons tend to shoot first and ask questions later. He returned to Cybertron with the hopes that he'd get shot less, (those hopes were dashed), but his time on Earth was what let him realize where he really was after the Vok incident so quickly.

-Tarantulas writes fanfiction about his coworkers and all of it is really, really dark and equally gross. Things that would get him sent straight to HR and subsequently fired if the Preds HAD an HR department. The one time Dinobot found it purely on accident, he was caught trying to bleach his optics right after.

-Terrorsaur only joined up with Megatron because he thought it was a harem at first. He kinda thought he'd be drowning in bitches when they got off world, but he remains completely bitchless.

-Skorponok and Terrorsaur didn't actually die in the lava pit, they crawled out as transmetals about 20 minutes after everyone had left, and, thinking everyone else had perished, kinda just started running and never looked back. Eventually after the war, they found Waspinator being worshipped by his army of fucked up protohumans and settled down together. They never left because beast machines didn't happen :)

[ceo-of-stealing-ur-fucking-teeth]

Content Warning: Religious Trauma, Religious, Emotional, Physical, Sexual, and Child Abuse

As a Catholic Kid, I was taught three things very early on;

1. Gods love was unconditional

2. Until there were conditions he, or the adults in my life didn’t like

3. And then his anger was terrible.

Many people who have dealt with toxic families, either by being in one, or by being a social worker, therapist, teacher, or any other aid of that nature, might recognize a lot of these. I’m of the first category.

My Catholic upbringing groomed me for abuse from an early age.

God loved gays. Until said gays wanted to do things like have relationships, or exist more loudly in the world, or deviate in any way from what my Catholic family found appropriate. Like having the audacity to want to be married. “I’ll love you, and whoever you choose to love.” My divorced Catholic mother told me, one day when I’m confronting her. “But we will not recognize a marriage.” “Why can’t one of my children be straight!” She laments, when another kid comes out. She doesn’t remember the pictures she’d allow to be painted of loneliness and damnation for her young queer child, the noises of judgment and the hushed whispers of relatives that brought shame to the family. The tone of Justice when something bad would happen to a gay person, like somehow they’d earned their fate with AIDS, or at the hands some some drunk redneck.

God loves Children. That’s why he hates abortion. Nevermind that there’s descriptions of how to provide them in the bible. He wants you to yell at women going into clinics, even the young teenage girls who said no, who couldn’t say no, who said yes but had no resources to know about safe sex, or even the ones who just wanted to have fun. They don’t get a childhood, it’s been taken, they don’t deserve it. They don’t own their bodies, and never will. Despite God getting a young woman pregnant out of wedlock. At least he asked for consent. He loves all the starving children, the LGBTQ+ children kicked out of their homes by his adherents, the ones in Warzones, the ones being killed. Suffering, while he watches. Sometimes blamed, because they didn’t believe in him the way we did. He even loves the victims of his church as they shuffle another priest off to another parish, leaving another group of children broken and traumatized.

God loves women. If they followed his ideal of womanhood. Don’t have sex except to have kids. But you’re faulty if you can’t and you shouldn’t try anything to fix it despite the judgement others feel for you and your defective body. And no abortion for you, even if the ultrasound tells you your baby, that you’ve carried for months, has no heartbeat, or half a brain, or is conjoined to their twin in a way that will insure they have no quality of life. Sacrifice everything for your husband and children. Be modest, be subservient. Never blame men, even when they grab you and grope you and tell you it’s fine, because you were probably leading them on. Don’t get divorced, even if you don’t love him anymore, even if he hurts you with words or fists, even if he’s useless around the home because the home is your job, no matter how much there is to shoulder. He works so hard as the head of the house, while he ignores his children and eats the food you make and can’t even figure out how to wash his laundry and he’ll just mess it up anyways, so why don’t you do it for him?

You don’t ask questions. You don’t. You obey mom and dad, even when they isolate you, and abuse you. You’re not mentally ill and young, you’re evil. You’re not chafing under their control and telling them that they’re hurting you, you’re venomous. You’re going to confession because you’re not honouring your parents. Nevermind that honour is nothing in that home. Hypocrisy is all you see from an early age, mother and father telling you one thing and doing another. You family lives a lie, and the other adults around you watch it and do nothing. Your priest, their friends in the church, good people of the Faith, see and hear things and let it happen because it’s none of their business. As a homeschooled child, you have no exposure to mandatory reporters, and they instilled a fear of the government in you that insures after a while you stop talking about it. If you go to foster care you’ll never see any of your siblings again, even though there were other family members who would have found out. Eventually so many things are internalized, the blame, the shame, the ahistorical understanding of the world, the fact that people deserve to suffer because that means they’re evil or faulty somehow. But god loves them! The sexism, the homophobia, xenophobia. A moment of I love you followed by days of screaming, blame, hitting. “Why are you cringing, you act like we beat you.” Then ten minutes later they walk up behind you, slap your skull to get your attention and demand to know why the cupboard was left open. On, and on.

Pain and suffering are Gods will. Fetishized, with bloody crucifixes and stories of martyrs. Especially yours, and people like you. It’s in the books you read and on the lips of adults who you trust. It’s used to justify hurting others because they’re different or making mistakes. Love and pain and cruelty become tangled in each other.

You think about hell, and you’re very small, and you start crying because you already know that you’re making God angry and sad because that’s how your parents talk to you. And you don’t know it yet but it’s going to get worse. You’re going to grow up preconditioned for people to hurt you.

But God loves you unconditionally.

[padawansuggest]

Okay but clones with their own planet or settlements????? Would have to create construction worker clones???????????? Which means they will legally be required to learn to catcall each other and take a 3 hour break when they fall asleep on the job or come home super late????? I want trashy construction worker blue collar clones thanks those are my people. The ones I grew up with.

I also think the ones who made starship moonshine should move out to the boonies and become the weird ass redneck cousin that no one wants to invite to your wedding and I know that as a fact because that was my part of the family and we had a lot more fun.

Also btw I’m imagining all these things while they’re still in their armor. They just paint the top of their bucket yellow and add reflective designs to the armor, but the boonies clones are even funnier painting it to look like overalls with only one strap done. Shinies are now the carharts construction babies.

[inherstars]

Personal blathering, you know the drill.

I'm in kind of a transitional period where I know I want to do SOMETHING new, especially as Marc spends more time doing improv, and I don't want to fall into the rut of spending my nights folding laundry, or whatever other chore needs doing, or scrolling online for hours while something's on TV in the background that I don't really give a shit about.

Those things are RELAXING, sometimes, but it's not how I want things to be.

I'm on a writing tear right now, which is super nice, but I'm also realistic that this can't last forever. I also acknowledge that it's a muscle I need to keep working, even when the mood eventually flags.

I was baking a fuckton, for a while, and I still enjoy that (actually hoping to get some pumpkin bread and bagels done this weekend), but there's only so much of that I can do. I have like 2 pies in the freezer and I can't even remember what kind they are. Plus donuts. Plus jam. I can't just be like, "Ooh, I'm gonna make a cake!" because... bitch, what the fuck am I going to do with an entire goddamned cake?

I did a HUGE purge of art supplies at the start of Covid, because it was taking up so much space, and the reality is that I was just never going to sit down and do all the projects I once imagined. I still have all my digital and traditional painting supplies, I just wish I enjoyed sitting down and doing it like I used to. It may be like writing, I kinda just need to make time for it.

I am also finally at the point where I think I'm ready to sell the sewing machine. If I haven't learned to do more than simple hand sewing by now, it's not going to happen. I don't have the temperament, and I need to be OK with that.

Archery? I miss archery SO MUCH. I just fucking hate that I can't grab my bow and some arrows and go out somewhere and shoot. It's a whole fucking involved THING. Gotta join a club. Gotta hope a lane is open. Gotta make small talk with the redneck Trumpers.

I think that's a huge reason why writing and baking are such easy fallbacks for me. There's no prep work. I pick up the laptop and start. The kitchen is so organized that I can crank out two entire batches of bagels before work in the morning, and then polish off the dishes I used while they bake.

If doing something requires a huge amount of assembling materials, prepping them, then cleaning and putting all those materials away when I'm done, it feels so exhausting that I don't want to bother. I already have a fucking full time job on top of all the other mental loads I carry. I don't want to relax by doing more work.

Hence why I've toyed with the idea of picking up guitar again. I actually had a guitar YEARS ago, and tried to teach myself, but (at least for me), it's not a self-taught thing. Marc has a guitar he stopped taking lessons on. I just took it to the town's only music store to see if it will fit me, and got the most lukewarm, disaffected response from the owner.

Is this too big for me? Eh, a little, but it's fine.

Do the strings need to be loosened or restrung? Eh, they're probably fine.

Like, fuck, why do you even have this store, my dude? Do you even like what you do?

Then I'm like, hey, getting my hair done might be a nice pick-me-up, let's go do that. It's 1:30 PM. I call every salon in town and none of them can give me an appointment, including the ones that are open until 7 PM.

Sooooo I guess I'm doing laundry and scrolling on my phone and watching TV again. Nice.

I don't know what I'm feeling. A kind of restlessness, I guess. Last summer I was busy almost constantly with rescue, but it sucked so much out of me physically, emotionally and financially that I haven't wanted to do it again this year, especially after seeing for myself that it didn't even make a dent.

Blehr, I don't know. I need to come up with something to do or somewhere to go and stop bitching about it.

[transingthoseformers]

Okay I'm not going to dig up the post, i made it like a damn year ago and it's not showing up on ky search, but:

I'm yet again saying that we need more transformers with shit car altmodes. Like, seeing a fancy race car is a big deal, but seeing a car with a differently colored hood isn't. Combiners that make a redneck limousine. Mismatched headlights. Lifted trucks. Big dents that they Refuse to get fixed. A paint job that is juuuuuust the wrong color. Maybe I'm thinking more of the disguise aspect but like. I see cars like this pretty often and it's exactly not the car you'd expect to be an alien robot because seeing these makes you instantly think "poor owner". It's being hidden in plain sight.

Another idea, you would fucking NEVER be able to find an autobot if their altmode is like a U-Haul or a generic in universe equivalent. You only notice how common those are when you rent one yourself, and i remember just how content my family was with the anonymity of it for a week.

[blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms]

Grenade- Wade Wilson

Pairing: Wade Wilson x Reader

Characters: Wade Wilson

Warnings: N/A

Request: N/A

Word Count: 433

Author: Aaron

Wade lay on the floor, clothes torn to shreds and his face painted with blood and bruises.

“Come on.” He whispered softly with closed eyes. “Stop being a little pussy and stab me, ideally somewhere there aren’t like organs and stuff.” He gave an enthusiastic thumbs up as he tucked the grenade inside his hand and sprawled himself out on the floor. You brought the serrated knife up and plunged it into his side. “Fuck… you know, you would think that it would stop hurting after like the hundredth time but damn, it never does.” The knife slid deeper until just the hilt remained sticking out of him. “Alright, you go hide.” You scuttled away as the hoard of marching footsteps grew louder and more prominent. “I’m not going to look pretty after this, but just kind of scoop me together and I should be alright.” He winked with a nervous, anticipatory smile.

You watched nervously as the small group of soldiers swept the dusty, dimly lit room. Wade lay in the middle, lit by the overhanging, flickering light in a pool of his blood. The soldiers surrounded him, guns pointed firmly at his seemingly dead body. One of them spoke into a crackling radio in a language you did not understand, waited for a distorted reply, and then kicked Wade firmly in the ribs. As his lifeless body rolled under his boot the commanding soldier nodded at two of his comrades. One went to each end of Wade and bent down to pick him up as the rest relaxed their weapons and began scouting the room, scarily close to the shadowed corner you were crouched.

“That wasn’t very nice now, was it?” Wade’s eyes shot open, he pulled the knife from his side and flung it between the ribs of the commander, the other soldiers drew their rifles. “Bye, Bye!” Wade revealed the grenade, pin already pulled and held it proudly in the air.  The soldiers tried to dive away but it was too late, with a flash, a bang, and a whirlwind of shrapnel the room became littered with piles of human goo. “Woooooo!” Wade cheered, or at least the half of him that was still connected did. “That was fucking awesome!” You came out from your cover, ears still ringing from the explosion and careful not to get intestines on your new shoes. “Firstly, good job not being exploded, help yourself to whatever is on these guys, you might get a few dollars for those rifles in your local redneck pawnshop… Secondly, would you mind dragging me out of here?”

[nebris]

"A long-time acquaintance of mine is curious about why the working class doesn't rise up in America the way it has in France and other industrialized nations. There are many reasons, but I believe that key among them is the long-standing influence of white nationalism on the mindset of far too many white Americans. A very large part of why the American working class lacks solidarity ties into why the modern GOP have been so successful since the collapse of the Democrats' old New Deal Coalition. For many if not most non-urban, white, blue collar male voters, the term "working class" has never held the same socioeconomic connotations as in most other nations. Rednecks have always viewed their working class status as a cultural identifier, something they saw as being uniquely theirs alone. They seldom afford the identifier of "working class" to non-white folks, instead painting non-white urban communities as just "poor people of color."

Even back in the 1950s, when over half of America's private sector jobs were unionized, this was true to a big extent. The moment unions started making inroads with urban working class people of color, blue collar whites started abandoning unions. Far too many blue collar white redneck types saw unions the same way white cops see police unions today. As was the case with the New Deal programs in the 1930s, the same neoconfederate, blue collar, white rural men only maintained their support of unions in so long as non-whites were excluded. 

Rednecks would rather starve to death than support anything which might even have a remote chance of helping someone who isn't part of their subculture. Growing up in Alabama, I've had many a conversation with redneck good ole boy types who've admitted as much. They'll gladly take getting caught in the blast radius of their own bullshit if they're convinced those "other" people will be hurt more." Matthew J. Price"

The Dems abandoned the American Working Class in part because they're irredeemably racist." Nebris

[sophie-i-guess13]

I posted 5,587 times in 2022

That's 5,587 more posts than 2021!

2,767 posts created (50%)

2,820 posts reblogged (50%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@outsiders-lesbian-xvi

@rumble-aint-a-rumble-without-me

@collieflower215

@the-kneesbees

@cleverclove

I tagged 3,376 of my posts in 2022

Only 40% of my posts had no tags

#soapie’s stuff - 2,782 posts

#asks! - 1,881 posts

#lee! - 936 posts

#lee this is a blessing - 765 posts

#the outsiders - 384 posts

#the outsiders fanfiction - 183 posts

#james! - 130 posts

#dillo’s replies - 110 posts

#sophie i guess13 - 109 posts

#tim shepard - 102 posts

Longest Tag: 137 characters

#i actually have a walkman from ‘92 but it broke (and i don’t have the materials to fix it just yet so i might as well keep an eye out for

I sent 1 gift in 2022

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Haha.

Nice.

45 notes - Posted November 18, 2022

#4

Buck : this is the fourth time I’ve had to bail you out this month. Keep this up, and I’ll have to start stripping to keep the lights on.

46 notes - Posted October 17, 2022

#3

Hello hope you doing well :) #8 With Steve? Sorry it's late

8. hugging while walking

Hi! Hope you’re doing well too! I’m gonna assume you wanted an x reader for this one :)

Elongated shadows paint the sidewalk as they move down the street, hand in hand. It’s a warm afternoon in October, the perfect time to slip away during the lunch hour and walk the six blocks over to the DX. Now that lunch was almost over, Steve was walking Y/N back.

“Y’know what, Steve?” Y/N asks suddenly, “I think I’m gonna try and get a job this month.”

They freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, Steve’s large hand still fully incapsulating Y/N’s. “You don’t want a job,” he chuckles. “They’re so much work-“

“That’s the point, Steve. I don’t see what the big deal is, you have a job-“

“I have a job because I have nothing else goin’ for me, Y/N. If my old man wasn’t all over me, I woulda dropped out by now.” His voice is much lower now; quieter as his arm slides around Y/N’s waist and holds them close, willing their steps to synchronize as they walk. “Just focus on school, yeah? You’re plenty smart. I’m saving up to take care of you already.”

53 notes - Posted July 30, 2022

#2

Curly Shepard loves photography. Specifically, candid shots of his siblings. He keeps a secret album beneath his bed, all with a little blurb on the back.

He kind of uses them as a diary - things he’ll never say to them out loud.

There's one of Tim asleep on the couch, it's obvious he fell asleep waiting for Curly to get home. So, on the back, Curly’s written “I know you worry about us. I'm sorry.”

There's one of Angela doing her makeup, getting ready for a date. “Bryon Douglas is a douchebag who doesn't deserve you- I dunno why you're getting all dressed up for him. You look pretty without all that make up anyway.”

His favourite ones are when they're both smiling, he has a specific page dedicated to those ones.

74 notes - Posted September 11, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

12 year old Dallas, fresh outta NYC: you’re a hillbilly. I don’t have to listen to you.

A 17 year old Buck, wondering why he just let this kid in his car: I prefer the term redneck, you fucking orphan.

285 notes - Posted August 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[drbobbi]

My review of Heartland

I keep hearing a lot of hype about Heartland, since apparently it's about to break a record for number of seasons for a CBC drama. I wondered if maybe I should give it another shot--my stepdaughter just loves it but every time I've tried to get through an episode I eventually have to stop to go watch paint dry instead.

I think there's three things that make a show viewable: it has to be funny, extraordinary in some way, or relatable. So I guess if you're like me and you spend all day listening to peoples both mundane and shocking life dramas, it's relatable but not extraordinary--but by the end of the day I'm good. Obviously this show isn't funny (or wait, is it supposed to be? I did laugh--sardonically--a few times). So unless they throw in some time or space travel it won't be that appealing to me personally. If you find typical life stressors combined with horses fascinating, well I guess they have the magic formula there.

OK let's get into it. Spoilers ahead, so be warned as I'm about to reveal the shocking plot twists. This is my first time watching the show so I don't have all the names yet. Not sure if I'm watching it again yet. The show starts off with Amy (young blonde mom) being asked to do various things and with a quiet resigned sigh, agreeing to them. She is apparently both working with troubled horses and running some sort of kids' horse camp. She is excellent at both and not replaceable. Some dead guy started the kids' camp and it 'has his name on it' so she must help it live on even though the other guy helping her run it is doing a fine job. The show then reminds us in various follow up scenes that this chick is too busy, and spread too thin. Every character including her arch nemesis points this out. Wise grandpa says she has to come to the realization herself. At one point he sagely says that 'our dreams have kept us apart'. I really like how the show makes sure we get the point by repeatedly having every character voice concern this lady is too busy. Several scenes in we've discovered they just refuse to have a subplot; this is it. Or wait--just be patient, once we get the idea that this lady is too busy rammed into our heads they gently introduce some subplots (while still slipping in that Amy is too busy).

Everyone is clearly a victim of their own success in this show; including the chick who is the mayor of the town and she has a prize-winning race horse. She has to keep going to Vancouver for weekends and she brings her teenage daughter who is annoyed that she is being kept away from her friends, even though Vanouver is a fun place that has the seawall and sushi. Surprisingly they didn't mention Gastown. She kept hinting at this awesome sushi restaurant but never revealed which one it was. I'm guessing Miku. At any rate one would hope a Canadian show would not have such a cliche version of Vancouver but I guess not.

Daughter of mayor lady is upset she still needs to share a room with some other girl, which sucks because she has to study, being a 'Grade A student' (who says that?). This is Grandpa's fault (see below).

Cranky gay mayor's assistant (I think his name is Rick) is upset that the mayor (Lou) is going to Vancouver every weekend to eat sushi and watch her horse win races. Maybe he's jealous because let's face it Vancouver is more fun than being around all these rednecks. He 'hints' that he will not always be around to bail her out. Lou frets about this all weekend because he is also indispensable. No people on this show are replaceable at their jobs (except young blonde horse whisperer Amy who we find out later conveniently is replaceable at the job that isn't her 'true passion') and if they leave then everything will fall apart. Like the plumbing for the loft which can only be fixed by Grandpa. Everyone looks and Grandpa meaningfully when mentioning that the plumbing isn't fixed yet and that's why everyone is overcrowding the main house. Maybe they could pay for a plumber; they don't seem to be paying Grandpa any rent.

I'll cut to the chase and tell you that Rick isn't quitting his job; he just needs some 'time off' which after some dramatic pauses and 'suspense' we discover that he and his partner are planning to adopt a baby so he needs a paternity leave. I think this is something meant to show us how 'woke' Heartland now is which is why they tried to create some suspense and mystery around it, which they wouldn't have done if it was just a male and a female procreating. The good news is he seems less cranky when sharing these plans; let's see how he does with sleep deprivation.

This show sure is white. I think the producers are aware of this, so they put in some background actors at the preschool who are not white. There! All fixed. There's more to say about this but I already have a lot to process here. Finally I have an angry raging feminist comment to make. I asked my partner 'what happened to Grandma?' he tells me she was killed off in the first episode. How convenient. So we don't have to look at any women over the age of 35. Come on, even Dallas had Miss Ellie for a while.

I will watch another episode because I want to know if they're going to continue with the 'I'm too busy' theme or move on to a new theme.

Ultimately I can't help but feel this show is aimed at people who don't want to think too hard, or can't. Funny then that it's so successful. Hey if you want a 'country' feel like this which includes some horses maybe watch Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman which assumes a little higher IQ of their average viewer. Maybe the Lone Ranger? Mr. Ed? Mr. Ed doesn't require the horse whisperer though because he just tells you how he's feeling. Can you tell I'm not really a horse person.

If any of this comes across as insensitive, I'm not sorry. If you disagree with me you're wrong. I made the effort to write this so I win.

[aquoteamusetheword]

“Better Than I Deserve”

"Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone. “~ Pablo Picasso

This story isn’t mine either, it’s from my writing redneck hero, enjoy! ~CT

________________________________________________________________

This story isn’t mine, but I’m going to tell it like I heard it. I first heard it from an old man who drove a Ford. And I have a soft spot for old Ford men.

So, there he is. The old man is driving. He sees a car on the side of the highway. A kid stands beside it. Hood open. The man pulls over.

He’s America’s quintessential old man. He drives a half-ton Ford that he’s been babying since the seventies. He changes the oil regularly, waxes it on weekends. The candy-apple red paint still looks nice.

He looks under the kid’s hood. He can see the problem right away, (a) the transmission is shot, and (b) it’s not a Ford. Fixing it would cost more than the vehicle.

The kid is in a hurry, and asks, “Can you give me a ride to work? I can’t afford to lose my job.” So, the old man drives the kid across town. They do some talking. The man learns that the boy has four children, a young wife, and a disabled mother living with him. The boy works hard for a living. Bills keep piling up.

It rips the man's heart out.

They arrive at a construction site. There are commercial framers in tool belts, operating nail guns. The kid pumps the old man’s hand and thanks him for the ride. “Take care of yourself,” the man tells the kid. The kid takes his place among workmen, climbing on pine-framed walls, swinging a hammer.

The old man decides to help the kid. He doesn’t know how. Or why. But it’s a decision that seems to make itself. That same day, he’s at a stop light. He sees something. An ugly truck, sitting in a supermarket parking lot. A Ford. A for-sale sign in the window. He inspects it. Single cab. Four-wheel drive. Low mileage. The paint is flaking. Rust on the doors. It’s a glorified hunk of metal, but they don’t make them like this anymore.

Out of impulse, the old man makes a deal. Old men who drive candy-apple Fords have been known to do that.

When the workday is over, the old man pulls into the kid’s jobsite again. The kid is loading work vehicles. “What’re you doing here?” the kid asks. “Came to give you a ride home.” The kid hops in. They drive. They talk again. The sun is lowering. The kid smells like sweat and sawdust.

They arrive in a supermarket parking lot. The old man shuts the engine off.

“What’re we doing?” the kid says. The old man points at an ugly truck with a for-sale sign. “What do you think of that truck?” The kid’s face gets serious. His eyes become large. “I asked you a question,” the old man says. “I know it don’t look pretty, but with a little work, it can be a dependable vehicle.”

The kid is unable to speak. He looks like he might even cry.

The old man doesn’t care much for tears—men from his generation don't. So, he tosses the kid a set of keys.

“She’s all yours,” the old man says. “You gotta be kidding,” the boy answers. “You BOUGHT that truck for me? You don’t even know me.”

“No, son,” the man says. “I didn’t buy that truck for you. I bought it for ME. I’m gonna fix her up, make her pretty again.”

The old man pats the steering wheel of Candy-Apple Red.

“THIS is the one I’m giving to you.”

Old men. May I live long enough to be one someday.

~ Sean Dietrich “Old Trucks” May 14, 2022

” I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread.” ~ Plasms 37:25 

Comments

[schatzietess]

I FINALLY GET BETTY BACK!!!!!

[starlessea]

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Prologue 0. Closing Time

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 6286

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

The sky was empty — save for one bird.

Daryl watched it fly above him, so close to the ground that he could make out the beating of its wings and swore he saw individual feathers flutter in the breeze.

His fingers itched over his crossbow, as he contemplated shooting it down from the sky and plucking it clean. He'd have something to eat then, at least. Though, for some reason, Daryl Dixon couldn't bring himself to let loose his arrow, watching as the bird soared overhead — and disappeared beyond the trees.

The man sighed as he kicked up some loose stones with the toe of his boot. What a waste, he thought, before trudging through the field once again.

The sky remained cloudless for the rest of the day, existing as a pale, washed-out grey that made Daryl feel uncomfortable as he hunted. The game must have felt the same, since the deer he'd been tracking made itself scarce, and the string of squirrels hanging from his belt seemed no heavier than it had done when the sun rose that morning.

Still, he trekked onwards over the thick, winding grass and through damp forest overgrowth. He was nearly back at the quarry already, but he hardly had anything to show for it. A few measly rodents and a sprained ankle were barely worth his trip in the first place; they sure as hell wouldn't be enough for all of the mouths he now had to feed.

Daryl cursed at himself for hesitating to shoot that bird straight out of the sky, and clip its wings. It wasn't much, but maybe it would have lasted a day if he was lucky. Still, there was no use wondering now, since it had swooped so close to him that he almost felt the downward draft on his cheek — and then he let it fly away.

He thought that it had been a jaeger; it definitely looked like a seabird that had veered too far from the shore. It was a gull with a white breast and dark, blackish feathers — and a wingspan that made sure you couldn't miss it.

He remembered you pointing one out to him, at 3am, parked up on that deserted beach as the two of you stared out into the rocking ocean.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout 'er again, baby brother?"

Daryl could hear Merle's voice taunt, in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts.

"Tha' lil' birdie of yours?"

He quickly shook his head — even though it was the truth.

It had been Daryl's own mind that conjured up those words, after all. Merle wasn't actually here. He was probably back at the campsite, lazing about and leering after women far too good for a beaten-up redneck like him.

Though, funnily enough, Merle had said the exact same thing to Daryl when he noticed his gaze settling over the new bar server, who swiped away the froth spilling over from their draught beers. Merle had given him even more of an earful when he realised that his younger brother was waiting for her shift to end.

Daryl took a deep breath, before rolling his neck to try and relieve the tension that had built up there. Once his mind drifted into thoughts of you — even if only for a split second — it often sank to the point of no return.

You were all consuming; you had been from the first time he laid eyes on you in that old, country auto-repair shop.

He remembered the way your voice chirped like a bird's, despite the curses that often fell from your lips.

You even made those sound sweet.

And he could also recall the way you yelled over the rumble of his bike engine, and competed with the screeching that came from his tyres losing their grip on the worn-out tarmac.

You'd told him that it felt like you were flying — and that was probably the reason why Daryl Dixon couldn't shoot that jaeger.

Then, the man heard something louder than he had done since the world ended — and suddenly, the sky was no longer empty.

There was an explosion, and that dull greyness was set alight with brilliant hues of red and orange. It made fire start to rain down upon Daryl, who could only stand and watch below. Debris fell out of the sky like a meteor shower, landing beyond the trees in the distance — to a place that Daryl couldn't quite make out, no matter how much he squinted.

The air became full with the sounds of scraping metal and flickering flames that caught the leaves and made them burn up like the end of a cigarette. Daryl felt his heart race as the adrenaline pumped its way through his veins, and made him flinch each time something crashed heavily to the ground.

There was often a moment in a person's life where their brain got kick-started into gear — and they awoke from whatever auto-pilot they'd been functioning on until that point.

For most, it was probably a mundane milestone like marriage or parenthood.

For others, it might have been a life or death situation that made them re-evaluate their perspective.

For some, it had only happened when the world actually ended, and the apocalypse began.

And perhaps, if Daryl had been a smarter man, it would have been this instant — as he gazed up at the sky and watched it burn above him. Maybe this was his second life-changing realisation; maybe he was lucky enough to get two.

But, for Daryl, the first had just been a regular Tuesday.

The garage was sticky hot that day. It was the kind of heat that made you sweat no matter how many fans you had blowing — since Old man Dean was too cheap to install air conditioning. His boss was a bit of a stickler for paying his bills, and nit picky with his nickles, but he'd always been kind to Daryl.

That being said, working as a mechanic wasn't exactly where Daryl had pictured himself at his age; but then again, he couldn't really picture himself anywhere at all. He felt like that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which didn't quite fit in with the others — the one that you had to bend into shape just to make it work.

Sure, he enjoyed seeing the different bikes roll in and out of the shop — those models he would never be able to afford — and Daryl appreciated having a few extra dollars in his pocket for when Merle raided his savings to score some pot.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do in the boonies. Daryl's old man once told him that the only interesting thing to rear its ugly head out of Georgia's backyard in the last fifty years was Dean's Auto Shop. That's probably why Daryl started working there in the first place, as a summer job when he was teenager — and had never really left since.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his old man had been right about one thing — despite the bastard never catching on to the role of father. He'd been right about the shop being the only interesting thing around.

Because it was the place where he met her.

And then she became the only thing in that small town even worth being interested in.

Daryl didn't hear a car pull up into the shop, but he heard the mumbling outside from where he sat in the breakroom — chewing on some of Dean's leftover pizza that was bordering on stale.

"Dixon, get your ass out here for a second, would you?" the old man yelled, banging on the thin wall that separated them with his fist.

Daryl cursed below his breath, throwing the rest of his food into the trash and dusting off his hands over his jeans. He stepped out into the shop, and was met by an unfamiliar face — looking over at him curiously.

He suddenly felt unexplainably nervous, and dropped his head down to his feet as though it were a reflex he didn't know he had.

"This is your guy," he heard Dean say, before letting out one of his usual chesty coughs.

The man smoked a pack a day too much — and that was coming from Daryl.

"Owner of that bike you've been eyeing, too," he went on.

That caught Daryl's attention, and he instantly glanced up at the woman in question. She was breath-taking, but she also looked very much out of breath. She seemed as though she had run here, despite the Georgia heat.

"You ride?" he asked, but his gruff voice made it sound like more of a demand.

He grimaced at his own tone, but the woman didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.

She laughed, and it sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. "I wish," she said, running her palm along the polished metal and tracing her finger over that shiny logo.

Usually, Daryl would bark at anyone who touched his bike, and Dean seemed as though he expected him to do just that — from the way he raised an eyebrow at the daring woman, too oblivious for her own good.

Except, Daryl stayed quiet.

"Was never allowed within a mile radius of one," she went on, before turning back around to grin at Daryl like it was easy. "My folks were scared I'd take off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

He could relate to that. After all, it was exactly what he and Merle had done as soon as they'd gotten the chance.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before glancing over at the car parked in the middle of the shop. "She's pretty."

It was a steel blue colour — would definitely benefit from a lick of paint, but still pretty nonetheless. The tread looked good on the tyres, and Daryl couldn't see any signs of the rusting those models were prone to. Someone had taken good care of it.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, and suddenly Daryl was reminded of just how bad he was with words.

He cleared his throat, and ran his hand over the hood.

"Yer car," he explained, "'69 Chevy Camaro?"

Daryl asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, that," she replied, sending him an apologetic look. "It's my grandpa's, so we're going to have to be real discreet about this situation over here."

Daryl raised an eyebrow as she beckoned him to the other side of the car, crouching down near the wheel arch.

"Some bastard left a nail in the road, and I ran straight through the thing like it was a stop sign," she grumbled, pointing out the puncture.

Daryl almost laughed at that — but he was still much too jaded from being caught in the middle of his break.

The woman stood back up and toed the deflated tyre with her boot, scowling at the sight of it.

"I know you're closing soon, but I had to push it half a mile just to get here," she said, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Suddenly, her appearance made sense. Since he'd first laid eyes on her, all she'd done was tug at the collar of her vest, and try to stand in front of one of those poor excuses for a fan. But even then, Daryl couldn't quite believe her story.

"Ain't no way ya pushed that thing 'ere by yerself." The words left his mouth before he could consider them twice.

And the look she shot Daryl in return made him want to take them straight back.

But then, she smiled.

"I'm stronger than I look," she protested, leaning against the hot car. "You can ask the dozen assholes who catcalled me on the way but never offered their help."

This time, Daryl did let out a chuckle.

"Damn lucky y'ain't pass out," he quipped back, "heat's no joke."

She grinned again, and Daryl wondered whether she had an endless supply — or if she'd saved them just for him.

"Tell me about it," the woman teased. "Never liked visiting Georgia because of it."

Then, it all made sense to Daryl — the reason why she intrigued him so much.

"Y'ain't from 'round here, are ya?" he asked, surprising himself.

Usually, he couldn't give a 'rat's ass', as Dean called it, about anyone who stumbled into their shop. Never did they get more than a half-hearted greeting from Daryl, or a grunt as he told them to mind their head on that low door frame (she didn't have that problem). Though today, he seemed oddly talkative.

"Haven't seen ya before," he added.

The woman folded her arms over her chest.

"Would you recognise me if you had?" she asked.

"E'erybody knows e'erybody in this place," he answered. "I'd remember if I saw ya cross the street."

It was partially the truth. Daryl knew most people — but he only bothered to remember a select few.

"Moved here last week," she caved, proving him right. "I'm keeping my grandparents company watching daytime cable and doing grocery runs."

Daryl smirked. "An' runnin' over nails with their car, apparently."

"That, too," she confessed.

It was silent for a few seconds, and Daryl realised that he should probably give her a quote for the job. Though, she interrupted him before he could.

"Listen, your new neighbour would be really grateful if you could cut her a break," she said, eyeing the Camaro like she was considering whether it was even worth the hassle. "The old man's going to kill me if I come home on foot tonight."

Daryl knew what she was asking. The notice in the shop window made it clear that they'd be closing in half an hour; Daryl had been all but ready to flip the sign himself. Before she'd arrived, he'd even dared to think that he could shut early — and possibly get to crack open a cold beer and enjoy the breeze of his porch.

He sighed.

"I'll see what I can do," Daryl mumbled, "but I ain't makin' no promises," he warned — as he caught the way her eyes lit up at his words.

But that was a lie. Daryl knew he wouldn't let himself go home until it was finished.

The woman was utterly gleeful. He watched her smile much too widely for her face, and for a moment Daryl thought that she might even jump at him. But she seemed to catch herself at the last second, and abruptly stopped.

She didn't falter long, though. "Thank you, thank you so much!" she said, excitedly, before pausing to tap at her jean pockets. "I don't have any cash on me for a deposit, but I'm heading to work now."

She looked sheepish as she explained herself.

"I'll come straight back and pay in full," she added, trying her best to convince him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes like he didn't quite understand. Then he did, and he laughed properly.

"Deposit?" he asked, shaking his head. "City girl, here we jus' keep yer vehicle if ya can't pay."

The woman's expression was priceless. She looked as though she couldn't figure out whether he was joking or not, and stared at Daryl with her mouth slightly agape as she debated which it was.

He couldn't watch any longer.

"Where ya workin'?" he asked.

Then, he cursed himself for doing so. Time was ticking on, and he already had to stay overtime because of his inability to say no. Well, usually he had no problem with the word; it just seemed like it was stuck in his throat today.

"Joe's bar," she replied. "It's a few blocks over and-"

"I know Joe's bar," Daryl interrupted.

Everybody knew Joe's. It was the only place around that sold a decent draught beer. He'd been going there since he was a teenager — younger than he should have been, but old enough to know better.

"Me an' my brother go there a lot, but I ain't seen you 'round."

She nodded.

"Only started a few days ago. Hopefully they don't fire me for being late."

Daryl glanced at the clock. It was approaching his closing time and her opening one.

"Ya better get runnin', Camaro," he noted, tapping at his watch that didn't even work. "Rush hour soon."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the nickname. Daryl didn't know her real one yet, and felt like it was too late to ask for it. He'd have to catch a glimpse of Dean's log book later to find out.

"Will do," she replied with a smile. "Thanks again, Dixon."

Though Daryl couldn't quite work out how she knew his name, either.

He watched her scurry about collecting her things, and walked her to the entrance. The sun was starting to set — leaving the sky a pinkish orange that only made him squint the more he looked at it. He held the door open for the woman, and heard Dean snort from the back of the shop. But the way she thanked him made it worth the teasing.

"Take care of that sixties Honda," she winked, "she's a real beauty."

Daryl was surprised that she knew the model of his bike, considering she'd never even ridden one.

"If only ya knew," he mumbled back as he saw her off. "Will take ya for a ride one time if yer willin'."

She stopped in place. Daryl didn't know why he said that. It had just slipped from his mouth like oil from a can.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes like she didn't believe him.

"That's what they all say."

Then, she started to jog down the street — just like she said she would — and Daryl thought her crazy for even attempting it in this midsummer Georgia weather. That woman had entered the shop like a whirlwind, and when she left Daryl couldn't remember what he'd even been doing before.

Dean cleared his throat and threw a rag at him that he barely managed to catch.

"Keep it in your pants, boy."

Daryl scowled at the man; he knew him better than that. So, he didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply, and instead got started on setting the Camaro up on a jack.

"She's a beauty, I get it," Dean went on, despite his silence. "Her type don't belong in a place like this, that's for damn sure."

Daryl had to agree with him there. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the wing mirror of her car and grimaced. He had grease on his face, and part of him cursed Dean for not telling him before he'd left the breakroom.

"But you know Mike and Doreen?" the old man asked, and Daryl nodded. "That's their granddaughter."

Daryl furrowed his brow — not realising he'd done it until he caught himself in the glass once again. Mike was a hard man, the type to straighten out any kinks in a person with brute force and that baby boomer spite.

"She may be real pretty, kid, but that one's trouble," Dean noted, confirming his suspicions.

He ignored the way he called him 'kid'. The old man still hadn't grown out of the habit — despite Daryl being well beyond his teenage years now.

"Trouble?" he repeated, like he couldn't quite comprehend the word being associated with someone like that.

Dean chuckled — but it turned into one of those coughs that made Daryl wince.

"Maybe more so than you," he said. "Got kicked out of the military, I heard."

Daryl spat at the floor, and Dean laughed again. They both hated those military dogs who often paraded through their town, looking at them as though they were trash beneath their government-issued boots.

But, if she'd been kicked out then maybe they could find some common ground.

Old man Dean wagged his finger at him, recognising Daryl's no-good expression; he'd become familiar with it by now, from all the times he'd worn it throughout the years.

"So don't go losing your head over her, Dixon," he cautioned, pretending not to know how good Daryl was at throwing caution to the wind.

"And remember to close up before you leave."

But it was too late.

Daryl had already lost his head, and his heart — but he wouldn't know that the latter was missing for a very long time.

You ran the cloth along the oak bar surface, wiping away any sticky beer rings that had been left there.

This is why we have coasters, you sighed.

It had been a slow Tuesday night, but you'd somehow still been roped into working the close. You tried to tell your boss that you were having car troubles, and had plans to stop by the garage on your way home — but he seemed to prioritise his own date over yours.

Well, you wouldn't exactly call giving the local mechanic his cheque a date; usually, you didn't have to pay for those. But you couldn't deny how it had made you feel when he smiled that smile your way — so small that you'd almost missed it — before you took off running out the door.

It gave you whiplash.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. But, then again, he didn't seem like the naturally friendly type. You shook your head, throwing the beer-soaked rag into the sink. You didn't trust that man in the slightest.

That wasn't a new development, really; you didn't trust most men. And, you often found that the ones who made your heart race like that were the worst of them all. He was trouble, that one, and you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

You untied the double knot of your apron, and folded it up neatly. There were a few whiskey stains on it — you'd caught a whiff of that top-shelf scent a few times now — but you were already too late to even consider putting it in the wash. Instead, you left it at the end of the bar, and swapped it out for the ring of keys lying there.

It was closing time, and you prepared yourself to run three blocks in the dark. You stepped out into the night, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek as opposed to the midday heat that had been there when your shift started. You flipped the latch and turned the key in the lock until you heard it click.

Then, you held them between your knuckles so that the jagged edge poked out.

"Ya done for the night?" a voice came from the shadows, and your heart dropped.

That brief second lasted a lifetime as the blood rushed to your ears like a strong current through running water, and your grip tightened over those keys. But then, you noticed the reflection in the glass panels of the door — and relaxed.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," you scolded the man, "thought you were a dejected patron tryna jump me or something."

Perhaps he was; you still didn't know any better.

Dixon was leaning against that dingy brick wall, opposite the back door of Joe's Bar. You didn't even know what that other building was — but some sketchy figures usually loomed about it, so you tried to stay clear.

Maybe he didn't get the memo, you thought.

"Tha' happen before?" the man asked back, casually.

Though, the dim street lights overhead illuminated his face, and you caught a glimpse of his serious expression before he let it drop. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers — almost smoked down to the butt already — and it made you wonder just how long he'd been waiting for you.

"Maybe once or twice," you laughed, but it didn't sound as natural as you had intended.

You noticed the man's eyes flicker down towards the keys held between your knuckles, and you quickly slipped them into your jean pocket — hoping that he wouldn't pry. Luckily, he didn't seem like the type to unnecessarily butt into other people's business.

The smoke trailed from his lips and caught the stark light of the street lamp. He almost looked cold — bathed in that bluish tint which made those cigarette fumes seem nearly luminescent.

"You here to make sure I don't run off with your paycheck?" you teased, fishing out the wad of bills from your back pocket.

You waved them at him, and considered how precarious the situation may seem to an onlooker if they happened to pass by. The man looked as though he felt the same, since he quickly glanced over his shoulder down the alleyway — checking to make sure you were alone.

"Don't worry, Dixon, I busted my ass tonight just so I could leave you a nice tip," you said with a smile, handing the money to him.

He took it, slowly, as though he had to remind himself what it was even for.

Then, he let that cigarette butt fall to the floor, and stamped it out with his boot — before dragging it along the concrete until it was nothing but embers.

The man shook his head at you. "'M here on behalf of the welcome committee."

You snorted as you processed his words, and followed him out of that narrow alleyway into the main street.

"Bullshit," you called, "as if-"

You rounded the corner after him, and stopped. He was there, leaning against that pristine sixties Honda bike — spare helmet in hand.

It was parked up on the sidewalk, polished metal glinting in all its glory under those neon lamps. Dixon was almost camouflaged against it — his black leather jacket also speckled with white light. He held out that helmet, as if it were an invitation he was waiting for you to accept.

But he seemed shy — as though acutely aware that it was only an invite, and nothing more. So, you took it, and shook your head as you realised that it wasn't his spare helmet he had offered you; it was his only helmet.

"Said I'd take ya," he murmured, fastening the strap gently under your chin.

It was too big, so the man compensated by tying it tighter until you felt like your jaw was wired shut. But, you just smiled.

"An' I ain't no liar," he said when he was done, and kicked his leg over the bike.

Then, you sped off into the night.

You yelled over the sound of the engine for him to go faster, and laughed as you had to spit out the stray hairs that had blown into your mouth. Your clothes whipped in the wind, too, and you clung to the man in front of you as though you were afraid they might catch the draft, and make you fly away. It was electrifying; your whole body felt like pure static as you rode past shop displays and windows that made your reflections look like hazed blurs.

That whole trip felt like a hazed blur, really, because suddenly you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, unsure of where 'there' even was. "Why'd we stop?"

You pulled the helmet from your head and cocked your leg over the bike. The man let out a chuckle at the sight of your hair, sticking up from the static — as though lightning might strike at any moment.

"Smoke break," Dixon grumbled, before coaxing out the squashed cardboard packet from his jeans. "You want one?" he asked, offering it to you.

You shook your head; you didn't smoke.

He shrugged in response, cupping his hands to his face to get a flame from his lighter. You left him to it, and turned away from the bike to catch the view.

And what a view it was, indeed.

You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the lapping ocean waves before you saw them. The cliff overlooked the beach below, desolate, with a high tide that drew the shore into you. Your grandmother had told you about this place once, on the phone a few months back as she tried to sell rural Georgia to you.

It wasn't like you were given much of a choice, anyway.

But now that you'd been shipped out here — against your will, no doubt — you had to admit that she'd been partly right. It was breath-taking. Back in the city, a place like this would be littered with beer cans and tacky, disposable barbeques within a week of someone posting about it online. Here, however, it looked untouched.

It was as though the two of you were the first to ever set foot here, on this particular crag that overlooked the waves — leaving your footprints alongside tyre treads for the next pioneers to discover.

You glanced back at Dixon over your shoulder — who was busy trying to look as though he wasn't already looking at you — and smiled.

He was one hell of a welcome committee.

Daryl almost choked on the fumes of his cigarette — letting out a cough that reminded him of the way old man Dean spluttered in the mornings. He really needed to kick that habit, he thought, and snubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

Then, you scowled at him, so he picked the butt back up and stuffed it into his pocket, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it up later.

He had been lying about the smoke break, really, but then he needed to carry out his excuse. Initially, he'd only thought about picking you up from the bar and offering you a ride back to the shop. He hadn't the slightest clue of how that plan had become this.

Somewhere along the way, Daryl might have accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the most scenic place he would think of. Stupid damn street signs, he cursed, as though he hadn't driven those roads a hundred times before.

Camaro seemed to call him out on his bluff, too, since she turned to face him and immediately shook her head.

"You're lying," she said, as though she were certain, "but the view is extraordinary, so I'll forgive you just this once."

Daryl swallowed thickly, tasting the tobacco that had made his throat so dry. For someone who claimed himself not to be a liar, that was all he seemed to be doing today.

Then, he watched you make your way towards the edge of that cliff, like you couldn't even hear him warning you to be careful. It was like you weren't paying him the slightest attention. Daryl was used to that from women — but somehow, this was different.

You didn't look down on him, nor at him with any hint of prejudice for wearing jeans still coated in oil, and boots he'd had to tape the soles of just to keep them together. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all. You seemed far more concerned with the stars that flickered in the night sky above you, but at the same time grateful towards the man for having brought you to them.

"You treat all your customers like this, Dixon?" you asked him.

He watched you turn around and look at him like you'd only just remembered that he was there. But, then you beamed a smile at him so bright that it put the stars to shame — and made all of your other ones look dim in comparison.

"Y'ain't special," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Jus' given' ya a lift home 'cos Dean told me to."

Though, Dean had left the shop hours ago.

Daryl watched you laugh like you'd caught him out one more time.

"There you go again," you said, teasingly. "Do you ever tell the truth?"

No, he didn't. He always tried to, but oftentimes it never did him any good. The people of this town had already made the assumption that he was a natural born liar. You were the first person to ever make the distinction between his white lies and those other types.

All his life, Daryl had been pigeon-holed into the role of good for nothing redneck, and had only recently graduated to the slightly less stereotyped town mechanic. But that night it was as if someone, for the first time, tried to get a peek at whatever was underneath.

Old man Dean was right. You were trouble — but not for the reason he had said. You were trouble because you seemed entirely unaware of your place in the world, and it made Daryl start to question his own. You seemed nice — perhaps even lovely — but Daryl never trusted those types. He knew you were far too good to be wasting away the early hours of the morning with the likes of him — and it left him wondering what exactly you wanted.

You'd already paid for his services, after all.

"Thank you for letting me see the stars again," you breathed, stretching your neck which ached from staring at the sky. "It's been a while."

Back then, Daryl didn't quite understand what that meant. He'd thought perhaps that you'd been talking about city pollution.

On the way back, Daryl felt you cling onto him tightly as he drove through empty roads, and passed the old, flickering street lights that blinked like camera flashes. But, when his fingers accidentally brushed up against yours, as you both reached for the shop door, you pulled your hand away.

It had only been a random Tuesday — that had eventually rolled into a Wednesday by the time he'd gotten you back into your repaired Camaro — but that was the moment in his life where Daryl felt like he had finally woken up.

But even awake, he often found himself lost in daydreams of the woman who crash landed into his life, and disappeared from it just as quickly as she came.

Daryl followed the trail of debris that had fallen from the sky, as though he were tracking some giant, metal bird. He didn't want to stick around too long, given that the noise had probably attracted every damn walker in the area; he just hoped that he was still far enough away from camp that they wouldn't be drawn there.

He stepped over the hunks of hot wreckage, some of it still ablaze, until he eventually came across something soft and not made of metal.

It was that jaeger. It was dead.

It looked as though it had been struck straight out of the sky. Its feathers lay scattered around it — the white breast now red with blood — and its wing was bent at a crooked angle, broken.

Daryl scowled. If he'd known that it was going to have such a meaningless death, then he would have shot it himself. Though, he still didn't add the bird to his string of dead animals; he thought that it had suffered enough.

He continued onwards through the brush until he stumbled across what he'd been looking for. But even as he saw it with his own eyes, Daryl couldn't quite believe it. Before him was the husk of a downed helicopter, burning in the middle of the forest.

Immediately, he ran to it, tripping over the wreckage as it got thicker and harder to navigate.

Though, there was no pilot inside — only radios and machinery parts that Daryl didn't know the names of. They screeched high frequency sounds as they caught on fire, and it made his ears ring the longer he listened.

So, he turned back.

That was when he saw it — them — a few meters away. His stomach dropped. Guess that's the pilot, he thought, looking up at the body tangled in the trees.

He'd never seen a parachute in real life before — only ever in the movies. He'd also never understood how that flimsy material could stop someone from plummeting to their death.

Well, in this case it hadn't.

The pilot was dangling from one of the branches, all caught up in those wire cables like a fish on a line. The limbs were contorted awkwardly, and Daryl swallowed thickly at the sight of their arm which had definitely been broken — reminding him of that miserable jaeger's wing.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave. The smell of burning rubber and the white noise from those radios would probably keep him up for the next few nights, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave, but then the body spoke to him.

"Dixon?" he heard it gasp.

And Daryl wondered just how many impossible things he might encounter today.

The voice startled him, and he almost stumbled over his own foot in return. Walkers couldn't speak, and they surely wouldn't know his name, either. Then, he caught the slightest movement, and recognised a jacket much too familiar. It had been his, after all, before he'd given it to you.

The pilot groaned, and Daryl recognised that tone of voice, too. He quickly fumbled about for his pocket knife, not even stopping to consider how the hell he'd be able to cut you down.

He couldn't even comprehend how you were alive-

"How's it hanging?" the voice spluttered.

-and how you'd kept that same god awful sense of humour.

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A/N I’ve tried so hard to post this, sorry for all the technical difficulties...