#wake up Hippy

[artcallednaturalviews]

They only reason

Thee only reason they talk about me

I take the world while I grow in form

From way past ancient spores of growth

Psychedelic times are the now with technology as that 60’s hippy

We have a way in our hands to communicate no hitchhiking to talk learn new we can see it all on news and it the terror can be seen rather than newspaper clippings so video when do we grow

I geo with in formed they all grown up and still aging from the years

It’s a whole world not a presented state mental condition see to 70’s disco cocaine and new of more prescribed mental drugs didn’t help the 80’s-opioid epidemic -ed all retaining all there learns from when past never lost a thing in the mindset of education

They only reason why I talk at them

I take the whole wide world as I grow

Back established in years since 1974

A One World Global and Free & Healthy

From where I sit I spoke about three to five years ago for my country eastern in flood insurance yeah being specific to tornados moving that way and rains taking down bridges from the end of Bible Belt Midwest buckling over perhaps around and whipping around the globe to hit the West in spring & summer

Need a Global Warming Insurance Plan

You know the naysayers would sign up

Is their God too pray to for insurance

A friend died, malpractice or company and CEO’s and stockholders and all thee likes looking for dividends

The ripples and the caste

Cast case cause

The ripples and the caste

Cast case cause

Watch TV & Trump Vance

And others in taken’s around the Globe

World Wide Web

They always reason

A bloodbath, deports (and they got 62%)

Stock chain down the line all getting that

They reason for themselves

(Insurance didn’t cover)

Some lives more importantly than

Middle class & working class just for their own families adding to taxes in numerous ways

And Trump played favorites way back when

(Not speaking of decades ago when he was and not an ExFP that was, but you new young voter have all these fixations associated with a shutdown during Covid , why music helps you have poker face)

Vote Blue

We (they) can solve, they only reason for themselves, thee only reason for ourselves

It’s a Globe not a riddle

Bad Romance Kaleidoscope Our Truth

It has nothing to do with with rainbows yellow brick roadsides and the thee labeled freaks

Squash my words for more years

Moisten your lips

Swallow before you talk about me

Give rev horn honk

I’m still tripping

My only reason

[woundlingus]

What the fuck is up with alarm clock anxiety it’s actually the worst. New job, new people, I’ve been out for like five years with disability in the prime of my youth so I’m a little awkward. I don’t care about ANY of that. My alarm clock scary, tummy hurt, oooooh alarm gonna yell at me in the morning better wake up ten times in the night just incase I can wake a minute before hand and not have it yell at me I don’t likey :( cause I’m just a little guy ooooh don’t yell at meeeeee :(

[three--dimensional]

Goodmorning

[celibibratty]

I know the idea of the game is to our main characters become an old master one day in a certain moment of their life, but one part of me kinda don't like that?, i like more the idea of after they kill the villans, they become some kinda of badass vigilants/justice gangsters, and continue be like this since they become old(no idea how they pay the bills living in that way?, but it doesn't matter is just a game), idk i just like our main characters more being some kinda of "lone wolf", i think it fits more their style

[taniushka12]

one of the funniest things abt my sister is that like.... she's my half sis, right? The same year I was born she had another sister from the other parent, right? and she always said that she kinda wished she had a little brother instead

fastforward twenty years and BOTH of her siblings are trans guys

[dickkyvriki]

[opossumprince]

Btw if your immediate reaction to a literal transphobic gen°cide plan is to use young people's fear for their lives to plug things like this, and attempt to convince them they need to buy a personal kiIIing machine that would do jack shit against the state or a group of poIicemen and only put already vuInerable people at more risk, you're a fucking moron so terminaIIy englued in the deeply seated american banaIity of evil that you buy right into its "FlREARMS ARE COOL NECESSARY PROTECTION TOOLS" resistance power fantasy as long as this power fantasy is coated with the right pretext

[brightlotusmoon]

"Pablo Escobar was a stoner who didn't use cocaine, also he had coke soaked in denim jeans."

Commentary: "Is that why people loved wearing jeans so freaking much?"

[elevenstork]

"You would be a great dad"

Riding in a hippy minivan with raibows painted all on it's sides

Staring longinly at a married couple

"You look really hot Eddie. In fact you could win the prize of hottest guy"

"My best friend in the whole world"

Waking up three different times with Venom being his first thought

Eddie visiting New York because they planned to do it with Venom

Feel free to add to the list

[inkedells]

logan eating pussy and enjoying it a little too much (he fucks the mattress pathetically)

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

wc: 1.3k

warnings: oral (f!receiving), NO USE OF Y/N, grinding, desperate!logan, but he's still dommy, comeplay, snowballing, scent kink sorta, logan has a weird obsession with come idk

Logan holds your gaze from the valley between your thighs, and quickly, the cliches feel understandable. Because calling his eyes hazel would be an injustice to cool fields of wheat illuminated by the massive, descending sun. To be compared to anything of Logan’s, you think, would be the height of such an overused image’s life.

But this isn’t Poetry Workshop Wednesdays at a hippie coffee shop sandwiched between a pilates studio and a Chipotle. This is what happens when Logan wakes up from a wet dream, so you keep your strange (albeit accurate) observation to yourself and close your eyes as you try to focus on the hot tongue currently spreading generous amounts of saliva along your cunt.

His voice travels to your ears like a ripple on a whipped rope: Smooth and quiet until it reaches the end of its journey with a deafening snap. Words ring in your head unintelligibly until suddenly they’re coherent.

“Let your thighs squeeze my head.”

You open your eyes, but are immediately forced to fight the heaviness of your lids when Logan starts to eat you again. It feels as if you haven’t slept in days. “What?” You say, despite knowing exactly what he said. Logan pauses sucking on your clit to clarify.

“You were squeezing my head in the dream,” Logan replies, voice hoarse. “So squeeze my head.”

You comply, but it’s weak because your bones feel about as firm and steady as a sheet of paper.

“That the best you can do?” He rasps against your cunt, hands digging into the outsides of your thighs and forcibly pushing them against his head. He returns to devouring you like an animal, wet and sloppy sucking sounds that go straight to your pussy.

The bed is creaking, and you realize it’s because he’s getting off on the mattress.

“Were you doing that in the dream, too?” You ask quietly, closing your eyes for a second.

“Doing what?” Logan says between open-mouthed kisses to your clit.

“Fucking my sheets.”

He huffs, and it’s a sound of amusement. He must have figured you were too enamored by your own bliss to notice.

“No. That didn’t happen in the dream.”

“Couldn’t help yourself, then?” You whisper.

He teases your entrance with his tongue. “It was the smell of your cum that did me in.”

“Hm?” You hum, accidentally grinding yourself on his face when you adjust your position.

He mutters a voiceless fuck, and sucks your clit again. He lifts your hips off the bed with his palms under your ass and his elbows digging into the bed, veins in his biceps rising to the surface. You love when he shows off his strength, and the insistent fluttering of your entrance tells him as much.

The periodic groans of the bed frame only grow closer together, until they might as well be in sync with your heartbeat.

He whines something short and subtle, stopping his assault on your pussy as he rests his forehead and cheek against your inner thigh and focuses on his own pleasure. His hips are writhing, legs flat against the mattress as they bend and climb and tangle in the sheets.

“Logan,” You sing-song.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t even look up at you. Quite the opposite: He screws his eyes shut and furrows his brows.

“You stopped eating me out.” Your own voice is breathy, arousal still clouding your mind as you mourn his mouth on your pussy.

“Mm.” He licks you shakily, briefly, as if to prove you wrong or shut you up, but it’s barely as confident or as intentional as before.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Needy, is the word. He’s needy. His muscles are rippling under his tan skin, sweat beading and glistening under the soft, warm light filtering through the curtains. Face twisted in pleasure, hair falling over his forehead, nostrils flaring.

Logan is overwhelmingly beautiful.

He continues to prop up your hips until suddenly he’s not, your lower half falling the short distance as you yelp in surprise. He mumbles a sorry, still refusing to look at you as he bucks into the bed.

You almost start to complain, but then he’s hooking two fingers into your wet cunt and curling them languidly. He’s panting, nose nudging your clit deliciously as his warm breath fans over you.

You reward him with a moan. A sharper thrust of his hips. A sloppy lick around his fingers still inside you.

“The bed can’t be that good,” You tease, although you’re in no position to because you’re just as fucked out as he is.

“It’s not the bed doing this to me. It’s your pussy.”

You shove down the whine that rises in your throat. “If that were true you’d be fucking my pussy, not the bed.”

“But then I wouldn’t be able to smell it, or—or taste it, or stare at it.”

You tilt your head back. “You’re disgusting.” The words mean absolutely nothing.

“I don’t care.” He fingers you faster. His breaths melt into quiet whines as your legs spasm around his hand.

“Are you gonna cum?”

He nods against you, small and quick.

“Do it on my pussy,” You breathe, trying to grip his shoulders but falling short and scratching him instead. The brief sting makes him moan. You’ll have to ask him about that later.

He wordlessly climbs up your body, until his mouth is mashing with yours and his cock is sliding against your cunt. He thrusts his tip against your clit as his tongue delves into your mouth, one hand holding your neck while the other rests on your hip.

“You’re not gonna put it in?” You ask, chest heaving as you tolerate—no, enjoy—the heavy weight of Logan.

“No,” He says simply, letting your folds envelop his cock as he grinds himself on your cunt. The friction on your clit is addicting, and you wonder if he’s resisting being inside of you specifically so you can have this.

You lift your head to catch his lips again, and seconds later, he comes with a cry, cum spurting on your mound and mixing with your own arousal. He doesn’t stop rubbing your clit with his cock until your fingers rake down his back and you convulse with your own orgasm.

He pulls back and sits on his knees so he can observe the mess he made. Thick fingers massage his spend into your skin, then into your hole, slow and methodical. And when he taps your inner thigh, you know what to do. You push his cum back out, relishing the dirty grin on his face when it leaks onto the rim of your asshole.

Logan bends down and licks you clean, but neglects to swallow as he sits upright again. He takes your hand and helps you up until your face is level with his. You know what’s coming. A kiss. Messy and hungry. He shares his cum with you eagerly, then pulls back an inch to watch the string of spend that connects you stretch, then snap. He practically throws himself against your mouth after that, lips moving against yours so obscenely that the sounds of the kiss are almost as loud as the sounds of him eating your pussy.

Eventually, you break the kiss with a giggle and wipe the mess on your chin.

“You’ve got a little something there,” You say, gesturing toward his glistening beard.

He quickly brushes his fingers over a small area on his jaw. “Did that take care of it?” He whispers with a twitch of a smile, playing into your joke.

“Looks like it to me.”

A/N: thank you for the request it entirely cured my writer's block!! pls reblog bc it helps and gimme more logan requests!!

[naturefairie15]

I love being in APUSH because I’ll be sitting here taking my notes in my little notebook and this tiny bald man will just go:

“Ron DeSantis would like this”

ANY TIME anything wildly patriotic comes up.

[itsallaboutthebirds86]

You are a witch who personifies the very idea of coldness and solitude. Your sister, who personified harmony and community and you secretly hated bc she talked too much, passes away and her successor is a young naive witch who somehow talks even more. Being a master of manipulation, you conspire with your other sisters to get rid of her. Said sisters are 1) an old lady who somehow insults everyone to their faces in a way that you can’t retaliate against and postpones the murder plot because she’s eepy, 2) a goth so committed to being a bitch twenty four seven that it affects her ability to effectively carry out said murder, and 3) a titty AND crotch-out hippie who is down for the murder but also sees it as her magical right to eat anyone who walks faster than a light jog. Every day Indri Witch of the Wind and Stars wakes up

[sludgeguzzler]

woke up with cramps today and fell back asleep after taking some pain meds, and i was so deep on slumber i had multiple layers fo fight through so i could wake up

[saltandburnheathens]

Good morning Miss Winnie.

Part II

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Reader.

Rating: Gen.

Summary:

You've just given birth to Dean's baby and are a enjoying a quiet family moment in the days afterwards.

Notes: Non-canon, no time line. And I don't ever want kids. But I just became an aunt and I sort of need to get this out of my system! Short and I'm not promising that I won't continue this. Who knows really. Finally this was written after I'd taken my usual nightly gummy.

The bunker was quiet first thing in the morning except for the usual hum of the circulation fans. You’d been there so long that they barely registered anymore, and you were extremely thankful that the consistent noise wasn’t a problem for the baby. That would have been a horror show. Trying to navigate parenthood with a baby awoken by the simplest of sounds. 

You shuddered at the thought. 

Life was always loud when you lived with Dean Winchester and his posse of colour characters. Between unexpected visitors and the brothers coming and going at odd hours, there was something new every day and often that new wasn’t good. 

But in that moment things were perfect. The monsters outside didn’t exist and you were a regular mom with a new baby and a husband who loved you. His bother Sam and best friend Castiel were an added bonus, the former serving as an unexpected asset when both you and Dean needed some rest.  

You crept carefully out of bed, your body still feeling weak, and quietly crossed to the crib by the wall. A set of hazel eyes stared up at you and your heart melted. 

“Good morning Miss Winnie.” You cooed, “Let’s get you up and at ‘em before you wake daddy.” 

You heard a small scoff followed by the shuffling of blankets. 

“Winnie?” Dean asked with a sleep-laden voice, “We ain’t calling her Winnie, sweetheart. I’ll accept those new-agey-hippy-names like Kendell and Kloe with a K before I’ll take Winnie.” 

“I’m just calling her that until we choose a name.” You laughed, lifting the little girl up into your arms, her head coming to rest on your chest, “And Winnie is short for Winchester in case you hadn’t pieced that together.” 

“I don’t care if it’s short for ‘daddy’s-little-angel’, it ain’t happening.” 

“I’ll cross that off my list then shall I?” You sat back on the bed, Dean coming up to nest beside you and his eyes immediately going to the baby in your arms. 

He smiled, creases forming at the corners of his eyes. 

“You’re not a Winnie, are ya’ princess?” In that voice he seemed to only have adapted five days ago after the birth of your daughter; that voice reserved for her. 

“Maybe not. What about Meghan?” You suggest. 

“Oh nope. No can do. Knew a Meg once. Demon.” 

You nodded knowingly. No one wanted to name their child after a monster. 

“Stevie?” Dean carried on, his eyes still fixed on the baby.

“Like Stevie Nicks?” You raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m not seeing it. Samatha?”

“Already got one Sam in this bunker and that’s more than enough. Alice?”

“Can’t do it. All I’ll keep hearing is ‘who the fuck is Alice’, and I don’t want my kid to be subjected to that for the rest of their life.” 

You both laughed, interrupted only by the whine building in the little one’s chest. You quickly jumped to action and proceeded to the morning routine you’d been adjusting to since getting back home. Dean followed you, rubbing at his eyes. 

“I don’t think I’ve had hangovers that made me feel quite as bad as waking up five times at night.” He yawned. 

You handed him a dirty diaper and smiled as he grimaced. 

“You can go back to bed if you want. I can manage by myself.” 

“Sweetheart, you just damn near broke your pelvis giving birth to my kid a few days ago. I’m in this from start to finish, and if that means running on caffeine and a prayer, then I’m game. Even for the diapers.” 

Dean rummaged through the first drawer of their dresser and pulled out a small onesie covered in colourful dinosaurs. He held it up in front of him and smiled. 

“It’s hard to believe how small she is, huh?”

“She didn’t feel so small coming out of me.” You quipped, taking the clothing from him to finally cover the squirming child on the changer, “I’m pretty sure my vagina will never be the same.” 

“That’s blasphemy.” Dean gasped playfully, “But seriously, baby, the doctor said that it’ll take a few weeks before you start to feel normal.” 

“Normal is subjective when you’re postpartum.” 

Holding his baby tight to his chest, Dean lent down and kissed you softly on the lips. His green eyes fluttered up to meet yours. 

“Let’s face it, ain’t nothing normal about either of us in the first place.” 

[kora-kat]

Babe wake up, Doc is fighting hippies again

[hauntedjellyfishwitch-blog]

can i please request daryl dixon x reader set during the commonwealth era?

perhaps reader goes missing and carol and daryl go looking and when she’s found, they’re checking over her and “is that- a boot print?” on her back or something.

just bruised and her face is swollen too.

reader trying to remember what happened and being sad/frustrated that she can’t and daryl having to console her

I Get Knocked Down

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader (No use of Y/N)

TW: Violence, Flashbacks, Protective!Daryl

A/N. Hi Anon! It's been a while since I've seen the commonwealth era, and its one of the parts I haven't re-watched so I hope this does your request some amount of justice.

-

He shouldn’t have let her go, he tells himself through shallow breaths and panic, but it’s not like he’s stopped her doing anything the whole time they’ve been together; she’s gotten herself out of enough scrapes without his help for him to know how capable she is, so why would he have stopped her going for a walk to clear her head? It doesn’t help, because sure she doesn’t need him to protect her, but he blames himself for failing at it every time she so much as gets a scratch. It’s a horrifying, yet accurate look into his psyche.

Twelve hours. She’s been out for twelve hours, so he’s been filled with dread for roughly ten hours and forty-eight minutes, maybe forty-nine if he’s honest with himself. A walk, she’d said, just for some fresh air, his nature girl had said, his partner who’d never been at home within walls for too long, his love who’d been a barefoot hippie before everything went down, his wife who was gone for hours at a time when she’d found a good tree or a decent field, but she’d never, not ever vanish on him.

He sits at the kitchen table, perched on the uncomfortable chair he always insists on taking, so that she can have the comfortable one; the one she takes if she wakes first because she insists on the same for him. They’re two sides of the same, overly protective creature. He doesn’t the deserve comfort of the good chair right now.

She used to talk about a cabin, trace her thumb along his knuckles whilst talking about a wraparound porch. A little, quaint home near a lake with a scruffy dog and normal jobs, a dream of a life with him like she knew, without question, he’d have found her if the world never went to shit. The new apartment here is better than their old one, but their old one was better than the prison and the prison was better than out in the open.

He’d have been happy living in a shoebox in a highway in any world as long as he was with her, and now…for reasons he doesn’t know, he can’t find her at all.

He’d been out all night with Carol, listening to her continued insistence that they’d find her, trying not to listen when she insisted if anyone could, he could. They’d checked each gate, asked each guard, scoured past the slum apartments and the fancy houses, come up empty. Carol had taken the east side, searched through the hospital and the recreation ground, only to find nothing. Daryl had taken the square, starting at the library she loves so much and working his way, franticly, around the market. It was only Carols warm, consoling voice that made him return home when he wanted to fight his way through the gates to the outside. If she’d come home, he’d need to be there. So he sits, on the uncomfortable chair, failing at finding her and failing at giving her comfort and failing and failing and failing.

A loud, harsh knock on the door startles him out of his self-deprecation. It sounds again before he’s even left the kitchen. He moves slower these days, but he’s at the door and face to face with an out of breath Carol before he’s formed any coherent thoughts.

“I found her” She pants, forgoing her usual consideration for his hesitance around touch to grab his arm and squeeze. The look on his face must worry her, because she immediately adds “she’s alive”

“Stay ‘ere” He nods at Dog, who removes himself from Daryl’s side to hop up onto the couch, eyes finding Daryl the second he’s in his spot, forever obedient and loyal. Dog is more human than humans, these days.

He follows Carols quick pace, limp in his leg be damned, until they reach the back of the fire station. The grubby alleyway he’d already checked. He’s sure he already checked. Anxious blue eyes scan the alley for any sign of, well anything but she’s the only evidence of a struggle. She’s slumped against the wood fence, swollen and bloody, shivering without the jumper she’d taken with her the night before.

He's kneeling at her side before he’s registered he’s moved, hands hovering worriedly, afraid of hurting her. She murmurs but doesn’t open her eyes. Shallow, strained breaths match his own.

“is that- a boot print?” Carol asked, voice an octave lower than usual as she lifts the younger woman’s shirt up to reveal the horrible marked on her torso. His head snaps down so fast he’d have heard it click if he wasn’t so suddenly focused on the purple and yellow and painful bruise.

“Lemme see” He insists, gravelled voice low and sure. Carol lets go of the fabric gently, eyes flicking between the discoloured mark and Daryl’s face. His tenderness, his care, his concern comes as a shock to many people, but it never has to Carol. He’d go to the ends of the earth for the people he loves, burn it all to hell for the woman he loves, and Carol would be right there next to him as they tore the world down. It is no surprise that her heart breaks for the archer as his trembling fingers graze the distinct imprints of the sole of a boot whilst he checks her over.

She whimpers, trying to curl in on herself through the pain, bloodied fingers coming up to grip his bicep, seeking him out even if she’s unaware of it.

“’s okay, ’m here”

She looks up at him, flicks her unsteady gaze up to his face. He sees her blood-stained face and tear brimmed eyes clearly now. Her swollen split lip that trembles as her grip loosens. He’s so angry, so close to bursting with all consuming ire he can feel his hands shaking from it as he draws them away from her battered torso. He tries to keep it off his face when he looks at her, knows he’s failing as he feels it thrumming so heavily under his skin. Carol looks down at her once more, nodding at Daryl to pick her up now they know there’s no internal bleeding, now they know there’s no broken bones.

He should take her to the hospital, he knows he should, but she hasn’t been comfortable with the one here, hasn’t really been comfortable with a doctor since Denise, and whilst she likes Theo as a person, she’d never forgive Daryl if she woke up in a hospital and wasn’t on the brink of death. So, he carries her home, ignoring how fragile she feels in his arms.

He sets her up in their bed, hovering in the doorway every ten minutes until it looks like she’s stirring awake. It must have been at least a few hours, He picks at the skin of his thumb as he watches her slowly open her eyes, flexing her fingers against the warm fur of his beloved pup. There’s a brief moment of panic before she focuses on him, calming instantly in a way that would warm his heart in any other situation.  

Dog grumbles when Daryl asks him to move, whether refusing to leave her side or the comfortable mattress Daryl isn’t sure. For an animal who lived in the woods at the end of the world, dog does a remarkable imitation of a pampered house pet and he’s grown accustomed to a plush surface alarmingly fast. Still, the canine moves, dragging himself off the side of bed to stand guard by the bedroom door.  

Glass of water in hand, he tries not to jostle the bed too much as he sits, watching her wince as she tries to sit up a little.

“Hey” she rasps, coughing around a sandpaper dry throat. Her vision is blurred in one eye and the side of her waist hurts like a son of a bitch, but Daryl is warm next to her, worried eyes and tense shoulders but there.

“Ya gotta take a sip, Honey” his voice is low as he proffers the glass of cold water to her lips until she makes contact, swallowing heavily around a small gulp of it “There ya go, attagirl” he praises, a skill he has long since mastered.

“Thank you”

“Scared th’ shit outta me”

She sits taller suddenly, waving off his touch when her pained gasp ends in his large, firm, always reassuring hands hover above her. There’s a tinge of panic to her now clearer voice.

“Where are the kids?”

“Carol has ‘em”

“Are they okay? Are you okay?”

“…Yeah” he responds slowly, eyebrow raised in concern at her questions “Ya don’t remember what happened?”

She turns her head to the side like Dog does when he’s trying to understand what human language is. She could laugh at the fact her neck doesn’t hurt, thanks a god she doesn’t believe in for small, humorous mercies; I’m battered and bruised, but my neck is fine and Daryl Dixon is in my bed so take that world, I fight another day. She thinks hard, tries to recall anything.

“I was going for a walk?”

“Ya vanished, looked all night f’ ya, Carol found ya in th’ alley”

Her mouth forms a small, silent ‘oh’. She doesn’t remember an alleyway, doesn’t remember seeing Carol, though she knows Daryl wouldn’t lie to her. He never does about anything but his wellbeing.

“D’ya remember anythin’ else?”

She strains her mind, pictures herself walking about of their apartment, the fresh air hitting her face. A fist coming at her face, a metal wall, pain in her cheek, the kids eating breakfast no wait that can’t be right, a heavy shoe coming at her body, dog running around the park, pain everywhere.

“I can’t…I don’t…sorry” Lip wobbling, she lets out a frustrated sob, scared and confused and worried that her mind has betrayed her. He shushes her.

“S’alright, I ain’t mad at ya”

She’s letting the tears fall freely now, ignoring the way the salt stings her cut lip and focusing on the way his palm is running soothingly along her spine, the scent of cigarettes and musk.

"S'alright, I got ya"

There will be more time, for thinking, for remembering. There will be plenty of time because he won’t go anywhere, will never leave her and nobody can know anything in the damn apocalypse, but he knows they have time; he’ll stand at the gates of heaven or hell and refuse when his time is up, because he’ll always need more. he’ll When she remembers, because Daryl absolutely refuses to acknowledge that she might not, when she remembers, Carol beside him, Daryl Dixon is going to war.