grimescoded

also this photo here just gives me major old caravan park vibes,, them all staying there during the summer holidays because its cheap and in a nice rural area . i need to stop talking lol

Judith wears Carl’s old flannel like it’s stitched into her skin. The sleeves hang past her wrists,, the hem torn and frayed, one cuff stiff with dried blood no one talks about anymore. It barely fits, but she wears it anyway, layered over stained shirts and tank tops , like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered .

wait yes i miss them alot lol also requests are always open 💞

Carl sat on the old counter,, legs swinging like a metronome, boots scuffed and dusty. The cracked vinyl beneath him squeaked with each shift of weight, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on Daryl, who crouched beside the skeletal frame of a motorcycle, hands deep in its rusted guts. Grease coated his fingers like a second skin, and the air smelled of aged leather, motor oil, and the kind of cologne that lingered long after its wearer was gone.

Daryl didn’t talk much when he worked, but Carl had learned to read the rhythm of his movements,, the way he paused before unscrewing a bolt , the muttered curses when something didn’t budge. It was like watching someone speak a language only engines understood .

"Carl, cm'ere for a sec" Daryl said, voice rough but not unkind.

Carl hopped down, boots thudding against the concrete. He stepped closer, and Daryl handed him a wrench without looking.

“Hold that steady,” Daryl said, nodding toward a stubborn piece of metal. “Don’t let it slip, or I’ll have to start over.”

Carl gripped the wrench,, arms tense. “Got it.”

They worked, the silence between them filled with the clink of tools and the occasional grunt. Daryl glanced up once, just briefly.

“You ever rebuild one of these before?” he asked.

Carl shook his head. “Nah. Just watched you.”

Daryl smirked, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Well, you’re doin’ better than half the grown men I’ve met.”

Carl smiled to himself and muttered a "thanks".

“Make sure to change out of those clothes before I drop you home,” Daryl said, wiping his hands on a rag that looked like it had survived three wars . He paused, glancing sideways at Carl with a half-smirk. “Your dad yelled at me last time for gettin’ oil all over your flannel.”

Carl snorted. “He didn’t yell. He just gave you that look.”

“Yeah, well, that look felt like a damn sermon,” Daryl muttered, tossing the rag onto the bench. “Started talkin’ about ‘setting examples’ and ‘responsibility’ like I was corruptin’ you with motor grease.”