#Trucker Magazin

[big-rigs-of-yesterday2]

[urbadmami]

[krispyweiss]

Television Co-founder Tom Verlaine Dead at 73

- “This man’s importance can’t be overstated,” Scott Metzger says

Tom Verlaine, the guitarist and singer who co-founded the influential punk band Television, has died at 73, Rolling Stone reports.

The magazine cited Patti Smith’s daughter, Jesse Paris Smith, who said Verlaine died Jan. 28 following a “brief illness.”

“More 2023 fretted heartbreak,” a “saddened and bummed” Vernon Reid wrote on Twitter.

“One of the great punk lead stylists. Tom Verlaine was a true downtown hero.”

Television’s 1977 debut, Marquee Moon, is considered a touchstone; it is one of only two albums the band released in its initial incarnation.

“Not many first-time-hearing experiences in my life compare to the first time through Marquee Moon,” drummer Steve Gorman (the Black Crowes/Trigger Hippy) tweeted. “There weren’t any words then, and there really aren’t any right now.

“Damn.”

Guitarist Scott Metzger of Joe Russo’s Almost Dead concurred, calling the LP “a holy grail of creative rock guitar, song craft and arranging that I always end up going back to year after year.

“This man’s importance can’t be overstated,” Metzger wrote on social media. “RIP, Tom Verlaine.”

After Television’s demise, Verlaine would release nine solo albums between 1979 and 2006, even after Television reformed 1992 and continued to play sporadically. But Marquee Moon had the greatest impact; Jason Isbell said he and the 400 Unit walk onstage to that LP “most nights” and he called Verlaine “the realest deal.”

“May Tom Verlaine rest in peace and love,” Todd Rundgren’s Spirit of Harmony Foundation said.

1/28/23

[skooodles]

It’s not fake coke it’s Incense silly.

[silviabarta]

2023/3 ČESKÝ TRUCKER

[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

[butchjess]

the jess mariano s2 outfits post.. all of his outfits for every one of his appearances including accessories and other such things found to the best of my abilities . full thing is under the read more

-repeat outfits are not included for my own sanity

*asteriks are to indicate the piece is not an exact match, but very close (couldn't find it or just not 100% sure)

S2E05 Nick & Nora/Sid & Nancy

The Camo Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch, black with stainless steel casing + grey braided string bracelet + dark brown leather belt with Civil War union soldier oval buckle

L.L. Bean navy blue puffer vest + Rothco long-sleeve Woodland camo shirt

Levi's 568 dark wash jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

Zip-Up Sweatshirt Fit

Nixon “The Rocker” A370 watch

Gray zip-up sweatshirt with US army staff sergeant rank insignia patch + Indera Mills navy blue raschel-knit thermal shirt

Levi’s 501 straight leg jeans*

Swiss modern combat boots

Wet Delinquent Fit

Nixon “The Rocker” A370 watch + gray braided string bracelet

Stanfield's charcoal long-sleeve thermal waffle knit shirt

Dickies loose fit jeans (logo painted over from back pocket)

Swiss modern combat boots

The Girl From Mars Fit

Nixon “The Rocker A370 watch + gray braided string bracelet

Gray zip-up sweatshirt with US army staff sergeant rank insignia patch + L.L. Bean navy blue puffer vest + white long-sleeved Fresno, CA motorcycle sweater*

Levi's 501 dark blue straight leg fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

S2E06 Presenting Lorelai Gilmore

Metallica Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + gray braided string bracelet

Pushead Metallica No Leaf Clover shirt

The Uniform Fit

Luke's season one baseball cap + Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + gray braided string bracelet

Burgundy plaid flannel + gray t-shirt

Dickies loose fit jeans

S2E08 The Ins and Outs of Inns

Child Labor Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + gray bracelet

Hanes black pocket t-shirt* + Rothco long-sleeve Woodland camo shirt

Levi's 568 dark wash jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

The Slacker Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch

L.L. Bean navy blue puffer vest + Tasman Empire Airways ltd. vintage red t-shirt + Stanfield's charcoal long-sleeve thermal waffle knit shirt

Levi's 501 straight leg fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

Double Denim Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch

L.L. Bean Sherpa-lined Trucker style denim jacket + Stanfield's charcoal long-sleeve thermal waffle knit shirt

Wrangler black regular fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

The Toaster Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

Green long-sleeve California graphic shirt + Stanfield's white thermal long-sleeve waffle knit shirt

Levi's 501 straight leg fit jeans

S2E10 The Bracebridge Dinner

Don't Need Your Help Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet + dark brown leather belt with Civil War union soldier oval buckle

Punk Planet magazine red t-shirt + Stanfield's white thermal long-sleeve waffle knit shirt

Wrangler black regular fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

The Carriage Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

Beige Sherpa-lined suede coat + black plaid button up + black undershirt

Levi's 568 dark wash jeans*

Swiss modern combat boots

The Glance Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

Black fatigue shirt*

Dickies loose fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

S2E12 Richard in Stars Hollow

Innocent Boy Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + dark brown leather belt with oval Civil War union soldier buckle

L.L. Bean Sherpa-lined Trucker style denim jacket + Rothco long-sleeve Woodland camo shirt

Wrangler black regular fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

S2E13 A-Tisket, A-Tasket

Superglue Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch

Beige Sherpa-lined suede coat* + Tasmanian Empire Airways ltd. red t-shirt + Stanfield's charcoal long-sleeve thermal waffle-knit shirt

Brown loose fit corduroy pants

The Guy Who Brought Enough Money Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch

Beige Sherpa-lined suede coat + green long-sleeve Califronia graphic shirt + Stanfield's white long-sleeve waffle-knit thermal + black long-sleeve shirt

Wrangler black regular fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

The Phone Call Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

Dickies long-sleeve garage blue industrial work shirt with embroidered US flag patch (name-tag included) + black long-sleeve shirt*

Brown loose fit corduroy pants*

White socks

S2E15 Lost and Found

The Gutter Cleaner Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet + gardening gloves

Wrangler gas station jacket (no nametag)* + Punk Planet magazine red t-shirt + black long-sleeve shirt

Wrangler black regular fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

S2E13 There's the Rub

Construction Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet + blue pen + blue hardhat + dark brown leather belt with oval Civil War union soldier buckle

Hanes gray pocket t-shirt + black long-sleeve shirt

Wrangler black regular fit jeans

Delivery Boy Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

L.L. Bean Sherpa lined Trucker style denim jacket + Dickies long-sleeve garage blue industrial work shirt with U.S. flag patch embroidered on sleeve (name-tag removed) + Hanes black pocket t-shirt*

Brown loose fit corduroy pants

Swiss modern combat boots

Navy Blue Sweatshirt Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

Ralph Lauren Polo Sport navy blue USA fleece sweatshirt (02 embroidered on sleeve)* + Stanfield's white long-sleeve waffle knit thermal shirt

S2E17 Dead Uncles and Vegetables

Despot Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

L.L. Bean navy blue puffer vest + Nordstrom brown button down dress shirt + black t-shirt

Levi's 568 dark wash jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

Diner Boy Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet + blue pen + dark brown leather belt with oval Civil War union soldier buckle

Hanes gray pocket t-shirt + Stanfield's white long-sleeve waffle knit thermal shirt

Dickies loose fit jeans (logo painted over/removed)

Funeral Party Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

Black fatigue shirt + white and black baseball tee*

S2E19 Teach Me Tonight

Ice Cream Cones Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch + leather bracelet

Big Smith green diamond quilted jacket + white striped double pocket linen shirt + black t-shirt + Stanfield's white long-sleeve waffle knit thermal shirt

RVCA Americana olive green baggy fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

S2E21 Lorelai's Graduation Day

Payphone Fit

Dickies navy blue Eisenhower jacket + gray button-up*

Levi's 568 dark wash jeans

New York Fit

Nixon "The Rocker" A370 watch

Dickies navy blue Eisenhower jacket + Hardkore Kidd 2002 No Mercy tour shirt

RVCA Americana olive green baggy fit jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

S2E22 Can't Get Started

The Kiss Fit

Dickies navy blue Eisenhower jacket + gray graphic t-shirt* + Stanfield's black long-sleeve waffle knit thermal shirt

Levi's 568 dark wash jeans

Swiss modern combat boots

[littlenightma]

Warm Hands | Rusty Nail x Female!Reader | Part 1

Author’s Note: This man has me giggling and kicking my feet. Thank you @peyton-peyton for the recommendation because I am obsessed. By the way, I know my requests are closed (I have quite the backlog) but if anyone wants to send me any headcanon requests regarding Rusty, feel free to. I can’t get enough of this man 💕

Warning Tags: Older man/younger woman, size difference, possessive behavior, dubious consent, smitten at first sight, Rusty is doting on reader, and a lot of smut (in part 2).

Winter had finally settled in your small town. A fine layer of frosty snow blanketed the ground, keeping most off the roads and inside their homes, tucked safe and sound in their beds.

The convenience store parking lot was vacant besides a few stray cars, most likely belonging to the store workers, and a black Peterbilt truck. With the exception of a light post flickering noisily above you, the world was quiet.

The door ringed when you entered, announcing to the cashier, who was currently reading a magazine, that a customer was here. You politely nodded as you quickly pass, skimming past a man idling by the lighter display.

Knowing the store by heart, you had gathered what you wanted in less than a minute. You took your place behind the man where you realized just how tall he was because you barely came up past the middle of his back.

Geez, dude, what the hell did your mother feed you when you were a kid?

Must have been the owner of the Peterbilt. His attire screamed trucker with his thick, brown coat, worn jeans, and work boots. Curling just beneath his dirty baseball cap was dark, graying hair.

“Pack of Malborros too.”

The deep baritone caused a chill to go down your spine. You hummed it out, shaking your head to keep your thoughts from straying. He pulled out a black wallet attached to a long, silver chain that hung from his hips. Grabbing his lighter and smokes, he gruffly thanked the worker and headed for the door.

Beneath the glow of the store’s fluorescent lights his ruggedly handsome features weren’t able to hide the strong jaw covered in stubble, plush lips set in a grim frown, or baby blue eyes that reflected just how tired he was.

He walked by you to the front door and you sucked in a breath when his hand lightly brushed yours, sending an electric shock to your heart that felt like it had stopped beating. So subtle, the contact, yet it left your mind reeling. Both you and the cashier watched him walk to his truck. While she couldn’t tear her eyes off his ass, you couldn’t keep your eyes off his hand.

She made a noise. “He sure was a tall drink of water.”

You blinked. “Oh, yeah, I guess.”

She inclined her head. “You know he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

Even though you rolled your eyes, your heart skipped a beat. “Stop it.”

She scanned your drink, eyes bulging. “I’m serious!”

“I was only up here for two seconds.”

“Baby, he had his eyes locked on you the moment you stepped through the door. You’ll be lucky to make it out of the parking lot without him nippin’ at your heels.”

He’ll be long gone.

You glanced out the display window. His truck was still there.

Or not.

She finished scanning the rest of your things. “Fine, don’t believe me. But I’ve been around the block a few times. I know when a man wants a woman.” She slipped the receipt into the bag and slid it across the counter.

“Prepare to be disappointed.”

She smirked and winked. “Have a nice night, sweetheart.”

The wintry air nipped at your nose. You shivered and stuffed your hands in the pockets of your jacket. The truck camouflaged perfectly against the black night. The light post that still flickered illuminated just enough where you could see inside. The trucker sat hunched over in the driver’s seat with a lit cigarette dangling loosely out his mouth.

You had to pass the truck to get to your car. Sucking in a long breath to calm your nerves, you slowly walked to your car. As you came closer, the driver’s side window slowly winded down.

His deep voice pierced the silence like a freshly sharpened knife, “It isn’t safe for a young woman to be out here by herself.”

Your heart thumped loudly in your ears. “Why do you think I’m alone?”

“I’d hate to think any man would allow their lady to walk themselves to their car in the middle of the night.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth, cushioning it between two fingers. “I know I wouldn’t allow mine to.”

The way he elongated the word mine was not missed and neither did was the way he peered down at you from beneath his hat, watching your reaction. Your cheeks felt warmer than the rest of your body and you knew you must have been blushing from the attention he was giving you.

“Maybe I have a shitty boyfriend?”

“Would be quite the shame. Pretty thing like you deserves someone who will treat her right.”

It was a good thing you weren’t made of snow because you were melting beneath his scorching stare and flirtatious words.

Stop it. Tell him you have a boyfriend.

Your mouth betrayed your thoughts, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He took a long drag, inhaling deeply, the corner of his lips curling. “Good, means I don’t have to teach the boy a lesson about respecting his woman.”

He tapped the end of the cigarette out the window. Ash fell onto the ground causing small, random holes to form, ruining the undisturbed beauty of the freshly fallen snow.

“I don’t often do this, but it would be nice to have some company for the night.”

And there it was. Part of you knew this is where the conversation was heading. Truckers stayed on the road for days, even weeks at a time, usually without anyone to talk to except for other haulers. It wasn’t unheard of for them to pick up a woman along the way, but you weren’t looking for a one night stand.

“I’m sorry but I need to get home before the storm gets worse. Have a nice night.”

The cigarette bounced between his pink lips, lips that looked so kissable that it was a crime that the next words that came out of them froze you worse than the chilly night. He blew out a puff of smoke before dousing out what was left of the tobacco end. He flicked it off somewhere in the distance and his gaze then settled back on you.

“That wasn’t exactly a suggestion, little one.”

“What?” You stepped back. “Look, whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to find it with me. Like I said, I need to get home.”

He chuckled low. “You won’t make it far, believe me.”

You shook your head, not believing this was happening. “There are plenty of women who will happily make your night.”

He sighed heavily and hopped out of the truck. “Don’t make me have to ask again. I hate repeatin’ myself.”

The ice made it difficult to move quickly without skidding and he grabbed you before you could move out of his reach. Not hard, not roughly, just enough to keep a hold of you. He pulled you around and opened the cab’s passenger door, waiting for you to climb the steps.

“I ain’t going to hurt ya, darlin’. Get on up there.”

Even though his words were reassuring like the large hands resting on your shoulders, he had you caged between the truck cab and his body. He nudged you up the steps, following closely behind until you were settled in the passenger seat. The cab rattled and so did your nerves when he slammed the door shut. As he walked around the front, you pulled the door handle.

It was locked.

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 6

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Wyoming (Part Three)

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]

Chapter Summary: Charlie strikes a deal with the mechanic.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.3k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, slow burn, horny thoughts, food mention, eating, handcuffs, one bed, shower, dog grogu, guns

Notes: None really. Hope you like it, thank you for reading!

A bell chimes when Din pushes open the door to Giddyup Auto, and again when he lets it swing shut behind you. 

It’s just as cluttered inside the shop as it is outside. Pornographic magazines have been stacked alongside NAPA catalogs and tattered notepads on top of tool boxes. Promotional branding from popular auto parts manufacturers patch the steel walls, occasionally broken up by snarky signs that read things like KWITCHERBITCHIN AVE and I CAN FIX ANYTHING EXCEPT STUPID. 

Country music crackles from blown speakers at the back of the shop, echoing off the tall ceiling. The rough, strained sound blends horribly with a high-pitched whir coming from beneath a 1989 Dodge Ram 250. 

Din inhales the scent of motor oil and metal shavings. Adolescent nostalgia wells up in his chest like pride, some vague understanding of what it means to be a man. The responsibility of maintenance. Caretaking and custodianship. 

He catches a glimpse of his adoptive father wringing his hands with an oil-soaked rag while rattling off the basic components of an internal combustion engine. Then he blinks it away.

Out of the corner of his eye, you adjust your grip on the wriggling dog, slipping one hand beneath his bottom and the other across his chest. Grogu huffs at the intrusion, but once he’s steadied to a higher vantage point, he seems pleased. His ears stand at attention, jowls sealed shut, the tip of his snout twitching with curiosity. 

Both you and the dog look around the garage with the same kind of wide-eyed wonder. Two explorers ready to investigate this whole new world. Din leads the way deeper into the automotive bay, following the shrill grinding sound to the old rusted-out truck. 

When he comes to a halt, so does the noise, then Paul slides out from under the truck on a creeper. 

“Hey there! Sorry, I didn’t hear y’all come in,” he gestures to the impact wrench in his hand as he sets it down. 

“Hi, Paul,” you greet him with a cheerful smile.

Rising to his feet, he beams, “Miss Charlie, how’re you today?” 

The twinkle in his bright eyes makes Din feel uneasy. Strands of gray streak his dark beard and pepper his slicked-back hair. Hard-earned wrinkles crease his face. He’s twice your age at least, and Din can’t quite determine whether his intentions are cordial or flirtatious. 

Either way, you hardly seem to mind. You perk up at the attention, taking a step towards him as you reply, “Can’t complain. Yourself?” 

“Oh, just fine. Annie get y’all set up at the motel?” 

“She sure did. It was nice to sleep in a bed for once, y’know, after being on the road for so long. Thank you for recommending it to us.” 

“‘Course. Yellow Seed’s been treatin’ you alright?” 

“Yeah! We got to poke around a little yesterday. Went and got supper at the Outlaw Saloon, which was good,” you glance at Din and chuckle a little, “The locals didn’t seem too keen on us. Got a few dirty looks, but that’s not surprising.” 

Paul laughs at this, crossing his arms as he leans back against the truck, “Well, you know, we small town folks don’t always like outsiders.” 

“I’m used to it,” you shrug dismissively, then your face lights up, “But, hey, I talked to the owner and they’re gonna let me play a couple sets tomorrow night if you wanna swing by.”

“No shit?” Paul grins and catches himself, “Pardon my language—”

“It’s fine,” you wave it off. 

“Playin’ a few sets at the Outlaw Saloon,” Paul repeats, shaking his head with amusement, “What kinda music you play?” 

“I know a little bit of everything. These kinds of gigs, I try to feel out the crowd. I catch a country music kinda vibe around here, so probably some Hank Williams Jr, Alan Jackson, Johnny Cash. Stuff like that,” you tilt your head at him, “Got any requests?”

“Know any Waylon Jennings?” 

“Sure, I have a few of his tunes up my sleeve. Any particular song?”

“Surprise me,” he winks. 

Din tries to retain his stoic demeanor despite the discomfort writhing beneath his skin. The dog must pick up on this, because he whines at his owner and starts to squirm in your grip. 

Struggling with Grogu’s protest, you ask Paul, “Is it ok if I set him down?”

“Go on ahead, darlin’,” Paul tells you, then turns to Din, “How about you? Settling in ok?” 

“How much will it cost to fix?” 

Paul raises his eyebrows and pushes off the truck, “Right down to brass tacks, huh?” 

“He’s not much of a talker,” you smirk as you set the dog on the cement floor and start roaming around the shop, leash in hand. 

“I can respect that.” His gaze lingers on your wandering form for a moment longer before he looks at Din and sighs, “Well, I had some luck calling around to a few junkyards lookin’ for salvaged or used parts. Found a good price for what I need. With that ‘n’ labor, it’ll run you twenty-five hundred, long as everything goes smoothly.” 

Din weighs the cost against his bank account, factoring in the motel room, gas to get to the next job, and food for a few days. It would run him dry. His stomach tightens and twists. Before he can formulate a response, you chime in. 

“Is there any way we can knock that price down?” 

Paul crosses his arms across his chest and gives you a sympathetic shrug, “Way it stands, ‘fraid I can’t.” 

You nod as you consider this, furrowing your brow at the floor, then look up at him, “What if we make a trade?” 

“A trade?” Paul frowns. 

“Yeah, or, you know. Some kind of a deal. We scratch your back, you scratch ours.” 

Paul’s blue eyes flick between you and Din, “Wha’d you have in mind, sweetheart?”

Din’s first instinct is to shut down the conversation. But when you glance at him as if searching for approval, he doesn’t protest. You turn back to Paul and nod over your shoulder, “I noticed your sign out front is pretty faded. I could paint it if you knock a couple hundred off?” 

Paul shifts his weight to one leg and wrinkles his nose. Not sold. You don’t let it deter you. 

“I’ve done murals before, so this would be a piece of cake. It looks pretty shabby now, but I can make it,” you smack your lips, “pop. Maybe it’d bring in some more business for you.” 

Shaking his head, he smirks at Din, “She’s persistent, ain’t she?”

“She is.” 

“I am,” you confirm with a wide, toothy grin, “Whaddaya say? I do the sign, take off $500?“

Paul works his jaw from side to side, then slackens and sticks out his hand, “Five hundred.” 

“Plus the cost of supplies,” you add. 

“Plus the—” he cuts himself off with an amused chuckle, “You’re somethin’ else. Fine. Five hundred plus costs.” 

When you shake his hand, a victorious, blinding smile spreads across your face. The corner of Din’s mouth turns up at the sight. He fails to correct his expression as you take a step back and glance at him. His heart skips in that brief moment where his eyes meet yours, before you drop your gaze to your feet and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Blush rises to your cheeks and neck, rosy splotches that bloom soft and full in his chest. 

“Whaddaya think, should $100 do it?” Paul asks. 

“I think we can make that work,” you nod, “Do you have paint brushes or rollers? Sandpaper?” 

“Reckon I do. Hang tight, I’ll get y’all some cash, ok?” 

Once he’s out of earshot, Din studies you, wondering out loud, “Why are you helping me?” 

“Rule number ten: Be a stand up tramp,” you shrug, crouching down to scratch Grogu between his ears, “Plus, I don’t know, it just seems like… the right thing to do.” 

Your answer perplexes him. He can’t come up with a response other than, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” you grin up at him, then rise to your feet and change the subject, “I’m hungry. We should get lunch. And maybe get some groceries, too, so we—er, you don’t have to spend as much on eating out.” 

The authority with which you suggest this causes him to chafe. He wants to push back for no reason other than to reclaim the upper hand. Your reasoning is sound, though. It’s not a bad idea. 

“We can do that.” 

“Yeah?” 

He nods. 

Your gaze lingers on him for a moment, lips curving into a delicate smile. Something flutters in his stomach, frantic and timid, urging him to put up a wall between you. But he keeps his eyes anchored to yours despite his internal warning bells. 

The tight wire of tension slackens as Paul returns, counting a stack of wrinkled bills, “Here you go.” 

You step forward to accept the cash, “Perfect. Thank you, Paul.” 

“Are y’all gonna be able to carry everything back here, or do you wanna borrow my truck? Might be a little easier that way.” 

“Really?” you grin and knit your brows together into a gracious expression, “We were thinking of grabbing lunch and getting some groceries, too. Would that be ok?” 

“Fine by me, just bring it back in one piece,” Paul answers, fishing a set of keys from his jumpsuit pocket and handing them to you, “Ford F-150 out front.”

“Thank you, Paul. I—we really appreciate it,” you tell him, then look at Din and raise your eyebrows expectantly. 

“Yes, thank you,” Din nods in agreement. 

“Don’t mention it,” Paul says, then ambles back to the old rusted-out Dodge, whistling along to some old country song. 

Keeping pace at his side as he starts towards the exit, you jangle the keys and ask, “Do you want me to drive?”

“Dream on, kid,” he scoffs, holding his hand out. 

“Worth a shot,” you grin and place them in his palm. 

“Would it be too predictable to put a horse on the sign?” you ask, frowning at your rough outline, “I feel like there are a lot of places out here that lean into the western motif, so it might be overdone. But the place is literally called Giddyup Auto, so…” 

When Din doesn’t respond, you glance up and can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or something in your general direction. 

Stupid goddamn aviators. 

“You know, it’s considered polite to take off your hat and sunglasses when you go indoors.” 

Again, nothing. 

‘Off in lala-land’ if you’ve ever seen it. 

You blink at him a few times to no reaction, then raise your voice, “Did you hear me?” 

This seems to do the trick. 

It’s difficult to explain how you know his eyes are on you when they are. Maybe the microscopic tilt of his head or the twitch of his eyebrows. Mostly though, you would say that his attention carries a force. One minute you’re sitting there wondering if he’s looking at you and then—bam! It hits you. Absolute certainty.  

Anyway, he looks at you and asks, “What?” 

“Why do you insist on wearing your Unabomber costume all the time?” 

He frowns and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. 

“You know, because—Oh for cripes’ sake, nevermind,” you scoff and sit up in your seat, turning your notebook to face him, “Here. Tell me what you think.” 

He looks down at your notebook and pulls it closer. As he quietly studies the sketches, discomfort twists your skin raw. Imagining all the criticisms lingering at the tip of his tongue, you can’t stop yourself from speaking preemptively. 

“The first one is pretty boring, but I think the font adds a little flair. I’d blend shades of orange for the background to make it stand out and white for the text.” You prop your chin up on the heel of your palm and lean forward, pointing to the second option, “I like the covered wagon as a concept, but it would take me a long time and I’m not sure if it fits the vibe since wagons are kinda slow. The horse is fast, obviously,” you tap the third sketch and shrug, “But, like I said when you so rudely ignored me, the western motif is sort of tired in this neck of the woods.” 

Nodding, he comments, “They look… nice.” 

Such a way with words. 

You stare at him for a moment, waiting for additional input to no avail. Raising your eyebrows, you release a big sigh and fold your legs up into the booth, “‘Nice.’ Ok, sure. Well, let me ask you this: Which one is your favorite?” 

After a few seconds of contemplation, he taps the bucking bronco silhouetted over a mountain range, then pushes the notebook back across the table. 

“Why that one?” 

He shrugs, “It’s called Giddyup Auto.” 

Instead of pointing out that you said the same thing earlier, you mutter, “Sure is, big guy,” and flip your notebook to a blank page, then start jotting down a shopping list, “We should get something for the pup while we’re out. I feel bad for leaving him behind.” 

You wrinkle your nose at his silence, looking up to confirm that once again, he has drifted away. 

Curiosity gets the best of you. You follow his line of sight, craning your neck over your shoulder to see the waitress approaching with a serving tray. Din straightens when she sets a plate in front of him. 

“Ok, we have a breakfast platter number two,” she sets another plate in front of you, “And french toast with fruit.” Tucking the tray under her arm, she smiles between you and him, “Anything else I can get for you guys?” 

“We’re fine, thank you,” Din tells her, a small smile gracing his lips. 

She nods before turning to go, dragging his attention along with her. You watch him watch her, studying his wandering gaze. A grin spreads across your face. When he notices you staring, he immediately becomes defensive.

“What?” 

Dead giveaway. 

Suppressing a smile, you grab a butter knife and shake your head at your plate, “Nothing.” 

“What?” he asks again, this time more pointed.  

“I didn’t say anything!” 

He scoffs and hunches over the plate to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth. 

After smearing whipped butter on your french toast, you pour syrup over your plate, glancing up at him when you ask, “Do you have a crush on the waitress?” 

“No.” 

Denial sours the word in the most obvious way. 

Raising an eyebrow, you cut your food into bite-sized pieces as you tease, “I didn’t take you for a liar, Din. But I also didn’t take you for the kind of guy who has a soft spot for pretty service workers, so what do I know?” 

Of course, he doesn’t say anything. And of course, you decide to push the conversation further. 

“I just mean… If you do—you know, like her or whatever—you should ask her for her number. Take her on a date. See if you can’t live a little while you’re holed up in this town.” 

“And what am I supposed to do with you in that scenario?” 

Twirling a chunk of french toast around on your fork, you shrug, “Maybe she wouldn’t mind your prisoner third wheeling. That’s probably not a red flag, right?” 

“Not at all.” 

You snort at him and he lets a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. It seems to soften the atmosphere, both of you relaxing back in your seats. While chipping away at your food, you ponder a little to yourself, then out loud. 

“Suppose your line of work, you don’t go on many dates, do you?” 

Frowning at the strip of bacon pinched between his fingers, he tells you, “Not in the traditional sense.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Instead of answering the question, he pops the bacon into his mouth. When he swallows and you’re still staring at him, he shakes his head, “Forget I said anything.” 

“Come on, Din,” you meet his flattened expression with a grin, “You so know I won’t let this go. Might as well just spill the beans.” 

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares at you like a challenge. You narrow your eyes at him, tilting your head with equal determination. 

“‘Not in the traditional sense.’ So you do have romantic or sexual experiences, but society wouldn’t typically deem those experiences ‘dates,’ right?” 

He says nothing. 

“Hmmm… interesting,” you lean your elbows on the table, studying him, “You seem reluctant to talk about it, which indicates… Maybe you’re ashamed of it? Although, you’re pretty reluctant to talk about everything, so I don’t know how much weight to place on that. But you’re a trucker. Transient. Don’t seem like much of a ‘family man’ to me. So, what… you’ve gotta be a hookup guy or a sex worker guy, right?” 

The way he squirms at the question makes your chest tingle. 

“It could be both, too. I feel like you would be more of an opportunist than a strategist when it comes to fucking. Am I right?” 

His jaw shifts from side-to-side. He glances around before leaning in, “And you’re much different?” 

“No, not really.”

Most people would ask follow-up questions or awkwardly segue into a different subject, but not Din. He seems as content with your answer as you are with his. But where he goes back to eating, you feel a loose end rattling at the tip of your tongue and speak it into existence. 

“I think… I think people like us don’t lay down roots for anything less than the spectacular,” you search his face, “Right?” 

With his fork lifted halfway to his mouth, he pauses to look at you and nod, “This is the way.”

Din brings the shopping cart to halt in the middle of the aisle when you stop to examine jars of preserved nut and fruit spreads lining the shelves. 

You pull a big plastic container of generic peanut butter from the lineup and toss it into the cart, “Four dollars, twenty-nine cents.”

He jots down the price in your notebook and adds it to the running total while you wrinkle your nose at the ingredient list of strawberry preserves, then set it next to the peanut butter, “Three sixty-nine. Gotta love that food desert markup. What’re we at?” 

“Twenty seven, give or take,” he answers, crossing two items off the list. 

“What else we got here?” Sidling up to him, you peek at the paper, “Snacks. Wow, ok past me, very specific.” 

When you start walking again, he does too, and he wonders how you can possibly smell so good without the aid of perfumes. While not a definitive scent, it inspires a sensation much like when he’s parched and sets his sights on a glass of ice water. It’s enticing, like your very foundation radiates temptation. 

He cannot have this. This thing in his chest, gnawing at his bones, trying to escape. It snaps at the walls when you’re nearby, which is always. 

Maybe if he could relieve some of the pressure buckling under his skin it would quiet. But he can’t, so it doesn’t. 

It begs and pleads and promises to absolve him of consequence as long as he promises to move a little bit closer, hold his hand to your back a little bit longer—just one more second and I’ll be content. Maybe another. What if you slid your hand around her waist and pulled her body to yours? How would she react? I bet she would like it. I bet if you kissed her she would finally be speechless. Just a taste, please? 

He comes to a stop beside you and follows your gaze to the wall of chips. Hundreds of bags in all different sizes and colors, all of them glossy in the fluorescent light. 

“Well, big guy. What’s your chip of choice?” you ask without looking at him. 

Grinding his teeth together, he shakes his head. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, either. Too many of the same goddamn choices,” you step forward to narrow your eyes at a price tag, “Am I crazy or does that say five dollars?” 

“It says five dollars.” 

“What the fuck, that is obscene. Do we really need chips?” 

“Does anyone?” 

“I guess not technically,” you sigh and start wandering further down the aisle, so he follows you. “But we don’t have to be so utilitarian about it. Junk food is for the soul, not sustenance. And sometimes the soul needs something salty and crunchy, you know?”

Nodding, he comes to a stop and points to the display of microwave popcorn, “We could get this instead.”

“Six bags for four dollars,” you raise your eyebrows, “Salty, crunchy, and cost efficient. Hell yeah, I’m sold.”

He grabs the box of generic popcorn in question and walks it back to the cart while you meander towards the sweets. When he meets you in front of the cookies, you glance at him, “Original or chewy?” 

“Original.” 

“Ten four, good buddy.” You grab the blue package of chocolate chip cookies and toss it in the basket, “Do you ever get to say that on your radio? Have a real trucker moment?” 

“Yes.”

“Adorable,” you chuckle, catching his gaze for a moment before you look down and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Are you gonna help me with the sign today, or do you have other plans?” 

“What do you need help with?” 

You exhale through slack lips, then shrug, “Well, today is just prep. I have to scrape off the old paint, sand it down, and prime. It has to dry overnight, but I think I’ll be able to finish the rest tomorrow or the next day if we get up early…” Pausing to chuckle, you shake your head, “Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. What I mean is, you could help me with scraping and sanding. It’s a real bitch and would be easier with your muscle. If—well, you know, only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything…”

“I can do that.” 

Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face, “Yeah?” 

He nods, “It’s the least I can do.” 

As the two of you near the checkout line, a frail woman with closely-cropped white curls shuffles from a back office to the one and only cash register.

“How are we doing this? Splitting it?” you swing the backpack off your shoulder and start rummaging through it, “I should have some money in my wallet. It’s not much, but it should—”

He holds up a hand, “I’ve got it.” 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” 

That thing in his chest whimpers when you smile at him, big and bright and gap-toothed, sparing him a polite, “Thank you,” before you start unloading the groceries onto the conveyor belt. 

Balancing the tips of your toes on the highest ladder rung, you stretch your roller towards the unprimed stripe of sign, but can’t quite reach it. 

“Goddamnit,” you mutter, returning all fours to the ladder with a huff, then look back at Din, “Hey, can I borrow your tall?”

Your question bounces off him with no reaction. 

Between the visor of his cap and the tablet glued to his face, you can’t quite tell if he’s ignoring you or if he just plain old can’t hear you. All that’s visible is his furrowed brow. So you shimmy down the ladder and set the paint roller in the tray, brushing your hands on your jeans as you approach his lawn chair, waiting for him to notice you. 

When the brisk October air nips at your dirt-caked, sweat-soaked skin, you skip closer, tapping your foot against his calf, “Hey.” 

He jumps as if broken out of a trance, then raises his eyebrows at you, “What?” 

“Can you help me with something?”

His mouth flattens into a straight line. He looks down at the tablet, then turns off the screen and sets it aside to look up at you. 

“See the top of the sign, how it’s all shitty still?” you point at the evidence, “Can you get it for me? I can’t reach.” 

“Use the big ladder.” 

“I didn’t think to grab it before Paul locked up for the night.” 

He releases a big dramatic sigh, glancing down at the tablet before rising to his feet. As he passes you the handle of the dog leash, you grin and plop down in the warmed-up lawn chair, “My hero!” 

“Uh-huh,” he shakes his head and starts towards the drop cloth. 

Beneath the lawn chair, the dog wakes from his nap and tries to follow Din, huffing and puffing when the leash goes taut, then walks back to your feet and sits on your shoelaces. His big satellite ears stand at attention while his person shimmies up the ladder with a roller brush in hand. 

The two of you sit there and watch Din with the same level of ardent attention, both perched on the edge of your respective seats, unable to tear your eyes away for a second. 

At first you try to tell yourself that you’re not even looking at him, just mapping out the illustration you’ll start tomorrow. But the truth is, it’s hard not to be drawn in by the view. By his panoramic shoulders and muscle-bound arms stretching out the fabric of his flannel as he rolls the brush up and down, back and forth, spreading thick white primer across the freshly smoothed wood… 

Despite the waning sunlight and icy gusts spilling off the mountains, heat bubbles up to the surface of your skin. 

You know that once he’s finished, you’ll go back to the motel for the rest of the night. Given the thick layer of grime you each accumulated throughout the day, showers will likely be in order. Which, of course, means stripping down to nothing while he’s in the bathroom with you. And vice versa, probably. 

Your imagination wanders to his naked body and how it would feel against yours. What if you argued in favor of water conservation, asking him to join you in the shower? What if he agreed? How would he look at you without those sunglasses covering his eyes? How would he touch you if morals weren’t involved? 

Din climbs down off the ladder and walks over, taking off his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead, “Is that it for today?”

He replaces the hat and takes off his aviators, cleaning the lenses with his shirt as he meets your gaze. The full force of his big brown eyes turns your saliva tacky and makes your heart stutter. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. 

Fuck, did he ask you something? 

“Is that—? Oh, um,” you clear your throat, then nod, “Yep, that should do it. Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

Flicking his eyes around your face, he nods, then turns back to the drop cloth, where he starts consolidating all the painting supplies. 

With his legs stretched out across the perimeter of the bathroom’s tile flooring, back resting against the tub, Din types ‘Tom Boucheron’ into the search bar of a Portland-based web forum. 

The search yields 83 matches. He starts sifting through the results, scrolling past subject lines that indicate general complaints about property management like rising rent and evictions and gentrification. Every once and a while he comes across subject lines that take on a more conspiratorial tone, though, mentioning the weight of his influence or his ties to police presence throughout the city. When he finds these posts, he clicks on the thread, copying and pasting the urls into a separate document. 

He can delve deeper into these later, once he’s able to better focus. But right now, with the roaring cascade of the shower behind him and your enthusiastic rendition of Tiny Dancer by Elton John, this mechanical sorting is the maximum concentration he can muster. 

Squinting at the screen, he wipes away the fog forming on his tablet. Moisture reclaims the area just as soon as it clears. He sighs and turns off the device when your vocals start ramping up to a volume he can’t ignore. 

“—But oh how it feels so real, lying here with no one near. Only you, and you can hear meeee, when I say softlyyyy, slooowly—”

“Are you almost done?” 

“You ruined the best part.” 

“We’re going to get a noise complaint.” 

You scoff, then he hears the thunk of you turning off the water. In his peripheries, your arm stretches out from behind the shower curtain to snatch the folded white towel off the toilet lid. 

A few seconds later, the curtain pulls back and you announce, “I’m decent.” 

He climbs to his feet while you step out of the tub, one hand securing the bath towel around your body, the other grabbing his arm for balance. Once sure-footed on the pink tiles, you let go and murmur, "Sorry,” before opening the door and padding off into the motel room. 

Grogu runs into the bathroom to investigate as Din slips out and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. He tries to anchor his vision to the floor, but finds his gaze drifting towards your movements out the corner of his eye. Humming to yourself, you comb your fingers through dripping wet hair and pull a few articles of clothing from your backpack. 

“Are you gonna hop in too?” 

His eyes tick to yours as you turn around, clutching a pile of clothing to your chest. 

“Because, you know… if you need me to be in there with you or whatever, that’s fine,” you cast your gaze to the floor with a shrug.

He studies your bashful demeanor for a moment before responding, “I’ll have you sit in there with me once you get dressed.” 

Without looking up, you give him a nod and walk over to the bathroom. As you put on clothing, Din uses all his will power to stare at the ground. 

“What do you wanna do after that? We could watch a movie.” 

His eyes cheat to the mirror on the wall, where he watches your reflection wrestle with a t-shirt. He catches a glimpse of your bare back before returning to the floor and clearing his throat. 

“I thought you weren’t much of a movie person.” 

“Well,” your footsteps soften onto the carpet, then your voice is closer, “If you have a better idea of how to pass the time in a seedy roadside motel, I’m open to suggestions.” 

He meets your heated gaze long enough for something to spark deep within his belly. The air between your body and his thickens with a palpable magnetism. His lips part to respond, but only one suggestion plays over and over again in his head. The mad yapping of that thing in his chest. 

Before he can say or do something stupid, though, you look away and start fidgeting, “So, I’m dressed. Are you ready?” 

Swallowing his tight throat, he pushes himself to his feet and locks eyes with you, “Go sit where I just was and put your head between your knees.” 

“Wow, you’re taking this very seriously.”  

“Let’s just get it over with, ok?”

You roll your eyes a little, but acquiesce. 

Din trails behind you into the bathroom, shooing the dog from the room before closing the door. When he turns around, he finds you curled up on the floor, back pressed to the tub basin with your face buried in your knees. 

“Like this?” 

“Perfect. Stay like that, I won’t take long.” 

For some reason he expected you would stay quiet while he disrobed, but you just continue talking as if you were accompanying him on any other menial task. 

“I think it’s funny how you have me do this whole thing so I don’t see your dick, but when I need privacy, the most you give me is a turned back.” 

Din glances at the top of your head while unbuckling his utility belt, then turns to spread it out across the bathroom counter, “That’s not the only reason I’m having you do this.” 

“Then why?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of involuntary captivity?” 

While you scoff and most likely try to come up with a rebuttal, he shucks off his flannel overshirt, then unfastens his shoulder holster and lines it up on the counter below the outspread belt. His hands work without much thought as he systematically unloads all three of his pistols. Eject the magazine, count the rounds, check the chamber.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Ignoring the question, he moves the unloaded guns and utility belt to a high shelf over the toilet, then pulls off his undershirt. 

“Can you at least confirm you’re not gearing up to murder me right now?” 

If he wanted to tear your frayed edges, he could mention that you were begging him to do exactly that less than 48 hours ago. But since you’re somehow more irritating when in a foul mood, he doesn’t. 

“If I was going to kill you I would have already.” He turns on the shower and takes a step back to make sure you’re still covering your eyes, then takes off his pants. 

“Would you do it if you had to?” 

The question gives him pause as he pulls back the shower curtain. 

“Why would I have to?” 

“I don’t know, because they asked you to do it.” 

He frowns, “I wouldn’t do it just because someone asked me to.” 

“You wouldn’t?” 

The hopeful air in your voice eats at his stomach lining. Instead of answering or clarifying what he meant, he steps into the shower. 

“Ok, but let’s say they gave you a good reason, and you were going to do it… kill me, I mean. How would you do it?” 

“I’m not going to tell you that.” 

“Why not?” 

He shakes his head and grabs a bar of soap off the shower ledge and starts to lather it against his skin. 

“Are you ignoring me or thinking?” 

“Ignoring you.” 

“You know, I appreciate the honesty.“ Then, after a few seconds: “I promise not to leak your trade secrets, big guy. Come on, how would you do it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

With this, you go quiet. 

Silence fills the bathroom for the remainder of his time in the shower, but Din’s thoughts are as loud and intrusive as your questions. 

His mind becomes populated with scenarios in which you would end up in the sights of his pistol. Under what circumstances would he pull the trigger? 

He imagines you stealing from him. He imagines trying to escape. He imagines it coming down to you or the money. He even goes so far as to imagine it coming down to you or him. 

But each time the imaginary him goes to take aim, he falters. 

While Din tosses a bag of popcorn in the microwave, you survey the Room 10’s VHS collection. 

“Ok let’s see,” you tilt your head sideways and read the titles, “Aladdin, Batman Returns, Twister—”

“You choose.” 

Beeps sound from the microwave, then it hums to life. 

You pull Aladdin from the shelf and admire the familiar cover art. Little flakes of deteriorated plastic break off the exterior and stick to your fingertips when you trace the title. You wince and mumble an apology to the inanimate object before prying it open to pull out the tape. 

After feeding it to the VCR, you press rewind and hold up the cover to Din, “Ever seen this?”

When he takes a step closer to examine it, you note the details you’re not normally privy to. His damp curls and the heat of his pulse. Mostly, though, you become fixated on his eyes. Those devastatingly dark and warm eyes. His heavy brow and hooded lids, all the lines of age creeping out from the corners. 

He meets your gaze and you swear you hear the snap of his full attention locking onto you when he frowns, “Can’t say I have.” 

Somewhere far away, the popcorn starts popping. You feel yourself succumbing to his gravitational pull, subconsciously drifting towards him, and can’t really remember if you had a point in mind when you asked. 

“It’s-it’s good,” you nod, letting your eyes drift to his mouth for a moment before you shrug, “I mean, from what I remember at least. I was obsessed with it when I was a kid. It drove my grandma crazy cuz I’d make her watch it on repeat…” 

It doesn’t really register how much information you’re disclosing until his eyes get all wide and doughy, at which point you take a step away from him and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Sorry, um, anyway. I liked it.” 

He chuckles, causing you to grin, “What?”

“Nothing.” 

His face tells you it’s definitely not nothing. It’s something if you’ve ever seen it. Something so gooey and hot it makes you ache. Dangerous, that’s what it is. 

The VCR clicks and shifts gears, then the TV lights up with disclaimers. Taking it as a sign from above, you start back towards the bed and tease, “I totally get why you wear the sunglasses, by the way. Your eyes give everything away.” 

Rather than admit you’re right, Din raises an eyebrow at you, then turns around to pull the microwave open before the timer reaches zero. While you slide under the covers and prop the flimsy pillows up behind your back, he pries open the steaming hot bag of popcorn and brings it to you. 

“Thanks.”

He grunts in response and disappears into the bathroom for a few seconds, returning with the shiny metal handcuffs, “Lights on or off?”

“Off.”

When the lights go out, the dog jumps onto the bed, spinning around a few times before curling up into an adorable white ball. Din tosses the cuffs to your side as he crawls into bed beside you. Once you think he’s settled in, you offer him some popcorn, which he accepts. 

“Do I have to put them on right now?” you ask, in reference to the cuffs. 

He frowns and shakes his head, “I can wait until you’re ready.” 

Nodding, you study his profile in the dim illumination from the TV. You don’t even realize you’re staring at him like a full-on creep until he says, “Stop giving me goo-goo eyes and watch the movie.” 

Embarrassment flares up your neck and cheeks. You scoff, “I am not giving you goo-goo eyes,” and wriggle deeper under the covers, diverting your gaze to the TV. 

I will not look at him for the rest of the night, you vow. Even if he asks me to, or talks to me, I won’t look at his stupid face until the sun comes up tomorrow. 

You almost fulfill the vow, too. 

Well… almost might be an exaggeration, but you make it to the end credits and that’s further than you really believed you could make it. 

With the motel room all dark save for the faintest glow from the credits rolling onscreen, he asks, “Are you awake?”

You remind yourself of your promise and try to ignore him. If you say something, you’ll look at him. And if you look at him, you lose. 

“Charlie?” he nudges you. 

Fuck. 

“Yeah,” you glance over, and of course you catch his eyes, “Is it handcuff time now?” 

He nods, almost apologetically. 

“Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Go ahead.” 

When you exit the bathroom and turn off the light, you find the room cloaked in darkness. The only reference point you have is the red glow of 9:12 on the alarm clock. You stretch your arms in front of you and start taking cautious steps towards it.  

“Oh my god, I can’t see shit.” 

“Want me to turn the lamp on?” 

“No, I’ve got it.” 

Your fingertips brush up against the bedspread, then you follow the alarm clock beacon to the side table. 

“Here.” 

His hand finds yours in the darkness. You grab ahold of it, trying your very hardest not to dwell on the warmth of his palm against yours as he gently guides you. When you finally settle between the sheets, he releases your hand. You almost wish he didn’t. 

“Ready?” 

“Sure.” 

He closes the cold heavy steel around your wrist, then his. For a while, neither of you move. Anxious energy buzzes beneath your skin. You close your eyes in an attempt to trick yourself into being tired, but it only makes you notice how fucking quiet it is. 

Resigning from your motionless state, you start wriggling around in an attempt to get comfortable. Din is accommodating while you do this, letting his wrist ragdoll wherever you drag it. You lie facing the wall for a while, fondling the knife you have tucked under the pillow. It doesn’t feel right. You flip onto your back and stare at the ceiling. Same problem. 

Then, when you can’t stand it anymore—the dark, the quiet, the nerves—you roll on your side facing him. 

“Din.” 

“What?” 

“I can’t fall asleep.” 

He doesn’t say anything. 

“Din.” 

“What?”

“I said I can’t fall asleep.” 

“I heard you the first time. What do you expect me to do about it?” 

You open your mouth to ask him to fuck you, but nerves rob your tongue. 

“Just talk to me for a while.” 

“About what?”

“I dunno, whatever you want.” You tuck your cuffed hand beneath your cheek and scoot a little closer.

His silence holds the weight of contemplation, so you prompt him, “What would your genie wishes be?” 

“Hang on, let me think.” 

A few quiet seconds go by before he clears his throat and rolls on his side to face you. The back of his cuffed hand rests against yours, which brings you a shred of comfort. 

“Financial security. Property rights to some land and a house, something out in the country.” 

“Like a farm?” 

“Something like that. Self-sustainable and off the grid. Maybe get a few animals and so I could live off the land.” 

“That’s the dream, right? Fuck off to the middle of nowhere and not have to rely on anyone?” 

“Yeah, that’s the dream.” 

You hum, then ask, “What’s wish number three?” 

“I… I’d rather not say.” 

Your gut instinct is to push back, but you resist the urge and instead tell him, “That’s fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

There’s enough sincerity in his voice that a tinge of guilt twists in your belly, and you feel obligated to bring up an earlier conversation. 

“I’m sorry, by the way. For pushing you to answer me when you were in the shower. Sometimes I don’t know when it’s time to shut the fuck up and let it be.” 

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” 

“Ok,” you wiggle around a bit and manage to find the perfect position, then close your eyes and release a content sigh. 

“What are yours?” he asks. 

“Mmmm… you know, I’ve thought a lot about this question—” A yawn swells in your chest, cutting you off. When it passes, your limbs feel heavy and warm. You continue, “I’d wish for the genie to be free.”

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, “And what else, world peace? An end to climate change?” 

“I hear your snark, sir, and I don’t appreciate it. No, I wouldn’t wish for world peace or the end of climate change. I wouldn’t wish for anything. Tricky bastard can keep his wishes, I make my own luck.” 

“Tricky bastard, huh?” 

Another yawn takes over. Lethargy seeps through your body, making your worlds come out slow and murmured. 

“Yeah, y’know… all the, umm… the fine print. Too many strings attached, I don’t trust ‘em.” 

“You sound tired.” 

You hum, snuggling deeper into your pillow, “You sound tired.” 

“Get some sleep, kid. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” 

“Mmmkay,” you mumble, “Sweet dreams, Din.” 

[big-rigs-of-yesterday2]

[krispyweiss]

David Crosby Recorded with Sarah Jarosz Days before His Death

- Croz’s final gig was with Jason Isbell

David Crosby was working on a new album - it would be his seventh since 2014 - when he died.

And Sarah Jarosz - who appeared on 2021’s For Free and was a frequent recipient of Crosby’s praise on Twitter - will be on it.

“I just sang on his new album three days ago,” a “heartbroken” Jarosz, 31, said after Crosby’s Jan. 19 death at 81.

“It will always be a highlight of my life getting to make music with him. His voice and songs brought so much beauty to the world.”

Jarosz posted photos of herself and Crosby on a subsequent beach visit and said: “He seemed so happy and at peace on that empty California beach.”

Crosby was scheduled to play a California gig in February. As it turns out, his final show was with another young musician, 43-year-old Jason Isbell, with whom Crosby played on Feb. 26, 2022; his final on-stage song was “Ohio” with Isbell and Shawn Colvin.

“What got him out of the house and to the show was that he wanted to come see his buddies,” Isbell told Rolling Stone magazine.

“And it would have been silly for him to come and not sing.”

1/20/23

[blowflyfag]

WORLD WRESTLING ENTERTAINMENT/FEDERATION MAGAZINE: February 1994

personality profile

DIESEL

FROM: LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

BIRTHDAY: JULY 9

WEIGHT: 330 LBS.

HEIGHT: Nearly 7’

FINISHING MOVE: RIGHT-HAND UPPERCUT

Diesel is one of the biggest contenders in the history of World Wrestling Federation. He stands almost 7 feet tall and tips the scales at an impressive 330 pounds. Diesel is every bit as nasty as he is massive.

Diesel, who originally came to the Federation as Shawn Michaels’ bodyguard last June, has grown into a polished wrestler, capable of breaking records and other things, such as limbs, heads and bones of the opposition.

Although he tends to keep to himself, World Wrestling Federation Magazine discovered that Diesel has an interesting past. Unlike other superstars who often have established themselves in amateur and professional sports or other wrestling organizations before joining the Federation, Diesel shunned organized athletic competition. He says that he never has had any use for sports. 

“Football, amateur wrestling, competitive weightlifting and all the other sports other wrestlers participated in never appealed to the big Diesel,” he says. “My sole hobby and one point of interest was fighting–street fighting, not boxing, not karate, not wrestling–just plain old fighting.”

When he was a young tough growing up in the American Southwest, this publication learned, Diesel used to frequent truck stops along Interstate 10 and challenge the biggest and toughest over-the-road truckers to back-lot brawls. Over the years, he earned quite a reputation for himself. Soon, according to our sources, truckers, who feared a possible confrontation with the huge fellow would–and some do still–reroute their jaunts to and from the West Coast so that they bypassed Diesel’s area. 

Some wrestlers are carrying on that tradition in the World Wrestling Federation. They do everything they can to avoid a clash with Diesel. 

“Nobody wants to get in my face, if they know what’s good for them,” brags Diesel. “Just look at the damage I can do in the ring. My right-hand uppercut has busted more sets of ribs than I care to count. And just look at some of the guys I got rid of. Yeah, remember a guy who used to think he was perfect? Well, he’s not around the Federation anymore, thanks to the Diesel.”

Diesel admits that he doesn’t possess the necessary skills to match wrestling virtuosos such as Bret “Hit Man” Hart, Marty Jannetty or the 1-2-3 Kid. However, he says he doesn’t need these talents to succeed. He never has. 

“I don’t know the difference between an armbar and a crowbar, but I tell you what, I can break heads better than anyone in the World Wrestling Federation,” says Diesel. “That’s the name of the game–winning at all costs. If someone were to get me in a hold, I wouldn't bother with a counter. I would just pound the dude until he released it, and then I’d pound him and pound him some more. It’s as simple as that.

They say that simplicity is the key to ingenuity, and thus far, Diesel's simple and brutal approach to wrestling is paying off for the big man. One day, he says, it will pay off with gold when the World Wrestling Federation Championship Committee grants him a title shot. 

[melanieathene]

Mr. Wonderful

This is a love story.

I'd like to say it was a classic case of love at first sight, but I don't know if that's true.

All I know for certain is that it's a love that was meant to be.

We don't get many quality folk in this dump that calls itself a diner. Truckers who haven't seen a washcloth in days – weeks maybe. Bums who stumble in to get out of the cold, taking up table space long after they've drained the last drop of coffee in their cup. Old folks on a tight budget looking for a cheap meal. Cheaters looking to score, streetwalkers looking to oblige them. Impatient, forlorn, pitiful people. Losers, every one.

He stood out like a sunbeam slicing through a cloudy sky. Clean, well-dressed, and handsome – god, he took my breath away with his movie star good looks. He was way prettier than the models you see in those fancy magazines – the ones I leaf through in the grocery line, but can never afford to buy.

“I'm gonna to marry that man,” I murmured.

Rhonda snapped her gum as she turned her head to follow my gaze. “Him?” She snorted. “Honey, he's out of your league. Married. Or gay. My money is on gay. Look at the long-haired fella he's with. There's something going on between them.”

“I don't care. I want that table. I'll trade you for the party of six.” I hitched my thumb towards table three.

The cackling old biddies sitting there were fussy, but they were surprisingly good tippers. Regulars who liked to meet up after church, or their book club, or whatever. Normally, Rhonda and I butted heads over who got to serve 'em.

“Your loss.” Rhonda shrugged and sauntered away. I saw the good-looking guy shoot a glance at her ample bosom as she walked by.

Gay, my ass.

I popped a couple of buttons on my blouse, the better to display my cleavage. If he liked boobs, mine were an even bigger eyeful than Rhonda's. The rest of the package wasn't bad either.

The green eyes that turned my way as I approached the back-corner booth set me in mind of an emerald I once saw in a store window. Dazzling. No other word for it.

“What can I offer you, gentlemen?” I asked in as sultry a voice as I could muster.

“Well, I don't know,” Mr. Wonderful drawled – and damned if he didn't sound just as good as he looked. “What do you have to offer?” The suggestive smile that accompanied the question set my pulse racing and my cheeks ablaze.

“Dean!” the tall one barked.

Oh-oh. I quickly suppressed a sigh. Jealous boyfriend alert. Abort! Abort!

But it would appear luck was on my side, because the next words out of his mouth were:

“You'll have to excuse my brother. He... He's...” Mr. Tall flung up his hands, as if giving up on trying to explain the unexplainable.

His (hallelujah!) brother grinned unrepentantly.

“I'll have a salad – the house dressing is fine,” Mr. Tall continued, obviously deeming it better for all concerned if he changed the subject. “He'll have the double cheeseburger with fries. And, uh... two coffees, please. Make mine decaf.”

“And pie,” Dean added. His eyes caressed my name tag, before straying over to the curve of my breast. “Apple if you've got it, Sherri with an 'i'. With whipped cream –”

“And a cherry on top?”

“Ahh, a woman after my own heart. Thank you, darlin'.”

I could feel the weight of his stare as I walked away. Who could blame me if I put a little extra wiggle in my walk?

“Not gay,” I whispered as Rhonda and I crossed paths. “With his brother. And he's a first class flirt.”

“Hrmph,” she muttered. “That don't mean nothing. I might bump him from gay to bi, but that's the best I can do for you. My gaydar's never wrong.”

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Rhonda? She's my best friend and I love her to bits, but she can be an insufferable pain in the ass when she thinks she's right. Which is all the time.

I wasn't going to let her be right this time. Mr. Wonderful – Dean! – was the kind of man I'd been dreaming of for far too many years. I was through with settling for Cracker Jack toys! I wanted a real prize. And there he was... not ten feet away.

A glance over my shoulder at the booth showed Dean frowning as Mr. Tall shoved his laptop towards him. They both seemed pretty engrossed by whatever was on that screen. Real serious, like. So it would appear that I had a little competition after all. Digital competition. Pfftt! I wasn't worried about that. With my looks and bubbly personality, most men easily sway the way I want them to go. I fluffed my hair and unfastened yet another button. Hey, when you're going for the gold, you gotta give it all you've got.

I picked up the tray containing their order and called up my best smile. The megawatt one that best shows off my dimples and pearly whites.

That smile dimmed considerably as I turned to face them.

There was a third person in the booth. Another man. Another looker, with dark, wind-swept hair and heavy five o'clock shadow on his chiseled jaw. Dean had scooched over to make room for Mr. Trench Coat, but they were sitting close. Really close. In fact, they were pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee.

Dean caught my eye as I approached and hissed, “Personal space!”

“My apologies,” Mr. Trench Coat replied in a low rumble that rivalled Dean's for the honour of sexiest voice ever. Though why he was apologizing wasn't clear to me. Dean was the one who hadn't moved over far enough in the first place. The bigger question was where he had come from, though. I hadn't heard the bell ring to announce his arrival. It was a mystery that didn't sit well with me.

“Would you like to place an order, sir?” I said, polite and frosty in the same breath, as I set plates in front of the two brothers.

“No.”

No, thank you. Lovely manners you have, there.

Blue eyes lifted to meet my gaze, staring at me – through me – as if they could see into my very soul.

“No, thank you,” he intoned.

And just like that, I was dismissed. I mattered less to him than the cockroaches in the kitchen.

His eyes turned back to Dean. Dean's gaze fell to his plate. Mr. Tall choked back what could have been a chuckle – or maybe he just swallowed funny.

I beat a hasty retreat. But I wasn't done with table nine yet. Dean was clearly a dessert man. And I had pie as my secret weapon. Homemade pie, too. None of that pasty store-bought stuff most dives like ours serve. I baked it myself twice a week to squeeze a few extra bucks from our skinflint boss, and I wasn't beyond letting that little fact slip when I brought a slice over to Dean. So, take that, Blue Eyes.

Confidence restored, I felt almost generous towards the poor guy. I even brought him a glass of ice water – which he didn't touch. Nor did he thank me for it.

It was a fairly busy night, but I kept glancing over to that corner as I hurried about my tasks. Dean had once again inched closer to Blue Eyes – or maybe Blue Eyes was crowding him? Either way, their knees and elbows were knocking. Mr. Tall noticed this too. Judging from the knowing little smirk he wore, it wasn't the first time he'd seen it happen. But even his eyebrows rose when Blue Eyes casually swiped a fry from Dean's plate, and Dean didn't so much as blink. He'd slapped Mr. Tall's hand when he'd tried that trick not five minutes before, hard, growling something along the lines of, “if you insist on eating rabbit food, don't expect me to share the good stuff.”

Blue Eyes dove in for another fry. And then a third. And then he snagged Dean's coffee and took a tentative sip.

Apparently, that wasn't much to his liking. I had to turn away from the sourpuss face he pulled, just so I didn't laugh out loud. When I turned back, Dean was doctoring his coffee – pouring in creamer and adding tons of sugar – all without taking his eyes off the computer screen or his mind off his ongoing conversation with Mr. Tall. He removed the stir stick from the mug and licked it. Blue Eyes took advantage of his distracted state to grab the coffee and cautiously sample the results. He smiled and took a second, deeper drink. And a fourth fry.

It was with considerably less enthusiasm than I had originally planned that I delivered the pie and declared it was made by yours truly.

Oh, I hovered in the vicinity, ready and eager to reap the rewards of my labour, but I had a sinking feeling that Rhonda – once again – was going to be proven right.

Sure enough, I wasn't the one Dean sought out after the first bite. The look of bliss that crossed his face was all I'd wished for – and more – but it was Blue Eyes he turned to. Blue Eyes on the receiving end of an ecstatic smile. Blue Eyes who obligingly opened his mouth when so prompted, and thus received the second forkful of my pie.

What Blue Eyes thought of it, I'll never know. For at that very moment, the bell that had been faithfully announcing arrivals and departures (except for Blue Eyes', of course) blasted from its place above the door, followed by the door itself. Shattered glass flew in all directions, and the metal frame embedded itself in table five. I heard Rhonda scream, saw her limping for the kitchen with blood seeping from a gash on her left leg. Customers who jumped up, preparing to follow her example and flee, were trampled as a horde of people poured into the diner – fifteen – twenty – maybe more. They looked like a biker gang, all dressed in black leather with dangling chains, all tattoos and piercings and unkempt beards. We've had a lot of bikers pass through. Most of 'em never cause a spot of trouble, though a couple of times we've had rival gangs rumbling in our parking lot. But I'd never, ever before seen black eyes like this lot had. Black. So very black. Like the gates of hell must be...

I'm a little hazy on what happened next. There was a lot of hollering and pushing and crashing. Things flew through the air – tables, chairs, even people.

I slipped in a puddle of what I sincerely hoped was ketchup, and felt myself falling... but, somehow, Dean was there to catch me. He scooped me up in his arms like the hero in one of those stupid romance novels Rhonda likes to read. He carried me through the mêlée, shoved me into the restroom, and told me to lock the door and keep it locked.

He didn't have to tell me twice. I didn't have to see any more to know that whatever was happening out there, it was bad. Really bad.

I just prayed the bathroom door was strong enough to keep it from happening to me.

If there had been a window, I would have climbed out of it and run away.

But there wasn't a window. And I would never have known the end of the story if I had skipped out at the middle.

Two clear voices rang out, rising above the continuous chorus of furious shouts and frantic cries. A sudden wash of light crept under the door, almost blinding me with its intensity. The silence that followed was almost worse than the horrible noise that preceded it.

I'm not ashamed to admit I screamed like a little girl when a quiet knock sounded on the door. I was bawling like one too, I was that scared: snot and mascara smearing my face, breath hitching and heart hammering fit to burst.

“Sherri? Sherri, it's Sam. It's over. It's okay to come out.”

“I don't know you, Sam.” I sniffled and drew closer to the door, but I wasn't about to open it. “Why should I trust you?”

“I'm Dean's brother.”

“Where's Dean?”

“He was injured in the attack. Cas is... uh... patching him up. Don't worry, Dean's in good hands.”

“Is Cas a doctor?”

“No... not exactly. He's... It's hard to explain. Sherri, will you open the door? We have to get you out of here.”

“Dean told me to stay put.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” I heard Sam mutter. And then, louder, “Cas! Can you help Dean over here? I need him to convince Sherri that it's safe.”

Slow, shuffling footsteps made their way across the floor. It felt like an eternity before the voice I wanted to hear finally spoke my name.

“Sherri,” he said wearily. “It's Dean. Open the door.”

Blue Eyes was standing there scowling at me when I cracked the door open. His arm was snugly draped around Dean's waist, clearly supporting most of his weight. Dean's arm was slung around Blue Eyes' shoulders, further steading himself. I suppose I should have felt guilty for making Dean come to me in his condition, but I didn't. I flung myself against his chest and hugged him tight. But not too tight, and not for as long as I really wanted to hold him. His quick gasp let me know how much his ribs were hurting him.

“Thank you,” I said, reluctantly stepping back. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“It's what we do. Besides, how could I deprive the world of a five star pie maker like you?” The cocky grin was back and (damn!) it looked good on his face. Even bruised and bleeding, he was one fine looking man.

Blue Eyes' fingers twitched, knotting into the fabric of Dean's shirt. His little finger brushed against bare flesh where the shirt had rucked up. Dean shivered and turned a questioning gaze his way. “Sam will take you home,” he said absentmindedly, as if he'd already forgotten I was still standing there. It was obvious he was trying real hard to fit a puzzle together, as if he'd just found a missing piece and the picture was finally making sense.

Sam ushered me away, his giant hand hovering near my face, ready to shield me from the worst of the carnage, or so I believed at that moment. We were almost to the door when a thought struck me.

“Rhonda!” I exclaimed, suddenly stopping dead in my tracks. “She went into the kitchen. She was hurt.”

“Wait here.” Sam righted a toppled chair and gently but firmly insisted I sit down. I bit my lip as I looked around. Carnage? Where was the carnage? There should have been bodies. Lots of bodies. But there were none, just a strange, dark ash that coated every surface. As if the people had been burned away.

I remembered the blazing light.

Just before it flared, I remembered a voice calling, “Dean! Dean!” Desperation filled the cry. The anguish of a man about to lose all that he held dear. The voice of a blue-eyed man who liked his coffee overly sweet.

And I remembered Dean's voice crying out in reply. One single word: “Cas!” As if the name carried with it a thousand conversations they'd never had – should have had – might now have.

The kitchen door swung on its rusty hinges, and Sam came towards me carrying Rhonda as if she weighed no more than a kitten. She was unconscious, but alive. I felt my heart blossom in relief as I rose from the chair and rested a hand on her arm. Sam led us out the door. Out to the blessed smell of fresh air, where a hint of rain lingered like a promise on the breeze.

I don't know why I turned around for one final look at Mr. Wonderful.

He didn't look back at me.

He and Blue Eyes were too busy staring into each other's eyes.

Slowly, Dean leaned forward. Just as slowly, Blue Eyes tilted his head and leaned in to meet him halfway.

All love stories should end with such a tender, yearning kiss.

And, like I said at the beginning, this is a love story.

It just isn't mine.

Originally posted 2015-03-03. Just thought it might be fun to post some old stories here. :)

[georgiapeach30513]

Can get more pics of his Calvin klein 👀

Are well talking the slutty Flaunt magazine shoot where they made him look like a dirty greasy trucker?

Colin showed us underwear all the time!

But you know Chris is a lady, and his underwear doesn’t show too often

Or…is it because he doesn’t wear underwear? @annislittleshopofhorrors can you help us figure out this quandary? @jossipgirl?

Now Sebastian Stan on the other hand….

[the-birth-of-art]

So many amazing artists spanning so many genres of music on this $10, 10-hour compilation:

The National, Angel Olsen, the Mountain Goats, Jason Isbell, Drive-By Truckers, Gillian Welch & Dave Rawlings, R.E.M., Hayden Pedigo, The Avett Brothers, Tune Yards, King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard, Jeff Tweedy, Lambchop, The War On Drugs, Waxahatchee, Fleet Foxes, Terry Allen, Feist, The Go-Betweens, Iron & Wine, Calexico, Wet Tuna, a shitton of artists I'm unfamiliar with but can't wait to check out, and The Phish From Vermont

100% of proceeds split evenly between Community Foundation of Western North Carolina, Rural Organizing and Resilience (ROAR), and BeLoved Asheville

Direct link to the Bandcamp page