#california crunch

[catfindr]

[fullcravings]

Strawberry Crunch Poke Cake

[hannah-hank-han]

osayaversary

Yesterday was the 9 year anniversary of my starting this blog: of satisfaction and yearning (hence: osayaversary). 9 years! I remember the night I started it. I was a freshman in college, I was an intern with my church’s youth group. I’d been thinking about it for a while, and couldn’t come up with a name and was afraid I’d always regret it or say something stupid I’d change my mind on, but I…

[vautour-coccinelle-serpent]

Vole hunting: novel predatory and carnivorous behavior by California ground squirrels

BUNJ! Have you heard about the vole hunting squirrels in California???

WHAT

that's wild! makes sense that it's ground squirrels, other animals in that family are also known to hunt and kill rodents. wild that this is an emerging behavior!

[capitolcalling]

Recipe for California Fresh Mex Tacos This vegetarian taco's ingredients, Mexicorn®, black beans, and homemade quick pickled red cabbage, define it with color and crunch.

[incorrect-facts]

Did You Know?

Cinnamon Toast Crunch contains chemicals known to the state of California to cause silliness!

[cannabisbusinessexecutive]

California Cannabis Credit Crunch

By Hilary Bricken, Principal, Harris Bricken The California cannabis market is truly struggling all the way around. Cannabis businesses and those who work with them closely face mounting financial pressure. Because of the credit crunch in California cannabis, the state and various impacted distributors and brands are taking steps to help shore up the issues created by cannabis companies…

[galactic-mermaid]

I personally like California rolls, especially when they're spicy!

Speaking of food...

My friends Mohammed and Faisal are trying to deliver water to the displaced people of Gaza, using Faisal's water truck!

However, it takes money to operate and refill the tanks which is where you come in.

Every water truck delivery needs about $500 to achieve so these will be short term goals!

Also, whenever a delivery is made, Mohammed will update with a video/photo showing how important your contribution was! 🇵🇸🍉

Please donate and share, so the people of Gaza can receive clean water, food and other necessities.

$0 / $500

[joanofarcisdead]

poppy emoji goes here

[ghoulbrain]

Happiness is a Warm Gun

18+ 4.5k ghoul x f!reader. predator/prey roleplay, lite bondage lite cnc into enthusiastic consent, heavy gun kink/play, pet names, clothed/naked sex, creampie, aftercare. ends tender bc i can't help myself. gif credit. written for my darling @luckytiggertalia, who asked for excessive gun kink and captor/captive. thank you! 🖤 written as a successor to Saddle Up, Sweetheart, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Being in a relationship with the world’s most notorious bounty hunter lands you in some strange situations, but none stranger than those you concoct for yourselves. You run, and the Ghoul hunts you.

The Ghoul is one of the fiercest bounty hunters in New California, yet regardless of how terrifyingly efficient he is, everyone knows he only takes on payouts worthy of his time. With his long shadow stretching out across the west, most hunters are reluctant to take on bounties over a certain threshold, lest they accidentally come between him and his quarry.

Which, at this moment, just so happens to be you.

You’ve made it to a Red Rocket truck stop just half a mile west of Junktown. What was once a glorified gas station in a world long-gone now serves as little more than a hollowed out shell providing shade for all manner of miscreants and creatures wandering the dusty wastes, still decorated in tiny reminders of life before the war.

Crouched down behind a counter, your back pressed to the grime painted wall beneath a window, you spot a heavily aged cardboard carton labeled Grey Tortious Famous Cigarettes wedged at the very back of the second shelf behind the counter. Clicking your tongue softly, you reach for it, using the barrel of your pistol to catch the corner of the box. Carefully–and quietly–you drag it close enough to grab.

Your hopes aren’t high, but–

Jackpot.

Smiling faintly, you extract a crumpled but still half-full pack of cigarettes from the carton. You glance around, eyes wandering until you spot the decrepit remains of some poor bastard collapsed against the far wall, still garbed in their threadbare signature Red Rocket uniform. With a slight nod, you fish a single cap out of a small pouch on your belt and slide it onto the shelf.

“Pleasure doing business,” you murmur to the corpse, tucking the cigarettes carefully into the pack strapped to your thigh.

A shrill whistle, the kind you’d call a dog with, snaps your attention back to the moment. You press your back tight against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath to hold.

“Alright, darlin’, y’little goose-chase is over,” the Ghoul calls into the lot. Your heart begins to race. He sounds close. “I’m man enough to admit y’outfoxed me back at the yard, that was clever. But’cha got nowhere to slip to now,” he says, voice gradually growing louder. It’s not long before you can hear the crunch of his boots in the gravel.

You screw your eyes shut, steeling yourself with a silent breath before opening them again. He’ll have to circle the building to get where you are. The crunch of his boots is louder with each step. If he keeps yapping, it’ll be even easier to track the moment he moves out of eyesight of the window you’re hiding under, and you’ll be able to creep out to get behind him. Your grip on your pistol flexes, finger poised off the trigger.

The footsteps outside grow quiet enough that you can no longer hear them over the thundering of your heart. He hasn’t said anything, but you give it an extra few seconds to be safe, holding your breath as you gingerly lift out of your crouch, careful to keep your head beneath the window frame, eyes on the door across from you. Even if he sees you, you’ll have time enough to–

You’re jerked backwards suddenly by your jacket, a scream yanked out of you as you’re pulled against the window, knocking into it.

“There y’are,” he says through his teeth, hauling you up to your feet. Fuck, he faked you out with his steps. He holds you against the window, the edge of it biting into your back, his fist curled tightly in the collar of your jacket. “Give it up, darlin’. Y’all mine now,” he coos, his voice a sinister rasp at your ear. 

Out of desperation, you drop your pistol and throw your arms up, slipping out of your jacket and stumbling forward onto your hands and knees. Your boots skid on the floor as you scramble to your feet, launching into a run. You look over your shoulder just in time to see him vaulting in through the window, scaring you into running faster.

Where you intend to run is a problem to be solved as you go.

Unfortunately for you, the Ghoul is a step ahead. Gunfire startles you halfway out of your skin, but it’s the sign that falls in your path that stops you in your tracks. You look up and see a woven cable swaying, frayed from where the crazy son of a bitch managed to shoot it clean apart. You gear up to bolt to the left, but it’s already too late. The tell-tale hiss of a rope whipping through the air is your only warning before the lasso tightens around your arms and sternum, one sharp yank pulling you off your feet and down onto your back.

The world spins. You let out a soft groan, moving to roll onto your side, but he keeps you from it with a hardy pull, gathering the rope in his hands as he walks to you.

The Ghoul lets out a low whistle, his shadow falling over you. “Close, but no cigar, sweetheart,” he drawls, crouching over you. 

Disoriented, you stare at his upside down face. He’s got his head tilted, lips parted in a crooked sneer of a smile. His eyes are dark enough that you can see yourself in them, glinting with predatory glee. You can’t hide the trill of excitement that runs through you over being looked at like that. He clicks his tongue.  

“N’aw, don’t you look plumb tuckered,” he says, voice laced with condescending sweetness. “No rest for the wicked, m’afraid,” he says, slipping his hands under your arms and hauling you up to your feet.

“You could’ve killed me,” you rasp, throat scorched by the dry desert air.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he deflects, amused. “Y’all in one piece, ‘ain’t’cha?” His breath is a warm tickle on your neck. With the rope tight across your sternum, arms pinned to your sides, he slides his gloved hand up your thigh, over your hip. His fingers tap along as he does, tickling your ribs, cupping your breast before sliding all the way up to your throat. 

The barest hint of his lips brushes the spot just behind your ear, the feeling so faint you could have made it up entirely. You shiver, pulling sharply away, but he pulls you right back in, the worn leather of his glove soft around your neck, his grip firm. 

“Mmhm, seem perfectly intact t’me,” he says, giving your throat a steadying squeeze. “No need t’put up a fight, angel. Y’comin’ with me either way.”

This time he presses his scarred lips properly to your skin, the feel of them warm and wet. Wanting. You swallow the lump in your throat, clench your thighs against the heat building between them. 

“Let go of me,” you say, fighting to put conviction in it. 

“No can do,” he says, his breath prickling goosebumps from your scalp to your thighs. “I’ve struck the motherlode with you.”

 The rope is tied low and tight enough that you can’t elbow him or shoulder your way free. Impulsively, you move to kick at his leg, but he outmaneuvers you, catching your kick with his boot and spinning you around so suddenly you gasp.

“Oohh, y’ve got fire,” he says, lips pulled thin in a devilish smile. “I’m gonna enjoy breakin’ you.” Something hard presses into your rib, and you don’t need to look down to know it’s the muzzle of his revolver. He draws the hammer back into place with a distinctive click. 

“Why don’t you be a good li’l captive and mosey on ahead?” He says, turning you until the gun is pressed into your lower back. You suppress a shudder. That’s when the world suddenly goes black, the press of the gun briefly vanishing while fabric is pulled tight over your eyes.

Wherever he’s taking you, he wants it to be a surprise.

The Ghoul walks you at gunpoint. He keeps the rope between you taut, the barrel of his gun pressed firmly to your back. The venture there is quiet, your gait tense with anticipation. A sick little thrill runs through you every time he yanks the rope or gives you a deep jab with his gun. There’s pleasure in his voice when he tells you, “Mind your step, sweetness.”

He knows precisely the effect he has on you, even if it took him time and a half to believe it.

His knuckles dig into your back as his fingers hook over the rope, holding it like a harness as you descend a flight of stairs. He catches you when you stumble on the last step, but it still startles you.

“A warning would have been nice,” you say, turning your head blindly, angling to try and get any glimpse of your surroundings from beneath the blindfold.

“Apologies,” he drawls, not sounding very sorry at all. He nudges you forward with his gun. “I like watchin’ you struggle.”

“Yeah, you make that very–” A hard tug on the rope cuts you off and stops you in your tracks. The rope comes loose after that, full circulation returning to your hands in a rush that makes them tingle. The Ghoul’s steps resonate in the room–it sounds large, mostly empty–as he walks away from you. You stay still for a hesitant moment, head jerking at the sound of something scraping across the floor towards you.

“Awwh, ain’t you sweet, waitin’ for permission,” he says, making you flush. You quickly reach up and pull the blindfold from your eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimly lit room. 

It looks like a cleared out storage facility of some kind, with cement support beams lined up in a row down the center of the room, the walls lined with ransacked steel shelving. There’s a wire frame bed braced against one of the beams, heaped haphazardly with some pillows and blankets. 

The Ghoul sits on a rusty wrought iron chair in front of you, staring up from beneath the wide brim of his hat. From his thigh, he has his revolver fixed on you. 

“Atta girl,” he says as the blindfold hits the ground. “Now take off the rest.”

The low resonance of his voice easily commands the room. You swallow the lump in your throat, glancing down the dark barrel of his gun. Biting your tongue to keep yourself from showing too much excitement, you hurriedly reach for your–

The gunshot is deafening in the echoing expanse of the room, drowning out your scream. Already high on your own anticipation, the shot of adrenaline that goes through you with the startle nearly knocks you off your feet. 

His gun smokes in the wake of the shot that narrowly missed your reaching hand.

“Slow,” he tells you, cocking the hammer once again with his thumb.

The pound of your heart is rivaled only by the aching throb between your thighs. Breathing shallowly, you keep your eyes trained on him as you–slowly, this time–reach for your belt, pouches shifting as you unbuckle it. You lay it carefully on the ground, mindful of the treasures you acquired at the gas station, before you kick off each boot.

His gaze is heavy on you all the while, eyes dark and attentive to your every move. Your focus is on the tip of his gun, how it subtly follows along with your hands. You peel each layer off without taking your eyes from him, a shiver moving through you once your hands touch bare skin, purposefully sliding them down your hips, your legs, and then moving them slowly back up as you stand back up, stepping out of the garments pooled on the floor.

He tilts his gun sideways and beckons you forward with it, tipping his head back, dark eyes tracking your every move as you approach him. One at a time, he spreads his legs. “On y’knees, darlin’.” You obey, sinking down–slowly, he told you slow–onto your knees between his legs, bringing yourself to eye level with his gun. The cement floor feels harsh against your bare skin.

“Y’got my gun dirty runnin’ me out into the wastes like that,” he chides, leaning forward, pressing his gun to your sternum. With agonizing slowness, he drags the muzzle up through the valley between your breasts, to the notch beneath your throat, pressing into it briefly. He continues up, the metal cool against your burning skin, though not by much. He hooks the barrel under your chin and tips your head back.

“Clean it for me,” he says, pushing it between your lips.

While you open your mouth too readily for the game at hand, he doesn’t protest. The taste of the gun is bitter and metallic, but what strikes you most is the black powder residue. It’s charred with a sharp tang. A moan escapes you for the way he pushes it deeper, forcing your lips wider apart.

“Don’t be shy. Give ‘er a good spit shine, sweetheart,” he encourages, pulling the gun back only to push it deeper yet. You comply, welcoming the slide of it deeper, pressing your tongue into the grooves on the underside, your eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. “Good,” he says, voice rough with the effect you’re having on him.

Hands braced on your own bare thighs, your nails bite dull little crescents into your skin. The rock of your body is entirely subconscious, your eyelids fluttering. It’s easy to lose yourself to the work at hand, to luxuriate in the weight of his gaze on you while he uses you, fucking your mouth with the full barrel of his gun. He’s so committed to the fantasy, you can’t help but buy into it wholly.

By the time he pulls the gun away your chin is spit slick and your tongue is tingling where you’d been pressing it to the barrel. He gives an appreciative whistle while inspecting the wet shine of his gun. “That’s better,” he says, gaze sliding to you. He stands, grabbing a thick handful of your hair to haul you up to your feet with him. The noise you make is humiliating. Needy. His answering grin is wicked.

“Time t’oil it,” he says, voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t let that trace of impatience impact his movements any. He walks you to the bed with that same loose devil-may-care swagger, assured that he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. 

The mattress’ metal coils groan with your weight as he tosses you onto the bed, standing at the edge of it. The bed stands taller than most, bringing your pelvis parallel to his when you’re on your knees. He grabs your thigh and yanks your ass up into the air, smoothing his hand over the swell of it. He gives a sharp little slap to your rear that wrings a gasp out of you. The way he smooths his leather clad hand over the smarting spot afterwards almost feels like an apology, even if he’s really just admiring his handiwork.

“Spread,” he orders simply. You do so eagerly, widening the splay of your knees, folding your arms to rest your head on. “Look at you,” he breathes with genuine wonder, gripping your ass cheek and holding it firm while he inspects you. You can already feel what he’s looking at, how wet you are from his teasing. “Y’fuckin’ drippin’ for me.”

A shiver rolls through your whole body at the feel of his gun against your inner thigh sliding slowly upwards. Your hips give a reflexive little buck at the first touch of that warm barrel against your soaked cunt, your clit throbbing so hard it aches. “Don’t move,” he tells you. He sounds wrecked. He moves it back and forth, teasing your clit with just the muzzle of it before drawing back, and your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself still when all you want is to chase that precious relief.

The hiss of his zipper is the most thrilling noise you’ve ever heard. The gun disappears from between your thighs.

“Up,” he tells you, taking a rough hold of your shoulder and yanking you upright before you have the chance to comply. He holds you still while he lines himself up, the familiar thick head of his cock grinding through the wet slide of you, the length of him rubbing from taint to clit. “Y’made this big mess just from suckin’ down my gun? Christ alive, darlin’. You’re somethin’ else,” he says through his teeth. The ruin in his voice makes it feel like praise, and that feels good.

Almost as good as the slow burn of his cock pushing into you, the sound of it obscenely loud and wet. You tip your head back against his shoulder and reach back over your own, grabbing at his coat, holding onto him for dear life while he sinks deeper and deeper, pulling you back until your bare ass falls flush against him. Feeling his clothing against your bare body intensifies that intoxicating feeling of vulnerability. Never in your life has the thrill of danger been safe to explore.

Not until him.

He gives you no time to adjust, thrusting almost as soon as he’s bottomed out. 

“Fffuck,” you exhale, eyes screwed tightly shut. You start to lean forward, but he catches you by the throat, pinning you back against his chest at the same time he fires his gun, shocking your eyes wide open. Your body goes rigid, cunt seizing up so tightly around him he hisses out a breath.

“C’mon, little bunny,” he whispers in a vicious grit, pressing the still-warm muzzle firmly against your temple. “Bounce for me.” He cocks the hammer back, the smell of black powder filling your senses. 

You nod fervently, lifting up on your knees and using the mattress to bounce yourself on his cock, gravity bringing you down into every one of his hard thrusts. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, sighing his pleasure in strained little sounds. His hand slides down your throat to your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing, thumbing your nipple until you shudder.

“Close,” you moan, fist twisting in the fabric of his coat, your other hand clutching the wrist of the hand he’s fondling you with. “Please.”

His only response is to slide his hand down further, fingers slipping between your thighs. His middle finger finds your clit first, the friction making your hips jerk out of rhythm. He persists, fingering your clit in smooth circles while he fucks you hard.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot and wet on your neck. “All that fight’s gone now, ain’t it? Just a needy li’l thing beggin’ t’cum.” You’re so close you’re starting to shake, breath caught in your throat. “Go on, angel. Lemme hear how pretty you can beg.”

His fingers slow enough that your ascension falters. “Please!” You rasp immediately, squeezing his wrist, begging in every way you know how to. “Please, m’so close, please make me cum, please,” you plead, voice pitchy, your thoughts empty of everything but pleasure. He’s fucking you hard, chasing his own release just as fervently.  

Just like that his touch returns to full force, deftly working your clit until your pleasure crests and your pleas turn to cries. Your orgasm hits like an earthquake, a sudden eruption that renders you silent, your lips falling open on a noiseless scream. Your body locks up like a vice, euphoria turning your vision white and emptying your mind of all thought while pleasure cascades through you in hot liquid waves.

He doesn’t stop, though his thrusts slow. He fucks you deeply through your orgasm, savoring every quiver around his cock while he uses you. You don’t hear him come, but you feel it, the deep rush of heat that he empties into the core of you, his body going still against yours. Your whole body shudders and you exhale a broken little noise, dizzy from the magnitude of it all. Everything around you feels bleary, your vision fading in and out. For a moment, you feel as though you might float away from your body entirely, your consciousness barely holding on, but the feeling of him pressed against your back, holding you to him, grounds you.

He moves the gun from your temple and holsters it, adjusting his grip so that he can ease you down onto your stomach, slipping from between your legs. You pant hot puffs of air into the bedding, your vision blurry at the edges.

“Coop,” you call, signifying the end of your little game of pretend.

“M’right here,” he soothes, his bare hands upon you not a moment later. There’s a marked difference in the way he touches you now, a subtle tenderness that he’d forced out of his touch for the sake of play. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now, feeling it as if for the first time. 

He slides into bed next to you, having shed his gloves, coat and bandolier. You find the strength to slip an arm around him, clinging despite the tremble in your limbs. The next several seconds–moments, maybe hours, you can’t be sure–pass by in a haze of touch.

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. He makes you aware of your entire body, grounding you with sweeping touches to every part of your body. It’s an intoxicating intimacy that leaves you feeling warm and drunk, still hungry for more.

 At some point Cooper gets the blanket over you, skirting his scarred fingers up and down your arm beneath it. The adrenaline crash that follows your orgasm is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, leaving you exhausted on a level beyond physical.

“Still with me?” Cooper asks after a time, fingertips tapping idle patterns on your skin as if to call you back to your body. “Mhm… Intense,” you say, the lone word slurred by your lazy tongue.

“Warned you,” he gives back, sounding nearly as ruined. His voice is deeper than usual, thoroughly frayed at the edges. It’s true, he had warned you that you were playing with fire. It’s unclear how much of that had been play, and how much was just him. Still, it had been… thrilling. Amazing. Everything you’d hoped it would be. 

“How ‘bout it, darlin’, do I scare you yet?” He asks, making it sound like an inevitability. He must believe it is.

You sigh a low hum, pretending to give the matter great thought. “Mmm… Mm-mm. Not one little bit,” you say, the words hardly legible.

“Shucks,” he says simply, feigning something like disappointment.

“Why’re you so determined to scare me off?” You ask, adjusting where your head lay on his shoulder so that you can look up at him. You’ve grown accustomed to his unique silhouette, but more than that, you’ve started to figure out what it is that makes him handsome. He’s got a wide chin and a fine jawline, and on the rare occasions you see it, a charming smile.

Much of it is in his eyes. They never fail to make your heart stutter.

“A saner question would be why you’re so determined t’stay,” he counters, those very eyes dropping to meet yours. You can’t help but smile, which–as per usual–catches him just a touch off guard.

“I got a thing for pretty men,” you say, caught up in your own musings.

His expression flattens. “Very funny,” he says, and you realize he thinks you’re mocking him.

“Hey, I mean it. I was just thinking about how handsome you are,” you say, reaching up to touch his jaw.

“There’s a specific kind’a philia for finding corpses handsome, y’know,” he says, though in his afterglow the words lack their usual sharp cynicism. They come to him more like habit than anything else.

“You’re not a corpse, Cooper,” you tell him firmly, cupping his cheek in your palm. “You don’t need to keep living like one.”

He considers you in silence for a long moment. With the back of his knuckles, he brushes your cheek. There it is again; that deep sadness that sometimes appears in his eyes when he looks at you. As if he’s mourning something.

“What?” You whisper. “Why do you–”

He kisses you, swallowing the words clean off your lips. He takes your face between his hands and kisses you, kisses you, kisses you through your meager protests until your lips move with his and you sink back down into the warmth of it. He grows progressively more relentless with it, stealing your breath until you’re forced to break away, turning your head for air.

“You can’t kiss your way out of every–”

“I know,” he interrupts you, lifting his head to level you with a hard stare. “I know, alright? But it’ll come on my terms, in my time, yeah?”

You stare, pinned by the weight in his expression. After a beat, you nod, feeling dazed by both the onslaught and his words. It’s the only time he’s acknowledged that there is something, which you suppose is progress. “Okay,” you say softly, and then again more firmly, “Okay.”

His expression softens, taking in the look of you before he kisses you again. You reciprocate, pressing into his lips with the weight of your conviction, willing him to feel how much you really do mean it. 

“Thank you for today,” you murmur, settling back down against him. “I never thought that I’d be able to… do something like that. And live,” you say, adding the last bit with a rueful smile. “I feel safe with you.”

You wait for some kind of dismissive or self-deprecating remark from him, or even a sly jab at you and your sanity, but neither come. You glance up and find him staring at you, thoughtful and–if your eyes don’t deceive you–a little sentimental.

“I don’t make promises,” he tells you, sounding resigned. “But for what it’s worth, I’d never want t’do somethin’ I thought might hurt you.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, that same sentimentality slipping into your own voice. If not a bit ominous.

“Not really,” he replies, adjusting against the bedding, his eyes falling shut. “Y’standards are just too low.”

You sigh, closing your eyes with an incredulous little smile. “Shut up.”

The two of you drift into comfortable silence, his fingers idly traipsing the contours of your body. It’s like he’s memorizing the feel of you, hyper-aware that these intimate moments together are stolen. You reciprocate, seeking out what bare skin you can with gentle brushes of your fingers. He’s never admitted as much, but you’ve long suspected he struggles with pain. He’s rarely ever unclothed, and sometimes you see him wince when he goes too long between hits of those vials.

Cooper started living on borrowed time long before he met you, but it doesn’t stop you from hoping that he might someday see something more permanent in you. With you.

In the meantime, you’ll make the most of every second.

[wolvietxt]

ᰔ on daryl’s bike !

the hum of the engine beneath you was steady, a low vibration that buzzed up through your legs and into your chest as daryl guided the bike along the empty road. the sun was just starting to set, casting long shadows over the asphalt and painting the sky in soft streaks of orange and pink.  

your arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, your cheek pressed against his back, the fabric of his vest rough against your skin. it wasn’t often you got moments like this - quiet, without walkers or other people or the constant pressure to keep moving.  

he smelled like leather and earth, and there was something so comforting about it that you found yourself grinning, a kind of giddy warmth bubbling up in your chest.  

without really thinking, you tilted your head and pressed a quick kiss to the side of his neck.  

his shoulders stiffened immediately. “what’re ya doin’?”  

you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you. “what does it look like?”  

he muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch, his voice gruff and low.  

but you weren’t about to let it go. emboldened by his reaction, you leaned in again, brushing your lips against the spot where his neck met his shoulder, softer this time.  

his hand on the handlebar twitched, and the bike wobbled slightly. “dammit, woman - cut it out.”  

“you’re no fun,” you teased, though you didn’t stop, your lips trailing along the edge of his collar.  

he growled under his breath, a sound somewhere between frustration and something else entirely. and then, without warning, he veered the bike to the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he brought it to a sharp stop.  

“hey, daryl! what are you - ”  

you didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence.  

before you could even process what was happening, he twisted around in the seat, one hand reaching up to cup the back of your head as his lips crashed into yours.  

the kiss was rough, unpracticed, but there was something desperate about it, something that made your breath catch. he pulled you closer, his other hand gripping your hip as if he couldn’t stand the thought of any space between you.  

when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing heavy.  

“you’re gonna be the death of me, y’know that?” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.  

you grinned, your hands still clutching at the front of his vest. “worth it, though, right?”  

his lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smirk. “damn right.”  

before you could respond, he kissed you again, slower this time, his thumb brushing against the side of your jaw. the world around you faded - the fading sun, the chirping crickets, the distant rustle of leaves - and all that mattered was him.  

when he finally pulled away, his gaze softened, the usual guardedness giving way to something warmer.  

“c’mon,” he said, his voice quieter now. “we gotta get back ‘fore they start wonderin’.”  

you nodded, though you couldn’t help but steal one last kiss before he turned back around.  

as the bike roared to life again and you wrapped your arms around him, your lips brushed against his ear.  

“you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like it,” you teased.  

his laugh was gruff, but genuine. “shut up.”  

you smiled against his back, content to let the ride stretch out just a little longer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you never wanted to let go. 

🌀 daryl dixon : @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid, @sunnykittyzz

@california-boys-and-sun, @cable-kenobi, @omen-keke, @hhiggs, @iheartpeterparker3000

@withasideofmeg, @bbittenapples

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[hamadisthings]

BAD CALIFORNIAN INTERNET BILLS

While it is good that KOSA is now dead in the House (for now) I would like to ask for people's attention on AB1949 and SB976, which could push for Age verification by showing your ID.

There was a third bill named AB3080 that had similar goals, but luckily it received revisions so it is no longer a threat or require ID verification to access websites. So it would be possible to get AB1949 and SB976 to be revised so they aren't dangerous anymore.

You can read the text for AB1949 right here

AB1949 doesn't explicitly ask for ID verification anymore, as it used to, due to a revision, but there is a provision stating if they deem a website "willfully disregards" the age of the user they will be deemed to have actual knowledge of the user's age.

This broad part could be left to abuse, which is why it needs to be revised before passing, in order to confirm ID verification is not required. FIND YOUR REPS HERE!

For AB1949, you can find your Senate representative with the link above as I said, and check to see if they're a member of the CA Senate Appropriations Committee. Then call them to tell them you oppose this bill. Try to add reasons you think this bill would negatively affect California financially because that's what this committee focuses on.

As for SB976, which you can read here

Its goal is to "keep kids off social medias and addictive feeds" But the concerning part is that "it would make it unlawful for the operator of an addictive internet-based service or application, as defined, to provide an addictive feed to a user, unless the operator does not have actual knowledge that the user is a minor; commencing January 1, 2027, has reasonably determined that the user is not a minor; or has obtained verifiable parental consent to provide an addictive feed to the user who is a minor."

How are you supposed to know that you have "verifiable parental consent" without ID and age verification of both parents and child?Even then, holding the ID of a minor feels pretty illegal given how sensitive how an info this is, in case of a data breach (which will happen) this would endanger kids even more, and no one in general want to give their ID to access a website or an app.

The bill would also make it unlawful for a website or app to send notifications to a minor according to a certain timeframe.

For SB976, find your Assembly representative using the link below and check to see if they're a member of the CA Assembly Appropriations Committee. Then call them to tell them you oppose this bill. https://apro.assembly.ca.gov/members

You can tell them how this is terrible for privacy, and the safety of children, and that it would be terrible for the economy of California, as they seem to focus on it. You can try sending faxes for either bills, but calling IS MUCH MORE efficient. https://faxzero.com/

Here is the time schedule, bills must be taken care before the end of August so it is a matter of time crunch:

You may use the following scripts for the respective bills, you can try to trim it if you deem it too long!

Might be worth a shot to contact Gavin Newsom (Californian governor) here to voice your concerns for these bills

[nevadancitizen]

-> PROLOGUE: THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA

synopsis: you meet with a mysterious woman on an old californian dock.

word count: ~850

ships: Arthur Morgan/modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: inspired by @heart-of-gold-outlaw !! go read their modern reader fic i really like it. also we'll be getting into the actual time travel stuff after this teaser lololol :3

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s a bracing, misty evening – supposed to be spring, but doesn’t feel like it. The waves are choppy and the gulls are huddled on the pylons with their beaks tucked under their wings, their feathers ruffling in the cold wind. 

Three hulking great ships, all freighters, are tied up on the beat-up dock. This isn’t one of those fashionable wharfs with dockworker unions or passenger liners – no pretty girls on their balconies, clinking champagne flutes to celebrate the start of the cruise. Just a couple of red-faced salts in pea jackets tramping by, trailing cigarette smoke, boots crunching on dried-up gull shit.

They spare you glances as they pass by, surely wondering what you were doing here in the early hours of the morning. Were you waiting for someone to get off work? Were you waiting for a drug deal? Or were you just admiring the way the waves spray water onto the dock?

(In reality, it was none of those. You’re waiting on something much worse.)

A woman, sleek and modern in style and rugged and worn in looks, approaches you. She has a quiet intensity about her — something about the way she squints against the ocean spray mixed with the permanent-looking scowl on her face. 

She tilts her head toward you, and you nod. You walk towards her and meet her halfway, leaning in close on her insistence. 

“You’re the one in need?” She asks softly. You just barely hear her over the waves crashing against the dock.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, just as soft. “It’s my sister’s daughter. My eleven-year-old niece. She’s… she’s in a really bad way.”

“What does she need?” The woman asks. 

“A pancreas,” you say. “She’s got acute recurrent pancreatitis. There aren’t a lot of affordable child-sized organs lying around. God knows I’ve turned not just California, but the entire Mojave upside-down trying to find one. I’ve called hospitals in Arizona, Nevada, even New Mexico. I – I’m not asking you to kill a child! I just… I need the money for the operation. It’ll put her on the waiting list, and… once we show the hospital we have the money, I’m sure she’ll be okay. Somehow.”

The woman narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you just take out a loan? Or take on debt?”

“I can’t,” you say. “None of us can. I foreclosed on my last house. My sister has thousands of dollars in credit card debt, counting all the interest. Please, just trust me when I say I need this money. I don’t think anyone has nearly half a million dollars in their junk drawer. If I did, why would I be here, asking you for it?”

The woman looks you over and tucks her jacket closer around her. The outline of a gun at her hip becomes glaringly obvious – she wants you to notice it.

“Ma’am, I’m begging you.” You clasp your hands together as tight as you can. “I come from a family of deadbeats and addicts. I was an addict myself, and I quit just to save money for her operation, but it’s just not enough. I need this money. I won’t misappropriate these funds – won’t use them to pay off other debts, won’t use them for drugs. Just… please, miss.”

The woman holds up her hand. “Stop groveling.”

What the fuck else am I supposed to do?! You shout in your head. I need money, and you’ve got the money! My niece is going to fucking die if I don’t get it!

Instead, you just nod politely and put your hands behind your back. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies. I’m sure you can understand my desperation.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman hums. “I can get you the money. Just give me your banking details and I can wire it to you.” 

You pull out a pre-prepared index card with your bank information written down. The woman checks that it has your full name, address, account number, and routing number before speaking again.

“Do you have life insurance?” She asks, as if offhandedly.

“Uh, yes?” You say, unsure. “It won’t come out to a lot, so I couldn’t have an “accident” at work. Maybe just under 200,000 dollars? Nowhere near enough to cover her operation.”

The woman hums and tucks the card into her pocket. “I’ll get you the money.”

“Thank you so, so much,” you say. “You have no idea what this means to me – no idea what you’ve done for me and my family.”

“I have some idea.” The woman’s hand lingers at her waist. It takes you a few seconds too long to notice that –

A loud sound. A raging pain. The bullet hit something vital, but doesn’t grant you the mercy of dying in that instant. 

You stagger back, holding yourself. “What…”

“You’re dumber than you look,” the woman says, her voice fading in and out. “I’m just helping your family.”

You inhale shakily and take a step back. There’s a sense of falling, and something cold surrounds you, but you can’t make out much of anything in this condition. 

The last thing you think before the black takes you? It’s May. Who the fuck gets shot in May?

[dudeshusband]

hi everyone. your not so local broke college student again.

I've been looking for a second job because my current one doesn't give me enough hours to pay my rent. this search hasn't been going very well because there aren't very many jobs in this town as compared to my hometown (and i was struggling there too.)

i paid rent this month and i have it for november but i know i won't have it for december because my financial aid is running out.

it probably sounds silly to ask this early but my rent is roughly $950 a month (ha. california, am i right? :/) and i definitely don't want to be trying to make a goal that high in a time crunch especially since there are so many people in need of help right now.

no pressure at all to give me anything, even a reblog.

i just really don't want to be put out of my apartment during finals week.

p/pal

(if you do rb, please don't tag this as anything. thanks.)

$0/950

[ms-demeanor]

Can I ask you how you ended up a purchasing manager and what the "technically" means? I've been a purchaser for a couple years and I'm trying to figure out what to do next. I've taken my role in much more of a creating-reports and helping-people-with-data direction than probably purchasers are supposed to, so idk if I should look for another purchasing job or something else

We're a tiny, tiny (less than 10 employee) company so I'm kind of a one-person procurement department with about eight other roles stacked on top (including marketing, website administration, and proofreading my boss's emails).

The purchasing part of what I do is I manage vendor relationships and customer licensing through our vendors, and I research hardware and configure hardware solutions for our clients then do the ordering and order management.

I think my boss's goal with "purchasing" as a job description is just to keep me distinct from accounts payable/receivable (because of the type of business we are, the purchaser at this company needs to have a significant degree of computer literacy, so the role has always been far removed from the accounting department at this business; I'm not a tech, I'm not sales, I'm not precisely an office admin, but I kind of am those things stuck in a blender with an executive assistant).

"Technically" just means that "purchasing manager" is what the business puts on my tax form but I don't have the requisite freedom to make choices to *legally* be considered a manager in California (so 'technically' purchasing manager is my job description in actual fact, but i don't 'technically' meet the requirements of being a manager - my job title is fake).

I think that in normal procurement jobs there is some data crunching that is required, but I see it more as logistics than analytics. If you're more interested in the analytics side of things than the logistical stuff, it may be worthwhile to cast your net outside of the purchasing pool.

[tom-whore-dleston]

My Love for You is as Dead as the Leaves on the Ground

Pairing: Marc Spector x f. reader

Word Count: 609

This fic contains: angst with happy ending, toxic situationship, vegetation plays as allegory to Marc and reader's relationship

Summary: You reflect on your past with Marc on your walk home.

Notes: I recently broke off a relationship that wasn't actually a relationship and honestly I couldn't be happier. As much as I wanna be petty and expose him to everyone that we knew, writing a fic about how toxic he was is a healthier route to coping. This will be my submission for @the-slumberparty Winds of Autumn challenge.

prompt: crispy leaves 🍁 walking home alone

themes: Preservation 🫙 in preparation for the coming winter, we try to hold onto the last bit of warmth. Write about letting go, or not wanting to. Balance ⚖️ as the equinox approaches, the day and night balance out. Write about finding peace.

It’s a chilly November afternoon. You stepped out of the cafe, which was in the middle of the lunchtime rush hour, and into the busy streets of the city. Everyone was in a hurry to get around, except for you. It was your day off and you desired nothing more than to slow down. You took a careful sip of your pumpkin flavored latte before heading towards the direction of your home. 

Arrays of red and orange leaves crunched under your brown boots as you strolled down the paved street. Something about the dead leaves on the ground reminded you of a tarnished love you fell out of. The love you once had for Marc Spector was a lush garden that you watered and nourished so precisely. At first, Marc was alongside you in tending to the garden. Over time, tensions and heat rose, causing the garden to wilter and lose its green. You would be the one to clean up the mess in the garden. Meanwhile, Marc would stand in the shade and watch you bringing this garden back to life. 

You should have known that Marc didn’t love you the same way you loved him. Every “I love you” and “I choose you” that he proclaimed from the depths of his chest was the fertilizer to grow a labyrinth of bushes to trap you in. You believed those words, causing you to get lost in the maze of manipulation. You tried to get out of the labyrinth. You really did. Yet every time you tried to escape, the thorns would knick your skin or you would trip over the vines. Then, Marc would pick a rose from the bushes of the labyrinth and tuck it neatly into your hair. 

According to the calendar you had followed your whole life, autumn was supposed to begin September 21. However, living in California meant that it would remain sunny and hot up until the end of October or beginning of November. With the hot weather rolling into fall, Marc tended to the garden even after you had long abandoned it. It made you angry that he decided a little too late to love you the way you wanted and tend to this garden. You had enough.

The most courageous thing you have done in this phase of detaching from Marc was to chop down the bushes Marc grew around you. Luckily, you got help from other lonely gardeners to break down these plump green walls. It was only a matter of time before you got to see that sunlight again. You forgot what it was like to feel that light on your skin. 

After the maze of bushes were destroyed, autumn arrived at the perfect time. You were reminded that no summer lasts forever. More importantly, the pain and exhaustion experienced from loving Marc and gardening with–no, for–him won’t last forever. The clouds rolled in at the beginning of November, a beautiful yet haunting foreshadow of the end of you and Marc.

The temperatures finally dropped. Rain finally fell from the sky. You finally cut Marc from your life like a pesky weed. Now, you can finally turn over a new leaf and enjoy this new season in its entirety. 

Thank god it’s Fall. Thank god the garden is soiled. Thank god you found your own exit from that labyrinth of fake love. Thank god Marc can no longer plant roots to wreck your heart and soul. Thank god the weather is colder and you can find warmth in your own peace of mind. Thank god you followed the leaves and found your way home. Thank god you are home.

Navigation | Fic Masterlist | Marc Spector Masterlist