gallonofgoldfish

[gallonofgoldfish]

motocross!Bad Batch AU pt. 1 - Hunter

"He didn’t notice until now that the others had veered off the track some time ago—that he’d been riding alone, not ahead. They milled about the makeshift camp set in the shade of a lone rock formation, and paid little mind when Hunter coasted up to the cluster rigs and tents."

Characters: Hunter, Rex, Crosshair? (mentioned?)

Content: poor use of motocross lingo, red bull product placement, inaccurate depictions of west north america, highly probable mischaracterization, i don't think any warnings apply

A/N: this is probably kinda niche but i had a hyperfixation moment earlier this year while TBB was still airing + supercross season was in full swing so i wrote like four parts of this. i mostly just wanted to play around with ideas and designs. this has been rotting in my drive for a while now so i figured i'd throw it out there and see what people think!

also one of my friends read this and does not know im posting it so if u see this HELLO THANK U FOR LISTENING TO MY RAMBLING <3

WC: 1490

ALSO. lmk if u guys want the other parts. they're also pretty short but they're just some of my ideas for the other original batchers

The heat pouring into the bleak basin was familiar as the shadows of the jagged plateaus in the distance. Unfortunately, that didn’t make the suffocating humidity any more enjoyable, nor did it bring the skyline’s shadows any nearer. Orange sun still spilled in rippling waves from the blazing sun hovering just above the horizon, baking the dusty track into a puck of pale, gritty dirt. Even when wind sifted its way through the rocky mesa, it swept enough loose sand with it that the brief drop in temperature offered no comfort.

The rev of Hunter’s bike died down as he set the front wheel into a rut at the edge of the next carved-up straightaway and braced his feet against the pegs to stand. One hand still clutched the throttle, while the other found and released the chinstrap of his helmet beneath his jaw. He pitched down with the crumbly terrain, then set his course for the row of trucks and trailers at the edge of the course, before popping it the rest of the way off.

Tucked under one arm, blue sky danced in the plastic tear-offs stuck to the lenses of his cracked goggles. Sunlight wavered over the chipping black-and-red paint job. Sweat stuck long strands of black hair to his faded bandana, and the bandana to the sides of his head. The world crashed back into bright focus around him, pierced by the sharp smell of exhaust and the howl of the wind against the rocky basin walls. 

He didn’t notice until now that the others had veered off the track some time ago—that he’d been riding alone, not ahead. They milled about the makeshift camp set in the shade of a lone rock formation, and paid little mind when Hunter coasted up to the cluster rigs and tents. He flicked the kill switch beside the left grip, bumping the kickstand down and dismounting in one smooth motion to guide the muddy red bike up to the side of his short trailer.

The radio inside still spewed static down the open ramp door. Whatever station he’d left playing had been reduced to white noise, though by the weather or the container walls, he couldn’t tell. 

On days like this, when the sun beat down and the sky was clear, shade offered little help. It was like the arid climate had worked its way into the very fabric of Hunter’s hopelessly untucked black jersey just to follow him into the sandy-floored camper. The outside was rough enough on the eyes—white metal paneling showing through the mutilated old paint job, only really marked by the peeling Marauder Motors sticker beside the tires—but the inside was no marvel either.

Loose tools littered the gridded metal floor, only landmarked by stray cans and bottles. The toolbox and metal workbench secured to the floor on one side had drawers thrown open in a pattern Hunter could never remember the reason for, and his change of clothes was strewn haphazardly over the secondhand camping chair standing beside it. It was a tight fit; even with the bike outside, there was just enough room to move around and hardly enough to reach the cooler on the other side of the tabletop. 

Hunter set his helmet down on the workbench and pinched the fingertip of his glove between his teeth, shaking his hand free as he reached for the dented Yeti lid. Between the clustered drinks and the flattened styrofoam takeout containers, its contents practically jumped out. He plucked a narrow Red Bull can from the half-melted chunks of ice and shoved the lid back down.

By now, the spare clothes strewn over the camping chair had been sat on enough that they’d taken the shape of his body. At least, he hardly noticed them as he sank onto the fraying canvas, reaching for his phone on the metal tabletop beside him. Shifting his heavy boots farther apart, he tracked another line of sand across the ground.

3 NEW MESSAGES—3 HOURS AGO

Outside, an engine barked to life. A second followed, and they both grumbled by the open trailer in a blur of blue plastic. 

WRECKER—UNNAMED GROUP

TO YOU + 2 OTHERS

1 VIDEO ATTACHMENT

2 MESSAGES

Hunter’s thumb hovered over the notification. After a moment of consideration, he clicked expand.

time to see if you live up to that talk of yours

keeping an 👂out for the results 😎

Read by you, Cross, + Tech

He couldn’t help but heave a sigh, scrolling back up through the rest of the chats. Sent by Wrecker. Read by you, Cross, + Tech. Sent by Wrecker. Read by you, Cross, + Tech. Sent by Wrecker. Read by you, Cross, + Tech.

Hunter hesitated for another second before opening the video, turning the screen sideways for the full picture.

The audio began before the footage itself.

“What can you tell us about the preparation behind today’s race?” asked an unseen voice. 

While the phone searched for service, a little white loading circle spun in the middle of the buffering video.

“Well…” 

Crosshair stood with his hands in his pockets, wearing a sleek black suit and a smug half smirk to match. Close-cropped white curls sat neatly atop his head. The dark lines of the crosshair tattooed over his right eye were darker than Hunter remembered—refreshed by some pricier, more elegant artist than Tech, he was willing to bet. 

“It’s tricky, in a sport like this.” His voice slithered out of him, sharp and low like always, as he looked over whatever reporter stood off-camera with narrow eyes. Even now, he was calculating. Gauging what he was supposed to say next. Anticipating what would keep his image as sharp as the lines of his slender frame. “They say it’s a team effort,” he continued, “but at the end of the day, it’s you, the bike, and the clock. There’s no team there.”

In the brief moment of silence between them, the clamor of other conversations filtered through the microphone. It disappeared. Crosshair tilted his head and shot a sly glance right into the camera’s lens, waiting. 

“What can we expect to see out there tonight?” asked the reporter. 

The microphone popped back into frame. Hunter fought off a shuddering cringe as he popped the tab on the Red Bull resting on his knee.

“Success,” was Crosshair’s only reply.

Graphics began to slide over the interview—statistics and rankings and a dozen other displays Hunter didn’t much care for—but the clip cut there. With another sigh, he ran a hand down his face, over the skeleton tattoo covering half of his own features. 

Right on time, too. Just as he sipped his drink, another rider appeared in the doorway with one stained white boot on the ramp. Hunter glimpsed the Yamaha logo on the front of their jacket, but it was the helmet that gave it away. White plastic with blue paint smeared across the visor in the shape of hawks’ eyes. Tally marks scratched into the otherwise polished surface—one for every win. If he performed any better, Rex would run out of room within the week.

“You ready?” he called, pulling his helmet down over his head.

“You're heading back out already?” Hunter asked, setting down the soda and lunging over the table to grab his glove. 

“Can’t let you guys slack off too much,” Rex replied with a shrug. “You’ll fall asleep.”

“You're killin’ me,” muttered Hunter. “Do you always run your team like the Navy?”

“You can complain about that when you’re actually on the team, privateer.” Rex leaned against the door. In the sun, his bleached buzzcut seemed to glow. “Until then, just know they don’t call me the Captain for nothing.”

Hunter stood, knocking his boots against one another, and gave a messy salute. 

“I’ll meet you on the track,” said Rex. He gave a vague wave, then turned the 56 on the back of his practice jersey and the hawk eye decals on either of his shoulders to Hunter and walked away. 

Snatching up the can again, Hunter chugged the last of the acidic drink and lobbed the empty container at the far wall. It clattered into a pile of at least a dozen others while he smoothed a hand over his hair to push the stray curls hanging in front of his bandana back. 

He shifted his weight to one foot and drummed his gloved fingers on the workbench surface. His gaze wandered from his helmet to the board on the wall. To the map pinned up, and the red string crisscrossing the 50 states. He’d already pressed six thumbtacks into the crooked cork board, but the string told the story:

Anaheim. Oakland. San Diego. Anaheim. Glendale. Anaheim. Minneapolis.

It was a chase, by now. The series moved, and he followed, but never quite caught up. 

Reaching into the old Altoids tin screwed to the tabletop, he grabbed a sixth. He could have found the next point blindfolded:

Denver.

[gallonofgoldfish]

Flowers and Fireworks

Returning to business as usual on the ranch is hardly monotonous with Abby around. New faces and old trails make for good company, even if it means getting sidetracked.

Pairing: cowpoke!abby x reader (sort of)

Content: established relationship, brief cowboy ellie, fluff, poor attempts at writing southern accents (i dont even think theyre in the south), reader isn't described, sort of a part two?, author needs a cowboy partner asap, i know less about horses than before, i don't think any warnings apply

A/N: the brainrot is brainrotting. i wanted to write cowboy ellie but then got distracted by both abby and the excitement of a motor vehicle. had a very specific song stuck in my head while writing this but now icant remember what it was (something colter wall??). anyway hopefully this is a fun read even tho its not too eventful (and also was not proofread lolz). planning to have more ellie in the next part if it ever gets written bc we're going to the CLERBBBB

WC: 1508

You haven’t met her yet, but you’ve felt the tension in the air like something’s about to snap into place.

She’s the rookie. The new kid. The hotshot from some bigger, richer ranch further west with a reputation that stirs more talk than her name—whatever it might be. She’s the racer on the back of a chestnut mare in a denim jacket with rolled-up sleeves and workboots that must’ve lost their shine long before she came here.

And she’s lunging in the ring outside the stables, faded black hat crooked, casting a stubborn shadow over the leafy tattoo wrapped around her forearm. Choppy brown hair brushes her shoulders and burns a color like coffee in the dying sunlight. 

Not that you care. You’ve got places to be, and she’ll fall in with the rest of the wranglers eventually.

Gravel crunches some ways down the road behind you, but Abby doesn’t kill the ATV’s engine in time to sneak up on you completely. She comes coasting down the dusty path, toothpick hanging from the corner of her mouth as she grins sideways at you and rolls to a stop. 

“You talk to ‘er yet?” she asks, and the sun flashes over the lenses of her aviators when she tilts her hat out of the way. 

“Not yet. You?”

Abby shakes her head. “Heard she ain’t done too much talkin’ to anyone yet.”

“Uh-huh.” You plant your hands on your hips and nod. “What else’d you hear?”

“Well, what’d you hear?”

“I asked you first.”

She bites down on her bottom lip, jerking her head at you. “Get over here and I’ll tell you.”

“You’re an ass,” you tease, but hop up onto the quad’s grate so your back leans against hers. 

“What, I get one record and you think we’re some big-timers?” Abby scoffs, nudging you with her shoulder. Her braid shifts in the humid breeze. “We got work to do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” is all you mumble as the ATV purrs back to life and jolts towards the barns in the distance. “Tell me what you heard.”

“Not much,” admits Abby. “I mean, not much you don’t already know. She’s got just about the same story as the rest of us. Some ribbons under her belt.”

Dust kicks up from the tires, funneling right past the mudflaps to gather on your jeans. “She got a name?”

“Relax. I’m gettin’ there.” Abby leans to the side to shoot you a skeptical, if halfhearted, glance. “What’re you tryin’ to get under her belt, too?”

“Abby.”

She laughs, then turns her focus back to the road. “Ellie,” she finally says. “Ellie Williams.”

“Alright.” The smell of fuel mingles with the freshness of the tallgrass scrolling by on either side, either one a welcome break from the tinge of manure drifting in from the neighboring fields. 

“Just alright?”

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to say?” you ask. “I don’t know the girl.”

“I got a good idea.” The engine cuts again. The two of you come to a stop in the shadows just outside one of the stables, before the open sliding doors that stare right out over the mountains. Abby twists to look at you head-on. “How ‘bout you just tell me when we’re good to go?”

----------

“Y’know—” Your nose crinkles as you squint against the sun, shifting in the saddle with every step the horse beneath you takes. “I thought Manny was helpin’ you with this run.”

It’s muscle memory—tacking, adjusting, swinging up into the seat. Practiced. Routine. But it never gets old. Not the cool tones of the mountains shattering the skyline on the far side of the valley, or the steady gait of the horses as they fall into step beside one another. And definitely not Abby.

“He was,” she confirms. One hand holds the reins while the other settles her sunglasses on the brim of her hat. “‘Til he got busy.”

“With?”

The corners of her eyes crinkle with a smile. “The usual.”

“Sure.” You raise a brow. “And who’s the usual this week?”

“Beats me,” says Abby with a shrug. “Long as it ain’t you, it ain’t my problem.”

“Speak for yourself. The last usual kept leavin’ him notes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. In the wrong fuckin’ bunk.”

Another grin creeps across her lips as she looks back. Gold falls over her freckled face, flooding the scar on her cheek with light. 

“A little light readin’ never hurt nobody,” she teases. 

“You think?” You tilt your head, unable to avoid the same expression writing itself into your features. “Then next time—”

She’s drawing away, picking up pace.

“Hey, now,” you call, but she doesn’t seem to hear. You nudge your horse’s side to urge them on. Still, though, Abby’s got a good lead. She passes under the low-hanging branches of the trees bordering the path, through a set of rusted iron gates. 

Then, she flicks the reins and takes off. 

“Abby!” you shout, and with no choice left but to do the same, chase after her. 

A cloud of dust stirs up behind her, but you ride right through it, and soon, the trail falls away. 

“I thought you said you got work to do!” 

She laughs, easing up and straightening to drop back and match your pace when you slow. Tallgrass rises on either side of the makeshift path—trampled dirt and dust and the curled-up bodies of flowers unlucky enough to fall into the path of passing hooves. 

“We do,” she says. “That don’t mean we can’t take our time.”

“It’ll be dark soon, yeah?”

“Not that much time.” Abby rolls her eyes and smiles. “We’re just takin’ the scenic route.”

“You know where we’re goin’?” you check.

“Just c’mon.” Turning back to the trail ahead, she nudges her horse to a quicker gait. The unbuttoned front of her flannel flutters around her, giving way to the thin white tank top underneath. 

The ground slopes down, further into the field, as the sun fades over the jagged peaks. Through the yellowed straw and the waves of rippling green, pops of color appear where bright flowers have pushed through the soil and bloomed.

“You ever been this way before?” asks Abby.

You shake your head. “Not that I remember.”

The field is glowing, burning under dusk’s light. She’s glowing with it.

“Well, then.” She shoots you a wink. “You’re in for a treat.”

Just like that, she’s off again. 

The rough path winds down the ridges in the hill, between weeping trees with lazy, swaying branches that force you to duck. Over wooden planks laid out across the marshier parts of the lower pastures and a bridge where a dried-up river leaves a gash in the ground. Back up another slope, another patchy flower field, another grove. 

Until Abby stops to look back at you.

The Ranch sprawls over the acres of land before the two of you, windows lit in the bunkhouse and the barns and lanterns burning alongside the settled paths. The dark shapes of other hands wander like ants across the grass, while the mingling shadows of cattle fill the squares of plains just below. 

“Wait,” Abby urges. The horses paw boredly at the dirt, but, like you, remain in place as the warm summer breeze snakes around you. “Heard about this from a friend last time I was in town.”

You shoot her a curious glance.

“Don’t look at me.” She waves you away, grinning, and points towards the horizon instead. “Over there.”

The first stars are peeking through the bluish parts of the sky, just where it meets the hills. There’s a flash. A burst of red sparks. 

“Fireworks?” Even from afar, their light unfurls over your face. 

“Sure are.” Abby falls silent as the bang from the explosion crashes, muted, through the valley. “They had some leftovers from the fourth.” She sighs, then asks: “Some view, ain’t it?”

Another smattering of colorful bursts erupts over the hills. Another chorus of pops thunder over the grass. The sky changes from one color to the next, smoke gathering in thin gray wisps along the skyline, before you look away.

The lights dance in the lenses of Abby’s aviators where they’re still sitting on her hat, but don’t quite reach her eyes. She hasn’t been watching the fireworks at all; she’s been looking at you instead.

“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning over to kiss her. “Some view,” you say against her lips.

“Anyway—” Clearing her throat, she straightens, then jerks her chin towards the cattle in the field below. “Race you down there.”

“Hey—”

But she’s already gone. Racing back down the hillside, still bathed in the far-off lights.

“You’re gonna owe me a drink!” she calls, though she’s already dropped out of view.

After a last glimpse at the fireworks blooming over the ranch, you pick up the reins again and turn to follow.

The flowers and the fireworks blur, blooming and bursting against the shaded countryside. Lining the hills and lighting the sky and leading you.

Leading you right back to her.

[gallonofgoldfish]

last chance to evacuate

as you may know, israel has begun its ground operation in rafah. they dropped leaflets last night ordering people to evacuate, and bombing in east rafah has already begun.

The border is about to become unreachable.

Rafah is trapped.

We have literal hours until no-one, all the GoFundMe's you've scrolled past, all the people desperately begging on TikTok, will be able to escape.

Give now. Give whatever you can.

I am fundraising for the Odeh family, which is only 3k away from meeting its goal.

you will not get another chance.

GIVE HERE

[gallonofgoldfish]

[gallonofgoldfish]

Whiskey and Winning

It's easy to get distracted at the rodeo. At least, it should be, under the lights and in the crowded stands, but you've only got one thing on your mind. Champion bronco rider Abby Anderson could say the same.

Pairing: cowpoke!abby x reader (sort of)

Content: established relationship, fluff, poor attempts at depicting the rodeo, reader is barely described, i swear im not slut shaming i just think the term buckle bunny is funny, i don't think any warnings apply

A/N: wrote this last night in a haze. i hardly know anything about tlou and rodeos actually make me really sad but yk. the parasites. might make another part to this at some point. didn't tell my friends i was posting this so if you guys see this hello i love you thank you for hyping me up <3. also friendly reminder fuck neil druckmann and do not give that zionist your money!!!

WC: 1080

The blare of the announcer’s voice from the overhead speakers is deafening, but you haven’t heard a word he’s said. The lights are blinding, but you won’t squint against their glare. The stadium is packed full—roaring with the drunken cheers of thousands of strangers, glittering with the flash of every camera and belt buckle and rhinestone-studded hat suffocating in the stands—but it may as well be empty save for the two of you.

The world is quiet. Eerily so, though maybe the ringing in your ears is playing a part in that. It’s narrow. It’s tinged by the black splotches at the edge of your vision and strained by the clench of your jaw.

The world is the cowpoke settling onto the bare back of the bronc in the chute only a few feet away from you. It’s the wide-brimmed ten-gallon pressed firmly down over the dirty blonde braid hanging between her shoulders. The collared white shirt stretching over her back, quilted with Marlboro patches and brand logos. The crimson bandana you’d had in your hair an hour earlier, resting around her neck.

The world is Abby Anderson, from the freckles strewn over her scarred, sunburned face to the cold focus in her steely blue eyes that evaporates when her gaze settles on you. Ice turns to the warmth of Jack Daniel’s, neat in its absence. To the gray of campfire smoke winding into the white-speckled sky, burning away the chill in the air. Warding off the spectators and the clamor and the awful, twisting feeling of waiting.

This is what it’s about, right?

The rush. The thrill.

The hitch in the air as her hand tightens on the rigging one last time. 

A grin splits her features.

She winks.

And then she’s gone. The gate swings open and the bucking mare takes off with her on its back and the world bursts back into a mess of color and noise. Eight seconds.

You’re yelling—you’re not sure what you’re yelling, but it’s loud enough to leave your throat raw and earn some sideways looks from the flock of buckle bunnies pressed up against the railing alongside you. 

Seven.

Part of Pour Some Sugar on Me blasts from the staticky speakers, and Abby appears on the jumbotrons in perfect detail. 

Six.

The bay mare thrashes into the air, but Abby’s faster, stronger, the muscles in her arms pushing against the seams of her shirt as she holds her free hand held up in the air. 

Five.

The snarling wolves engraved on her belt buckle flash under the lights. 

Four.

Every kick whips the fringe along the edges of her shotgun chaps, but the timer ticks down anyway. 

Three.

She holds on, anyway.

A closer shot brings her face into focus: grit teeth, a furrowed brow, a muscle ticking along the edge of her jaw. 

Two.

Sweat runs down the side of her features and into the scar on her cheek beneath the shadow of her hat’s brim. 

She’s in the middle of the arena now, gritty sand flying up around her. 

One?

If you could tear your eyes off of her, you’d check the time to make sure you’re counting right.

The music stops. An airhorn sounds. She’s still the rider—some distant, mythical thing up on a screen and down in the dirt.

Abby’s mouth opens in a shout when the second set of floodlights kick in, raising her head only to lock eyes with the pair of wranglers who burst out of the chutes after her to rope the bronc back in. She rocks forward with the mare’s motion one more time before swinging herself off its back and bailing into the sand. 

You finally get a breath out, resting your head against your forearm on the railing and heaving a sigh.

The announcer’s words retreat to the back of your thoughts again, but not before you catch her score. 95.

Ninety–fucking–five. The day’s record.

Just as the stadium begins to die down, the strangers beside you erupt into another round of cheers. Abby’s on her feet again, dusting herself off and sweeping her hat off of her head to shake out the loose strands of hair framing her face. And she’s walking. Jogging. Full-on running, back towards the chutes.

Or maybe not. 

She vaults the rickety fencing at the edge of the ring like she’s been practicing and hauls herself up into the stands. You can’t bite back your smile at the sight of her, shoulders heaving, beaming, alive. The crooks of her boots expertly find the backs of the plastic stadium seats between spectators’ shoulders. As she makes her way over, the strangers along the railing surge towards her, arms outstretched over the section’s edge. 

Abby doesn’t even see them; her stare never leaves yours except to glance at the railing before stepping up on the platform and hooking an arm through the top metal rung. 

She’s real again then—the world in flannel and denim and muddy boots, inches away.

Abby. Your Abby.

You’re breathing it in. Smoke from the night before. Pine and sweat.

Then, you’re tasting it. Whiskey and winning.

Her hat settles atop your head. Calloused, resin-stuck fingers thread through your hair at the back of your neck and reel you in. Your lips are on hers—or maybe it’s the other way around—and you laugh against each other.

Heat creeps into your cheeks long before you pull away.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” you scold, but your smile chases off any thread of sternness your voice might’ve held.

“Agree to disagree.” She wipes her forehead on her sleeve and huffs, one brow arched. The rosy blush in her features lingers even when the sweat is gone. 

The screens over her shoulder change to show two familiar shapes. 

“We’re on the jumbotron,” you say. 

Abby doesn’t bother looking back. Just laughs “Good,” then kisses you again. This one is quicker, lighter, but your stomach flutters all the same.

“Go.” You squeeze her arm. “I’m sure you’re gettin’ somethin’ good for a ride like that.”

She scoffs. “I do this for no damn awards,” she drawls.

“Can’t all be adrenaline,” you murmur, tugging at her bandana.

That sly, smoky look creeps across her features again as the hat lifts from your head and sinks back down onto hers.. The corner of her mouth tugs upward. Her eyes dart over your face. Stepping down, she leaves you two more words and a pounding in your chest:

“It ain’t.”