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[gottalovetumbler]

TF141 Zombie Apocalypse AU pt.2

Info: very gory and decently dark, cussing, slavery-esk, kinda obsessive too

Setting info: so I live in Colorado so this story is widely based on where I live and the Denver airport. To help set the scene I’ve included a picture I took outside of my house to show where the main character and Johnny live.

Anyways I hope y’all enjoy!

————————

“For the last damn time we are not going anywhere near Denver!”

“Come on bonnie! Juist imagine the untouch’d mail thare! It woul’ be like gettin the winnin lotto ticke’ !”

“Yea but instead of walking away with a shit ton of cash we’d be walking into a shit ton of zombies! Also don’t forget the sign saying to stay away from the airport.”

“Ah come on, whan has thon sign iver been richt aboot anything? remember earlier this year whan it says,’best outpost this side o the rockies juist 15 miles south.’ an then the same outpost blew up no e'en 2 months later. Tha’ sign has alway’ been full o lies.”

“No that sign has always been full of false hope, not lies. And it sure as hell has never been used as a warning sign, especially with how far whoever wrote it must have traveled to get up here. Whatever they’re warning people about, it’s serious and we’re gonna heed it. End of discussion.”

With that, you flip and stalk up to your house. Pulling open the door you walk in but don’t hear the door slam shut behind you so you know he’s followed you in. Of course he has, it’s your turn to cook dinner so he’ll be here all night.

“But Bonnie, it’s only aboot an hour drive.”

He whined, shutting the storm door and following you to the kitchen.

“It used to be an hour drive Johnny, 5 fucking years ago before the world went to shit. Do you know how many pileups and walkers there are in that city? Too many.”

You glance up from the pot you were stirring. The soup just about done and the scent wafting around making both your stomach growl. You’ve solemnly seen Johnny so defeated, the last time you saw him this bad was the day he turned up on your door step 2 years ago.

“Listen, I get it I do. It’s hard being in the middle of nowhere, nothing to do or to see. I get it I promise, I grew up here. But the possibility of finding some cool package meant for some chick named Racheal at the FedEx hub is not worth the risk. It just isn’t.”

“Yea you’re richt. The packages aren’t worth the risk o ane o us gettin hurt or worse,’ you turn your gaze back to the oven, glad you’ve finally got through to him. It sucks being stuck here but atleast you’re both safe-,’neither are the animals. They deserve tae stay trappit where they are because they just….. aren’t worth the risk. Right Bonnie?”

The glare you send his way just about lays him on his ass. The cocky smirk he sends you makes you nearly explode with anger. How fucking dare he use the defenseless animals against you.

“You and I both know any animals trapped down there are long gone and sadly there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Maybe…… but wha’ if they aren’t? Ye gonna let thaim suffer alone a scared while ye sit here eatin chicken noodle soup?”

———

Back before the outbreak, you thought no car rides would ever be worse than the family road trips you used to go on yearly. They were full of anger and arguing, mainly between your parents but what you would give to be back there. Not just because you miss your parents, you do, but because if you hear Johnny sing one more damn Rihanna song, you may just give yourself to the zombies.

“Umbrella-ella-ella-eh-eh-eh, Under my Umbrella-ella-ella-eh-“

“Johnny, shut the fuck up! You don’t need to sing this song 50 times in a row! I promise you’ll live if you stop singing.”

“For all ye know bonnie, ma beautiful voice coud be the one thin’ keepin us safe so hou aboot ye respect it a bit more? hmmm?”

“I highly doubt that if your voice is keeping things away, it’d be because it’s beautiful.”

He turns to you with an eyebrow raised but before he can retort, the large (and frankly, ugly) FedEx logos appears. Sun damaged and looks to have been half plowed down by a minivan, but recognizable non the less. You can’t tell if it’s the tires or Johnny squealing as he veers the car towards the front doors.

———

It’s been 4 hours since you pulled up to this God-forsaken warehouse and you’ve barely glanced through half the packages, let alone open and look at them like Johnnys doing.

“How much longer are you gonna take? I’d like to leave before I begin turning to dust if possible.” You ask/complain as you sit on a Samsung fridge new in box, probably cost more than 2k before but now it’s nothing more than a crappy bench. You guys spend another hour loading all the ‘good’ stuff into the trunk of the car and begin the long trek home.

It was about 4 am when you started the journey down and it’s just about to get to 9:30 pm as you make your way back up. On the drive back you guys stick to the highways instead of the side roads/land. It looks like when shit hit the fan almost everyone started making their way south to try and get out of the city, clogging up the roads while the north bound road had a few straggling cars but no big blocks luckily.

“Grumpy, grumpy. Absolutely na respect for the hunt. Back whan A wis i the military A usit tae have tae sit still i ane spot for hours hopin tae catch a glance at the missions target. Aye could hunt for hours an niver get borit.”

“That’s the first time you’ve mentioned your time in the military in a few months.” You say staring straight ahead at the ‘road’ (it’s a fucking field) processing what he said for a moment. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss wha’ exactly?”

“Ya’know the missions and the ‘doing the greater good.’ Getting the bad guys and putting them down.”

“A dae miss the missions a little bit, ay. But A miss ma fellow soldiers more. We were a family, a found on’ but on’ nonetheless.”

You guys banter and talk for a bit more, effectively killing time till you have to inevitably had back north. Luckily the drive down wasn’t too bad since you were able to cut through fields and avoid any towns with ease.

If there’s one thing zombie movies and shows got wrong, it was the amount of zombies walking the earth. Sure, there used to be about 7 billion living people and that number has now dropped to a measly 400 million. But that doesn’t mean every other body is a current zombie. In the beginning there were loads but as the years went on and more were killed, the hoards became far and few between. On the drive down you guys maybe encountered 10 or 15 zombies, majority once you reached Denver. The drive back you’ll probably only see 5 to 10, if that.

You’d about halfway out when the car starts the slow. Your head had just knocked the door in your attempt to get some shut eye so your heart was already pounding as Johnny hit the breaks. Looking up you expect to see a pile up, a hoard or maybe worse, survivors, but all your met with is an open road. Glancing to your left to see what Johnny’s looking at you follow his gaze to your right and see a giant sign for the airport.

“No Johnny don’t even think about it. We talked about this, whoever wrote that sign was truly scared of whatever’s in that airport so we’re aren’t going anywhere near it.”

He shoots you a quick glance, studying your quirked eyebrow before he mutters a quick, ‘Sorry Bon.’ and veers toward the airport. Stupidly (don’t this at home kids) you reach for the steering wheel while yelling at him to stop. The second you get both hands on the wheel he grabs your wrists with one and holds them to his chest. Still muttering apologies as he reaches 60 mph and weaves through stopped vehicles. One too many close calls cause you to shut your eyes tightly waiting for the inevitable impact. A few minutes later you both come to a stop on the top floor of the DIA parking garage.

As he put the car in park and looks over, he expects you to yell or maybe even slap him. What he didn’t expect were the fat tears rolling down your face and you stared petrified at the entrance.

“Juist a quick in an oot ok? We’ll be back home i na time- oh bonnie i’m sorry ok, I’m so sorry.”

He pulls you in for a hug and strokes a hand down the back of your head and spine a few times.

“Ye don’t have tae gae i gin ye don’t want tae ok? A juist have tae see somethin for ma own piece o mind but ye can stay oot here.”

As if you could have gotten more upset at that moment. Pulling back from him you shoot him the most scandalized look. “And what Johnny, leave you alone to fucking die in there? ‘sniff’ No I’m coming in with you, but don’t think just because I’m going in either you means I forgive you for this.”

You both waited for your tears to stop and your breathing to even out before you steeped out of the car and up to the once working sliding glass doors. Newspaper had been plastered up and covered all the windows, you just hope it’s to keep zombies out and not in. Producing a crow bar from the trunk, Johnny wedges the doors open and you both sneak inside. You’re up on the second floor and begin walking around, passing the small shops and gates as you went. Up ahead you both see one of those floor cut outs with the railings where you can look over the edge to the lower levels.

When you first pulled up, there were no signs of life but as you draw closer to the viewpoint you begin to see faint light and hear voices. Shucking off the little stuff you brought in, you and Johnny lay flat to the ground and begin to army crawl toward the ledge, hoping to catch a glimpse at whoever’s down below.

The sight your met with makes you feel a bit sick, whether that due to the amount of zombies or what’s happening to them your not sure. Down below is a giant wheel, that seems to be hooked up to a generator, being pulled in circles by 20-30 of them. It isn’t unheard of for people to keep zombies and use them for some sort of manual labor but it is looked down upon. Just put the poor bastards out of their misery and let the rest.

Transfixed on the hoard you almost miss the very obviously human man walking up to one of the limping zombies that’s not moving quite as fast as he’d like. He stands there watching the poor thing drag its bum right leg for a good 30 seconds before it crumples to the ground.

Not even a second after the zombies knees hit the ground, the human man unchains it and begins dragging it away. The second he grabs the things shirt it begins to beg? You look to the right and meet Johnnys equally wide eyes, both of you realizing the sickening truth. Those aren’t zombies, those are fucking people.

Seemingly rritated by this, he begins dragging the human mam towards a wall. Clearly this is not a good wall because he begins to fight and yell, trying to get free but is quickly overpowered and chained up onto the wall. A bright light flicks on suddenly, momentarily blinding you as it points towards the man. Your heart skips a beat as you read the words over the top of the man’s head and holy shit you’re gonna be sick.

‘Johnny MacTavish, a traitor’

You look back over at Johnny but he’s transfixed on what’s happening below, unable to pull his wide and terrified eyes away. As the man walks away a new one appears with an all too happy voice.

“Oh Johnny, we finally found you! Do you know how hard it’s been withou' you all these years? I’ve missed you so dearly brother.”

The new man is clearly crazy because judging by the state of the wall this is not the first ‘Johnny’ to be chained up there. He approaches the chained man with a cart of knives and other torture items and from this far you can still see his manic grin. Not wanting to see the way this plays out you turn back to Johnny to say you guys need to leave but as your eyes slide over to his you catch something straight across from you on the opposite side of the opening.

Sitting in the same position as you, is a masked face. Just staring, not moving, just laying there watching you both. You kick Johnny to get him out of whatever trance he was in and before he can question you, your pointer finger directs his gaze to the man across the way. As Johnny makes eye contact with him his body grows frigid and he quickly stand pulling it up with him. The masked man tilts his head and slowly stands as-well, mirroring your movements perfectly.

Johnny grabs your hand and before you can even process the masked man running towards you both, he’s yanking you towards the exit.

———————

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

'Tis The Damn Season

Javy 'Coyote' Machado x Reader

Description: You've made your closest friends over the past decade as a Naval Aviator. That close friend group only expanded when your best friend fell in love when you were in flight school. Nat and Jake are cute together, you can't deny that. It helps that you get along well with Jake. Sadly, where Jake Seresin goes, so does Javy Machado. You can fly with the man, be the perfect wingman, but when both your feet are on the ground, you can't stand him. You're so sure the feeling is mutual. 48 hours in a car with him teaches you differently. Javy Machado is sweet and funny and you might just be falling in love with him. Or have you been in love with him all along?

Themes: Stuck in the snow, showers, shower-thoughts, hate-to-love, stranded in the snow,

Warnings: Female!Reader This fic is for adults age 18 and older, only! There are some fairly spicy thoughts in this part and 100% spicy happenings in the next part! Please do not read if sexual intimacy is disturbing to you!

Word Count: 3938

Author Note: This is part one of two of Gypsy and Javy's story and was written for @bellaireland1981's Winter RomCom Writing Challenge! I had an absolute blast writing this fic for Trope #17, Stuck Together/Snowed in/Stranded. I hope you all love reading this fic as much as I loved writing it! All my thanks go to @desert-fern who was instrumental as I bounced ideas back and forth for this fic, as well as for beta-reading it for me!

Cross Posted on AO3 Here!

My Masterlist

It was supposed to be the start of a fabulous holiday - supposed to be, being the key words. It’s rare, honestly nigh on impossible for you to end up having vacation leave lined up at the same time as your friends. You’re in the Navy, you’re a pilot; it kind of comes with the territory. But what is the likelihood you’d find yourself stuck in a car in the middle of a Colorado snowstorm with none other than Javy Machado? You’re unsure who you should blame because the universe clearly has it out for you.

Well, it's either the universe or Natasha Fucking Trace. Honestly, between mystic powers controlling everything that has been or will be and Nat, you’d pick her any day. A part of you has some sympathy for her. It can’t be easy dating a guy and knowing your best friend and his can’t stand each other. It’s the truth, too. You can’t remember why or when you started to get angry at the sight of his smiling face. Still, it was probably sometime between when he asked you if you needed a booster seat to see out of the cockpit and when he blitzed you on the first of the many flights you’ve taken with him. 

Why the fuck isn’t he going home to Louisiana? That’s what he usually does. God, if there’s anyone who’d know, it would be you. After all, you’ve been flying with Coyote Machado for the better part of the past decade. Every year, he’d cash in all his leave and fly home. Like clockwork, he’d return after the new year more infuriating than ever. But your knowledge of his behavior doesn’t explain why he’s in Colorado. You were both on an aircraft carrier in the Philippines, for fuck’s sake. There had to have been a transport to Louisiana via the East Coast. But against all odds, the two of you had been on the same transport and flight, hell, even the same bus to the terminal once you landed in Denver.

Now he’s staring at the same board you are, with flickering red signs as flight after flight gets marked as canceled. Including the one you were supposed to be on. It’s just your luck that Tash and Jake are reporting to Norfolk Naval Base right now. It’s just your luck that the only transport you’d been able to get on had landed in San Diego. And it’s just your luck that the cheapest flight you could get had been via Denver in the midst of what has to be the worst snowstorm the region has ever seen. Reception is spotty, but you huddle in a corner, praying to all the gods you don’t believe in that your call connects.

“Tash?” Her voice is grainy and barely audible, but god, if it doesn’t make you want to cry. “I’m in Denver, yeah. There’s a colossal snowstorm blowing in. My flight’s been canceled.”

“I don’t think I’m going to make it in time.”

“I know.”

“I know. I’ve missed you so much. But I don’t see a way for me to get out of here and get there in time?” 

“Yeah, Javy’s here.” You can’t control your eye roll as you say his name. “Yeah, I’ll give him the phone.”

“Yo, Machado. Tash wants to talk to you.” He takes the phone from you like he doesn’t want to touch you, which shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

It’s loud and crowded at the airport, so you can’t hear a word of what he says to Nat. There’s nothing else to do but stand at the window and watch the snow fall and fall and fall. There’s already close to a foot accumulated on the ground, and while you’d been wishing for the snow in the heat and humidity of the ship, you hate it now.

“Here, Gypsy.” You accept the device with a half-smile. “Tash had a pretty good idea, y’know?”

You can’t help raising your eyebrow. Javy swallows, more than a little discomfited at your gimlet gaze. “She suggested we rent a car and drive out to Norfolk together.”

Eighteen hundred miles, and he wants to spend all of that time and distance stuck in a car with you? You scoff, “You couldn’t pay me to do that, Machado.”

“Yeah, I know.” There’s something sad and haunted in his eyes. “I know. Believe me, I do. But this isn’t about you and me. This is about Jake and Nat. They want us there, celebrating Christmas with them. So don’t think about doing this with me. Think about how you’re doing this for them.”

Damn him. Damn him for being right. “How are we going to get a car in this?” People are yelling at the poor airline staff behind the counter, kids are screaming, and Christmas Carols are pouring out of the speakers. It’s chaos - loud, unmitigated chaos.

“You leave that to me. You have your bags?” Before you can think or even respond, he’s cutting a swathe through the crowd, and you’re left standing near two Navy standard-issue duffel bags and your one small rolling suitcase. It takes half an hour before he comes back. In that half an hour, you find you’re glad you’d opted for carry-on bags because the mob at the counter waiting to collect check-in bags descends into an outright fistfight.

Javy’s rumpled, his sweater mussed when he lopes back to you, thankfully with car keys in hand. “I got ’em. We have to head down to the main concourse.”

“Anything to get out of this shitshow.” He chuckles and grabs your bags and his own despite your protests.

The car is old but functioning. It’s tiny, though. It's so small that you’re not sure he’ll fit behind the wheel. It can’t be comfortable when he does end up in the car. It looks like his knees are pressed against his chest, even with the seat pushed back as far as it can go. You’re in the passenger seat because he refused to let you drive, and as expected, you’re surrounded by snow the minute the car leaves the parking garage. Visibility is shit, and it feels like the car is moving at a glacial pace. You’re surprised the roads are open at all, and to add insult to injury, you’re sitting in silence. The radio isn’t working, there is more snow - this time of the feedback variety, ironically - and the car is old, so there is no auxiliary cable or USB cable to connect your phone to. And, well, you’re not a fan of the man you’re stuck in the car with for the next 24 to 36 hours, so the less conversation you have, the better. It’s not even like you can read. You’ve only been on the road for an hour at most when the sun sets. But the roads are still open, and traffic is still moving.

As the minutes turn into an hour on the dark, snow-covered roads, you feel your exhaustion setting in. You’ve never slept well on planes - go figure that ninety percent of the time you’re in a cockpit, you’re flying - but flying commercial somehow makes it work. Strap yourself into a jump seat on a cargo plane, and you’re out like a light. Sleeping on a carrier with planes taking off round the clock and midshipmen screaming outside the door, you’re snoring like a baby. But flying economy? Forget about it. So, besides the few hours of fitful sleep you’d gotten on the cargo plane - because you can’t sleep where Javy Machado can make fun of you - you’ve been awake for nearly 48 hours. Your eyes feel itchy and hot, each blink torturous as you fight exhaustion. The car is so warm, and Javy's silent. Even he can't object if you rest your eyes a little, right?

You wake up to a roar of the word, ‘SHIT’, echoing through the car. You startle, and if you were a cat, you’d be stuck to the upper upholstery, fur ruffled and back arched. A coat covers your lap, the soft, rich wool imbued with spicy cologne. It has to be Javy's coat. When did that get there? The visibility out of the windshield is even worse, if possible, and Coyote’s arms are corded as they clutch the wheel in an iron grip.

“Hey, how long was I out?” He doesn’t even look at you when usually he’d be more than ready to tease you on how you probably have drool on your face.

“Coyote? ‘Yote? Hey?!”

“Javy? What’s going on?” You place your hand on his arm, pretending not to notice how firm and warm it is under the bunched-up sleeves of the soft sweater he’s wearing. “Javy, you’re scaring me. C’mon. Tell me what’s happening. What’s a wingwoman for if she can’t help?”

“We’re somewhere in Kansas, and the snow makes this really hard.” There’s something unreadable in the expression on his face as he snarls at the other, far slower drivers on the road in front of you.

“We should stop for the night then.” 

“No.” He snarls the words at you, and that’s when you know something is wrong. “No, I can keep going.”

“Javy, maybe you can, but I can’t. I need to take a break, hit the head, and stretch my legs.” 

He doesn’t respond, content to make you worry the longer the silence spirals between you like an oppressive living thing. He pulls off the highway when the next exit presents itself. The motel he pulls up to on the side of the road is rough-looking. It’s small and old, but at least it smells clean, or well, at least clean-ish. As luck would have it - because your luck couldn't be any shittier - there’s only one room left for the night. You slap your credit card down on the counter before he can object. He’s Javy Machado. You know what he’s like better than almost anyone else. You may not like him very much, but you can read all of the signs. He’s not the type to let a woman pay for anything, not when he can pay for her. He can take it up with you when he’s not acting weird.

You push him into the shower once you’re in the room, content to just sprawl out on the bed until he’s done. Really, all you're hoping is that the hot water is enough to snap him out of this eerily quiet, angry mood and back to the pain in your ass you're used to. When he steps out, it’s wrapped in one of the motel’s paper-thin towels, and you have to avert your eyes. There’s just a shadow of a smirk on his face as you pass under his arm with all of your clothes bundled up against your chest, trying and failing to avoid making eye contact with all of his wet, glistening muscles. It takes you far too long for your brain to reboot after that sight, and mortification and anger are your companions as you hurriedly strip off your snow-laden clothes.

You’re grumbling the entire time it takes the shower to heat up because it is not fair that Javy Machado looks like that under his uniform. No wonder every girl within a ten-mile radius of base wants to get into his pants. You step into the shower nearly too early, stifling squeals as the too-cold water splatters across your skin. After a few minutes of determined shivering, you finally step under the warming water, coming out in a steady, roaring stream. At least it’s getting hot now, though it’s not as hot as you’d like. You let the spray beat your muscles into submission, relishing the first moment you’ve had by yourself since you left the carrier fleet hours ago. But you’re left in peace only for a few moments. Unbidden, your one-track mind finds its thoughts consumed by Javy Machado again. It starts off with an innocuous thought, “How did a man that large fit into this tiny shower? He could probably see over the curtain rod!” Then you’re wondering if he’s alright. But as your soapy hands trace over your skin, you start to imagine other things. 

You start to imagine water droplets sliding over the ridges of his muscles, skating over defined abs, and collecting in the dip of his collar bones. His hands are big and calloused as they lather soap across his skin and then over yours. Shit! When did you start dreaming of yourself in the shower with Javy Machado? There’s an ache in your pelvis as you clench your thighs together as you dream of how those calloused fingers feel on your skin. You get yanked violently out of the vision when the water goes cold on you. It feels like you’ve been immersed in one of the snowbanks outside. You almost fall as you step out of the shower, but it’s silent. Your face is flushed in the fogged-up mirror, your eyes fever bright as your blood pulses in your veins in the same rhythm as your aching cunt. You inhale and exhale raggedly, trying to get your libido under control. Please let there be a bar near Nat and Jake’s place - please - you need to get fucked so bad that you’re fantasizing about your wingman, of all people, now. 

It’s getting cold in the bathroom as the steam dissipates when you finally pull yourself together and get dressed fast in a bid to escape the cold. But it is still silent outside the bathroom - almost too silent. You expect laughter at the very least when you open the door because your warmest pajamas are covered in dancing penguins. Instead, Javy’s sitting on the bed, staring out the open window at the milling snow, looking for all the world like he’s lost something he’s just found.

It’s cold in the room, the motel’s shitty heating is barely able to combat the frigid snow outside, and he’s not wearing a shirt. But he doesn’t even notice the gooseflesh on the smooth, broad expanse of his back and chest. The cold blue light reflecting off of the snow piling up outside makes the room even colder, casting deep purplish shadows over his face and making the room eerie. You check that the door is latched and bolted before walking back towards Javy. He doesn’t move a muscle when you take his hands in your own. They’re like ice. He doesn’t even seem to care when you put the pillows down and fish one of your warm fleece blankets out of your bag. Bless Nat and Jake for not having a fully set up guest room yet because there’s no way you’re sleeping in this bed using sheets you’re not sure are clean. The blankets you brought are going to be perfect for the night. He doesn’t move or do anything until you intertwine your fingers with his own and tug on his arm's broad, burly expanse. He lists to the side without protest, and now you know something is wrong. Javy's not the type to do anything quietly. He's the type to shit-talk all the way while flirting endlessly. He turns towards you as you tuck the blanket around his big form, and when you move to pull another blanket out, his hand tugs you in until you’re in his arms.

The pinched furrow creasing his brow finally dissipates slightly. Something’s wrong, and you’re not sure what it is. If this helps, you’ll stay where you are. After all, you’ve slept in far more uncomfortable beds with much worse companions. Javy smells incredible, like soap, cologne, and something you can't place. You curl in closer despite yourself, letting him drag the blanket even further up around your shoulders. Everything is muffled around you. All you can hear is your breath and the soothing thud of his heart. It would be easy to curl in and fall asleep, but you can’t until you know your wingman is alright. But he seems content to lie there, brown eyes glittering with emotions you couldn’t read even if you tried. There’s barely any space between the two of you. Every breath you take has your chest brushing against his.

With the howling wind and the tink of snow against the window, you feel like you’re in a dream. Finally, Javy’s eyes close, even if he is still indescribably tense. You can feel it in the arms wrapped around you and in the muscles jumping in his jaw. His eyes fly open when your fingers trace the stressed tendons lightly.

“What’re you doing, Gypsy?” You’re unsure how to respond; instead, you trace your fingers over the furrow in his brow. Maybe your touch will wipe the stress frown away from his usually jovial face?

“You’re being awfully sweet, Gyppie.” You snort at the diminutive form of your already short callsign. “And here, I thought you hated me.”

Your gasp is barely audible, but you’re sure he can hear it anyway. “You never let it affect things between us when we fly, but I know you can’t stand me.”

“I’ve spent over a decade wondering why.” His next exhale is a harsh whoosh of breath. “But you’ve never told me, and right now, I think I know exactly why. It’s just me, isn’t it, Gyp? Just me and everything that I am.”

Your voice feels stuck. Trapped, lost, chained up behind a decade of hatred, hatred which wavers like it’s standing on a stool that may just have had all of its legs cut out from under it. You curl into Javy’s embrace, wrapping your arms around his waist like it’ll show him you feel differently. Because you do. At first, you had hated Javy Machado. You hated his effortless grace, charm, and ability to pick up concepts you’d had to work to understand yourself. But then he’d been persistent, and you’d been thrust into his company by the presence of Nat and Jake. 

That’s when you’d been able to see past the bravado, the mask he put on every day. That’s when you’d fallen headlong into a more profound and long-lasting crush than any relationship you’d found yourself in. But by the time you realized your feelings, he’d picked up on your stand-offish behavior and realized he couldn’t befriend you. Your crush never faded, but it’s evident that Javy had noticed your initial feelings and acted accordingly. But why would he blame everything that happened on himself?

“I know you’re probably wondering why I’m not home for the holidays right now.” What does that have to do with what he was just talking about? “Just chalk it up to another textbook case of me being myself.”

“I can't say I didn't wonder. But it's not my place to poke and pry. Why you're not heading home to Mama Machado is your business.”

“But you can't deny that you're curious, can you?” You shrug as much as you can with your arms wrapped around him.

“Of course you're curious. But how could I have gone home, Gyppie? How?” There's so much pain in his voice as he growls the words out.

He goes silent then, a frown creasing his face as his jaw moves under your fingertips. Your gentle touch doesn’t seem to bother him, just like the prickle of his stubble doesn’t bother you. In another world, in another life, could you have been sleeping every night in his arms like this? You’re not sure you deserve it. Javy was right earlier. You’ve been rude ever since the day you met him. Would anything have changed if you’d acted differently? If you’d been shy and withdrawn instead of angry and argumentative? That water’s long since flowed under the bridge. Too much time, too much history, too much animosity. All you can hope to do is listen. For your wingman, that’s the least you can do.

But your little nap in the car hadn’t been of much use. The longer you spend pressed against the human equivalent of a space heater, the sleepier you feel. You have to stay awake. This could be your one chance to go from rivals or enemies or colleagues to friends. Maybe you could even casually ask Javy to grab a beer after the holidays? But the first step to all of that is to stay awake.

His hands slide up until they're cradling the back of your head, pulling your face level to his own.

“You're not falling asleep on me, are you, Gyppie?” You shake your head wordlessly, captivated by how you can feel his breath against your lips, practically taste the mint from his toothpaste, and how you could kiss him if you leaned in just a bit further.

“It's okay if you do. You barely slept on the plane. My problems don't mean a thing in the face of your exhaustion.” Once again, you're speechless. How is he so selfless? How did you not notice before this very moment?

“I'm okay, Javy. Tell me one thing that's bothering you, the most important thing.” Your voice is the barest whisper, a sigh as he maneuvers you closer and traps your feet between his calves.

“Well, your feet are like itty-bitty ice cubes, Gyppie. The fuck did you do? Stick ‘em in a snowbank before you get into bed?” You gasp and growl playfully at him, pushing at his chest until he pulls you in even closer.

“But in all seriousness, you've been wondering why I didn't go home.” His words are expelled on exhales of breath, just as quiet as yours were earlier, spilling out in stops and starts. “I can't go home, Gyppie. My brother's wedding is on Christmas Day. But it's not that I'm against my brother's marriage. It's more like his fiancée is against having me there.”

You can’t believe anyone would go so far as to ban Javy from his brother's wedding just because she didn't want him there. You cup his jaw gently, letting your hand curl around to cradle the back of his in a position mirroring how he's still holding you.

“You want to know the kicker, Gyppie? She was my fiancée first. She dumped me because she couldn't stand the deployments and fell into bed with my brother days after.” 

“What a stupid thing to do.” You're no longer looking into his eyes, focused on his collarbones. “That was a dumb move, and you know it, Machado. She just alienated herself from most of your family. Your Mama first and foremost.”

His laughter has you giggling, too. When your laughter and his finally taper off, you're left to marvel at how much things have changed.

“You want to know the best part?” You hum in response. “The reason why we broke up was because I was already in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t wait for you to ask or even allow you a chance to get past your shock. His hands tip your head up again until you're face to face, and he kisses you, slow and sweet. Your moan takes you by surprise as you try to pull him even closer, letting him imprison you in his embrace.

“Fuck, this Christmas would've been so different if I'd just told you how much I loved you before we left flight school, Gyppie.” 

This time, you tug him in, kissing him slow and sweet until there's molten lava in your veins and there's snow in your mind. It's beginning to feel like a holly jolly Christmas indeed.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

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[cowgremlin11]

So as someone who FULLY subscribes to the idea that a modern au Dutch would dress like it’s still the 70’s, I propose the idea that he’d listen to only 60s-80s music (what he calls the only good period of music.)

He’d listen to Prince, Christopher Cross (Arthur’s theme lol), Boston, Journey, Duran Duran, Johnny Cash, Bonnie Tyler, Queen, The Beatles, John Denver, TOTO, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, Fleetwood Mac, Seals and Crofts, The Outfield, Men At Work, Blue Swede, Starship, Elton John (OBVIOUSLY), etc etc.

But MOST of all, Dutch would listen to ABBA. This man fully stans ABBA, he has ABBA merch, all the vinyls, he cried when Voyage came out, he probably even got to see them in concert at one point. You cannot take Mamma Mia from this man because my my just how much he missed him. His fav ABBA song would be King Kong Song because he loves to pull Hosea over to do silly little dances while he sings along, and Hosea just loves to see that big stupid smile.

And, I say this as a YRR fan, Dutch would go to Yacht Rock Revue shows and be on the rail with Hosea beside him (who probably has some earplugs in since it’s loud in front of Monkey Boy.) He loses his ever loving mind when they do the Africa/Dancing Queen mashup and he knows all of Nick’s little improvisations to the point that he does them in the car whenever a song comes on. (Also, anchorheads in joke, but he’d yell FUCKIN LOCKET- during Brandy. Gotta love live stream slip ups)

so here’s my Dutch playlist, please ignore how itll go from sad dutch song to angst to fall out boy to yacht rock to rdr soundtrack and back to fall out boy its my wall across campus and think abt dutch soundtrack

Thank you for coming to my TED talk, I have to walk to class now.

[billthedrake]

THE SALES GUY

Business travel is OK, until it's not.

Thunderstorms back east had cancelled one flight and seriously delayed another. Even with the time difference, it was almost 9 when we landed in Denver. At least Carson and I had status and were upgraded to business class. We were the first off the plane, rolling our business carry ons behind us through the airport, making our way toward the rental car area.

Carson Wells is one of the sales guys in our group. The dude's young, about 30, but he's good at his job and moreover has a crazy ambition. It's why he was paired with me on a prospect this big.

I'll be honest, I used to hate the folks in Sales. I felt like we did the work, and they cashed in their commission checks. And Carson was the very type who annoyed the crap out of me. Fratty, capable only of small talk, nice almost to the point of seeming fake. But times like this I was grateful I was paired with him: the guy didn't get stressed out about travel hiccups.

"I love Denver, man," he said in a tone that would sound chipper if it weren't such a masculine bro kind of voice. "Shame we don't have the time to go hiking or anything while we're out here."

For some reason, I was in the mood for Wells' small talk. "You into outdoor sports? I pictured you as more a country club guy," I teased.

"That too," Carson said as he flashed his smile. Pearly white teeth, fucking perfectly formed dimples, well trimmed blondish-brown beard. Yeah, one reason my defenses were down was because Carson Wells was stunningly cute and stunningly hot.

Down boy, I thought to myself. It's not like my dick was chubbing or anything, but I knew how to be a professional at work, and with colleagues. Even ones as hot as Carson. Besides, the dude was grade-A hetero.

Carson had reserved the car and we strutted right over to pick up the key. Of course, Carson went for an upgraded model. I thought of lecturing him about costs, but figured I'd let his manager deal with that headache. Besides, if we reeled this big fish in, no one would give a fuck how much Carson ran up on his business credit card this trip.

We were both tired from the long day and once we checked into the hotel it was time to go to our respective rooms and call it a night.

If you've seen one Marriott you've seen them all. At least this one had a good view of the mountains, though it would be morning before I'd have time to appreciate it. For now, I undressed and brushed my teeth and slipped into bed. I didn't even have my daily masturbation time, I was so tired.

***

The presentation the next day went well. Really well. Carson brought the dynamic sales pitch, and I brought the gravitas. Of course we didn't know what they'd decide yet, but you sometimes get a vibe from a prospect, and that vibe was positive.

Carson was getting it too. We stopped at a trendy restaurant near our hotel that was half steak house, half small plate kind of place. Carson joked it was the kind of place he'd take chicks to if he wanted to impress them. Honestly, I didn't care where we ate. I don't eat a lot on the day of a sales call, and now my appetite was catching up with me.

"I think this calls for the good stuff," Carson announced as he strutted up to the bar, me a couple paces behind. God, he was so sexy in that post-pitch mode, his 5'11" body filling out his trim-cut tailored suit just right, and those thick thighs leading up to an amazing ass...

"Best bourbon you have," he asked the bartender. Then, he flashed those dimples as he turned to me. "Oh I forgot, you gay guys don't drink bourbon, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "It sounds like you're scripting the next HR compliance video, Wells."

He chuckled. "Is that a yes or no, Boss?" I technically wasn't his boss, but I was an officer and somehow Boss had become his playful nickname for me.

"Sure," I said, adding that the prospect was ultimately gonna pay for this round.

"Damn straight," Carson grinned, his green eyes twinkling.

We sat the bar, sipping some pretty damn amazing whiskey. Carson had his legs spread, effortlessly manspreading. I didn't stare or scope him out or anything, but let's say I enjoyed the view.

Our conversation was all business as our food arrived, and even as we ordered another drink.

"Maybe grab another back at the hotel bar?" he asked as we nearly finished that round. It was getting dark out but still wasn't too late. "I'm in the mood to celebrate."

I nodded, signalling for the check. "Sounds good. Only we haven't won the client yet."

"We're gonna win 'em, Bill. You know it, too."

I shrugged. "Yeah," I conceded.

Carson laughed. "Didn't think you'd be so superstitious."

I nudged my leg against his. Hopefully more a buddy nudge than a flirty one, but the booze was loosening me up. "I'm surprised you're not, Wells."

We paid up and made our way back to the boring bar at our boring hotel. It felt great to unwind there. I knew Carson was eager to have more than one other drink, and I wouldn't mind getting a little tight myself. It had been a tough week.

"You're buying this time, Boss," he said. "Just don't order me some well-liquor shit."

I was tempted to get him a cheap domestic beer, just for being a smart ass, but ended up splurging on another top-shelf bourbon.

"Here's to the Dream Team," he toasted as we clinked our glasses. We were just about the only ones in the bar area, seated on one of the couches.

"You did great, man," I said.

He smiled again. Fuck, those pearly whites. "Man, that's probably the first time you've ever thrown me a compliment."

"No it isn't..." I objected. Now that I was in a managerial role, I knew it was my job to provide positive feedback to everyone on my team.

"For real," he said, with a smile that said he wasn't too upset. Or maybe Carson was just being his frat-boy nice. "You're kind of intense, Boss."

"Oh," I said. Not sure what to make of it. Though Carson wasn't the first person with that opinion of me.

He nodded. "I'm gonna say something that's not HR-approved... but you've mellowed out a lot since you broke up with Rob."

Rob was my ex-husband. I still couldn't tell if it ended amicably or bitterly. But it had been a big shift in my life. "It was a divorce," I corrected Carson.

"Yeah, divorce. Sorry. I know that was an asshole thing to say. It's just, well, you seem happier now. I hope you are, Bill."

Something about his sincerity, combined with the booze, had me opening up unexpectedly. "There's good and bad," I replied in a measured way. "But the freedom is nicer than I expected."

Carson nudged my knee with his, in what I would have guessed was a flirtation, and gave ne a "you dog" kind of look. "I bet," he smirked. Then he got an impish look on his cute face. "Maybe I shouldn't admit this to you, man, but I sometimes have fun with guys."

I gulped. This was major HR-inappropriate territory. "Is that right?" I asked with my best poker face.

The man nodded. The sexual part of my brain was just thinking how incredibly fuckable my coworker was. His voice made him even hotter, I thought. "Not the whole nine yards like you gay guys, but yeah..."

"How do you know what I do in bed?" I had to tease.

He laughed and shrugeed. Again, flashing that killer smile. "You got me there, Boss. Guess I shouldn't make assumptions." We paused and, fuck, our eyes met, like really met. I wasn't imagining it: Carson Wells was fucking flirting with me. "Can I trust you with this, man?" he asked.

I gave some motion of my hand that was some combo of crossing my heart and scout's honor.

He bit his lip nervously, playfully, and then lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "Um, yeah, I'm into sucking a guy's dick." He blushed as he said it, but I had to be impressed by how forthright he was. It was the last thing I expected from Carson's mouth. His nervousness carried him on. "I mean, just the feel of a hard cock in my mouth.... it's wild, kind of a taboo you know for a guy like me."

"I can imagine," I said. Not wanting to either encourage or discourage Carson. My dick was getting rock hard in my suit. And there was no way it was going down soon.

"Yeah," Carson beamed, glad I wasn't judging him or giving him any flak for his bi streak. "I mean it's crazy, I don't even need my dick sucked or anything, just that act is enough to get me going, you know?"

I nodded but replied. "Not exactly, Carson. I guess I'm more a receiving is better than giving kind of guy," I joked.

"Did Rob do that for you?" he asked.

This was definitely inappropriate conversation. But fuck it. "That and more," I replied. "Rob was a big ol' bottom."

"Hot," Carson said. There was something weird about our dynamic now. Buddy-buddy, but also like lusty. Carson took a sip of bourbon, but he was nearing the bottom of his glass. "Another round, Boss?"

I held mine up and swirled the last half centimeter of brown liquid in the rocks glass. "I shouldn't, man." I was already pretty buzzed.

"Come on," he urged. "We're the fucking Dream Team."

I caved and nodded. If my boner was riding a good ridge in my trousers it downright throbbed watching Carson's hot suited body get up and strut over to the bar. I needed to find some self control, in case Wells was actually gonna proposition me. Maybe he just wanted someone to talk to about his bi side. Or maybe he liked teasing me as an ego boost.

He was all smiles when he came back with two more drinks. We clinked glasses and had our first sips. "To a killer day," he smirked.

"Yep," I said. I wasn't drunk at least. But I was starting to feel really nice.

He looked around. I thought he was just idly checking out our environment, but I realized he was seeing if the coast was clear. His eyes flitted back to my crotch.

"You look like you're packing a lot down there, Boss," he said. That sexual edge somehow changing his frat-bro voice.

"Sorry," I muttered. Trying to cross my legs.

"Don't hide it, man," he urged. "No one can see it from a distance, not in those pants."

I blushed as I spread my legs again, manspreading as I faced this hunky sales guy. This was so wild and wrong, but my dick was rock hard.

"Nice boner, Boss," he smirked.

"Thanks," I said. Maybe I thought if I limited my words there'd be less cause to get me fired.

"How big is it?" he asked.

"How big?" I chuckled. Wells was the last dude I imagined to be asking me for my dick size. "7 and a half," I replied. "I've not measured the width."

"It's pretty thick," Carson put out there, his eyes back on my boner. "But not too fat to suck."

"Jesus," I exhaled.

Carson's green eyes twinkled. "Am I getting you worked up, Boss?" Jesus, he loved flirting all right.

"You know you are, damnit."

"This is just between us, right?" he clarified.

"It better be," I hissed. "Not how I expected this trip to go..."

"You upset?" he felt me out.

"Depends on if I'm thinking with my brain or my dick," I answered honestly.

That made Carson smile. "How bout your dick?"

"My dick wants to get sucked," I said bluntly.

Carson nodded, almost serious, maybe the reality was making him less chipper. "Let's do this, Bill," he grunted and tossed back of the liquor, like he was building up courage.

I didn't do mine like a frat boy shot, but sipped a good amount of the remainder and set the glass down before standing up, just hoping my erection wasn't too obvious.

I couldn't believe this was actually gonna happen. Carson didn't seem to believe it either. We rode the elevator silently, almost scared to look at one another. Then he followed me to my room.

My heart pounded, because I didn't know how this was actually going to go down. I didn't want anything messy with my coworker - hell, I'd probably be the senior investment guy brought in for half of Wells's prospects - but it was probably too late for that.

I tried to think of how this would go down. For a half minute, a part deep in my brain wanted to put a stop to this. But as I walked to where our rooms were, adjacent to one another, I stopped at mine and Carson looked at me with a look of horny expectation behind his straight-bro smile. I tapped the key card and ushered him inside.

The thing that helped my conscience somehow was that Wells didn't kiss me or make any move to make out with me. Like he'd had some practice he crouched in front of me, looking incredible in his slim-cut suit and gym-toned build, wasting no time reaching forward ot unbuckle my nelt. This wasn't gonna be a messy office place romance, this was just going to be a blowjob. As no-strings as they get.

"Fuck!" I hissed as the zipper came down and Carson tugged my boxer briefs below my hard prick. My dick jerked to attention, harder than I recall it ever being. This felt naughty and sexual in a way that half made me glad to be a divorced man.

"You sold yourself short, Boss," Carson teased as he ran his finger up and down my bone. "You got an amazing cock."

And like that, the sales guy was taking me into his mouth.

This wasn't Carson's first dick. It wasn't his fifth. The dude wasn't lying, he loved sucking cock, and it was clear he'd had some practice. I just stood there, hands on my hips and let him do his stuff. I got off on the mind-fuck of co-worker sex and the straight-dude fantasy come to life. I mean, Carson Wells clearly wasn't 100% straight but he was as close as I'd get to having a hetero guy blow me.

And the fact he loved this, really loved this, meant I was getting quality head. Regular, half-suction mouth strokes up and down about four or five inches of my cock, with increasing base.

"It's not gonna take me long," I warned him. If it hadn't been for the bourbon I would have nutted already. Wells was that good.

He was going for it now, kind of twisting the base of my cock with his fist as he bobbed more frantically. I placed my hand on the top of his skull, and that got an excited, deep moan from the guy. I started small thrusts timed with his sucking. Nothing too intense, I'm not an asshole. But I was getting real close, and my excitement was pushing me over that finish line.

"Oh shit! Oh fuck!" I hissed, trying not to be too loud. My cum was incredible. Maybe because Carson did this sucking thing all through my ejaculation that just added to the pleasure. My knees buckled a little.

I was finally was spent, and Carson gave one final lick at the tip before pulling back. "That was hot, Boss," he hissed, mouth full of cum and saliva.

"Damn... it was, man." I looked down. "Need me to get you off?" Once I cum I'm usually out of sex mode. But I know how to take care of a guy's needs.

He shook his head as he stood up. For real, Carson had a hardon riding up his suit pants. Not as big as mine but showing a good tent. "Nah, I'm good... I'm gonna go back to my room now, if that's OK."

It wasn't awkward as it seemed for some reason. Maybe because my swimmers were in Carson's belly now. "Yeah, that's fine... if you're sure." I felt a little guilty for the no-recip thing. But not too guilty, I suppose.

He flashed a grin. "Yeah, I'm sure. See ya bright and early tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I nodded, tucking back in and pulling up my trousers. "Have a good night, Wells. And thanks again." I was tipsy but maybe sobering up some now.

"My pleasure, Boss," he said. He paused and looked at me, and God I half expected a kiss to come right then. But he patted my arm and then walked past to the door. And left me in my room.

"Fuck!" I growled, and had to laugh at how crazy it was I just let that happen. I knew I'd made a terrible mistake, but Carson seemed game to make it with me. And I knew if I had that chance, I'd make it again.

[remembertheplunge]

Flight impressions

11/16/1987. 4:04pm

We lifted off about 4 minutes ago. We soar above LA smog on flight 1895 bound from San Diego to Fresno with a stop in LA. We circle out over the Pacific. Tiny planes dart by far below. The earth hangs beneath all festooned in her riches of black, green and silver fox grey blue, like patterns in material art. It’s like watching an unreal movie. We bank. The mountains hang in their mist as if in magic—a blue sky trim harkens and harbors a peace lite halo. The feeling is above it all. 

4:11pm.  The land below coddles a lake, holds it in grip like a child in a mother’s lap.

4:14pm. I’ll try out the field glasses. Flight stewardess just passed by. Don’t think I want anything. Peanuts ok.

4:14:39.  We pass over the Tehachapi’s into the great Central Valley. The mountains caress down into the valley in a peaceful, almost seductivly sensual, sexual way. They gently feel their way neath velvet bed spread of valley’s sleep. A bright sun enters from left. A beautiful blue luster shimmers beyond. 

About 4 plane cashes in the last 24 hours. I imagine the thought flits through all 60 or so minds on board. I feel safe aloft.

4:18pm I’ll try out the field glasses. Nope, don’t seem to work too well up here.

4:22pm. A bit of turbulence!!

4:28pm. A bell chimes. We begin our diescent. I perceive a drag of the engines. Broad solid rock wall of the Sierra Nevadas to the East. White cotton clouds, blue grey mist of day adds majesty. The sun peaking in on the west.

The clouds and mist mimic the sea in their attachment to the land—they hug up and cuddle and out to sea, they swell and crest in repetition.

4:36pm. The cabin grows much darker. Fasten seat belt. We begin descent into Fresno. Here, below, we find a peace not present over LA or San Diego. The cities sit like computer chips midst a green checker board.

We are space people. We truly live on a revolving jewel. Emerald of the sky. The mountains vanish to mist.. Feeling of falling.We drop from higher realms of reality to a lower physical place. We are blinded now of strength of rock mother, but, she is there all the same. Now, the physical world reaches up to touch as time slows, speed slows,  weight and velocity alter. Weighting down, down, down, down—flaps and wheels scream.

We give up freedom of the sky for security of the earth. But, they are at different speeds and places. We have seen. We shall not un see.

Pale grey, brown. Closer, closer, closer. Cars, highway, runway and—we land! 4:42:55pm 

End of entry

Note: 3/24/2024

I had been in SanDiego for a criminal law class and to visit with my sister Zoe who lived there at that time.

I googled 4 plane crashes November 1987. The one that came up was flight 1713 that crashed on take off from Denver, Colorado’s Stapleton Airport on November 15,1987.. The pilots failed to properly de ice the wings and took off at too steep a pitch. Some on board died. The cause of the crash led to changes in aviation safety rules.

[kyglow]

for @falscgcds muse: denver plot based on this the second point

" so what was the point of going through the trouble of slipping past my security and somehow breaking into my garage only to still my pride and joy. " the older male's tone steeped in seriousness while narrowed eyes remained purely fixated on her with his arms folded on his flannel green shirt as he stood next to his stolen car in her garage. having paid her an unexpected visit in the middle of the night suspecting she wanted to be caught but why? denver was involved in crime even running a small organisation that loaned cash and owned a lot of businesses that would pay them half every week for collection. denver was something of a mob boss.

" so you stole it congratulations but you didn't sell it or perhaps you couldn't sell it since most people know my reputation. couldn't find a buyer or did you want to talk? " trying to wrap his head around the whole ordeal yet his aggressive frustration seemed to diminish and subside knowing that it was ' her ' a friend of his son but still he had no idea why. was it revenge for something his son did as he never knew the value of appreciating what he had and always been the reckless type. removing his arms off his chest with his hands now moving down to slip into the pockets of his denim jeans. a sigh left his lips as he wanted to get out of here despite knowing he needed to punish her. " so where are the keys? you gonna give them to me? " hoping she would make this easy and dreading she was interested in playing games not having the patience.

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#newyorktimes #disneylandcalifornia #californiarolls #californiaphotographer #inspiretexasnow #newyorkpost #texasforever #california_igers #newyorkstyle #newyorkyankees #sanantoniotexas #californiafashion #newyorkers #texasphotographer #texasproud #intags #thisisnewyorkcity #newyorkhair #texasgirl #texashillcountry #newyorkdogs #texasbbq #texashair #newyorkstateofmind #newyorklashes #californiadreamin #californialife #newyorkcitylife #california_surf #texasbarbers #melbourne #sydney #brisbane #perth

[punisheye]

1. What they smell like: Due to his job now he tends to have a lingering smell of coffee on him. He uses a sandalwood cologne. However, there will always be traces of the smell of cigarette smoke.

2. How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): If he's not spooning Vash, then he often sleeps on his back. He typically uses one pillow for himself, and because he runs warm doesn't always need a lot of blankets. He snores a little. Light sleeper, used to keeping odd hours and being able to spring awake at a moment's notice. Frequent nightmares and occasional bouts of insomnia. He tends to wake up early even on his days off, and regardless of when he went to bed the night before can usually function fine.

3. What music they enjoy: Old country, folk, and various types of classic, prog, and psychedelic rock. Think stuff like John Denver, Johnny Cash, Steve Earle, Kansas, Norman Greenbaum, Jim Croce, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, Eagles, Buffalo Springfield, Creedence Clearwater Revival—those kinds of vibes. He's like the weird uncle that smokes too much and is weirdly protective of his car but is super nice in reality and sends you money every holiday and birthday and gives you whatever you want when you visit.

4. How much time they spend getting ready every morning: Not super long. Maybe an hour at most. On a day off he wakes up, brushes his teeth, showers, makes coffee and usually a quick breakfast for him and Vash depending on how he's feeling, then properly gets dressed. When he has work he does all of this but at like twice the speed since he usually has to get to the café at like six in the morning to sign off on the truck order coming in. Still leaves breakfast for Vash.

5. Their favorite thing to collect: He's gotten really into collecting old bottlecaps for no real reason. Something to do. He has a bunch of little wood carvings, but since he made them he doesn't really consider them as things he's collecting.

6. Left or right-handed: Both; favors his right hand, but trained to be proficient with both in the event one of them gets injured and he can't pop a vial immediately.

7. Religion (if any): Disillusioned Roman Catholic.

9. Favorite touristy thing to do when traveling: Go to a bunch of restaurants and eat so much food.

10. Favorite kind of weather: After spending his entire life under the brutal heat of twin suns and then blistering cold when it got dark on a desert planet, he definitely favors more mild weather. Clear and sunny but not too hot, with a nice breeze.

11. A weird / obscure fear they have: Coming from a desert planet, he does get a bit anxious when he's surrounded by trees and can't see the landscape and everything living on it around him. Makes him feel too vulnerable.

12. The carnival / arcade game they always win without fail: Any carnival game that involves having to shoot something. Also he's really good at Galaga.

[kamarixchopra]

" Baby, you can find me under the lights, diamonds under my eyes. Turn the rhythm up, don't you wanna just, come along for the ride? "

⌜  tyla  ,  22  ,  cis woman  ,  she/her ⌟  ╱    is  that  DANCE THE NIGHT  by DUA LIPA,  i  hear  playing?  oh  that  has  to  mean  KAMARI CHOPRA  ,  is  about  to  clock  in. i  hear  they're  a  SOPHOMORE  who's  been  away  studying  SPORTS MEDICINE  at   USC. it  sure  is  a  shame  they've  grown  up  to  be  rather  PASSIONATE  and  CALCULATED. word  on  the  strip  is  that  they're  back  home  for  the  summer  and  working  as  a  FRONT DESK RECEPTIONIST  at  THE FITNESS FACTORY,  to  earn  some  extra  cash,  in  order  to  buy  a new car  but  don't  tell  them  i  told  you  that  !  

►GENERAL INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Kamari Mali Chopra NICKNAME(S): Kam, Ari, Amari LABEL: The Academic Athlete AGE: 22 DATE OF BIRTH: February 5, 2002 ZODIAC: Aquarius Sun, Aries Rising, Capricorn Moon GENDER & PRONOUNS: Female; She/Her NATIONALITY: South African HERITAGE: Indian, Zulu, Mauritian, Irish SPOKEN LANGUAGE(S): English, Russian (very little) OCCUPATION: Dancer/Dance Instructor || Front Desk Receptionist at The Fitness Factory RELIGION: Christian (raised but now distanced) SEXUALITY & ROMANCE: Bisexual; Biromantic

► APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Tyla HEIGHT: 5'3" WEIGHT: 121 lbs. DOMINANT HAND: Right HAIR COLOR: Black EYE COLOR: Brown SCARS: Little ones all over body due to wear and tear from sports TATTOOS: None.

►PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: Charismatic, Athletic, Sociable, Passionate, Humorous, Driven, Open-Minded, Reliable, Thoughtful. NEGATIVE TRAITS: Fiery, Confrontational, Calculated, Flighty, Self-Critical, Impulsive, Impatient. LIKES: Early morning runs, holidays, the first fall of snow, the smell of a new pair of sneakers, thrifting, nailing a new routine on the first try, basketball, soccer, hockey, the cheering of a crowd, the adrenaline rush of a rollercoaster drop, glitter on one's eyes, funky hairstyles, out-of-the-box themes and ideas. DISLIKES: Being laughed at, losing a competition, not being able to get someone to crack a smile, when people start boo-ing others, when people try to peacock too hard, corny pickup lines, online dating.

►MENTALITY

PHOBIAS: N/A DISORDERS: N/A ALLERGIES: Seasonal (Pollen), Bees

►BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: Johannesburg, South Africa CURRENT RESIDENCE: Los Angeles, CA/ Denver, CO EDUCATION LEVEL: BA in Sports Medicine from USC FAMILIAL CONNECTIONS: - Simone Chopra - 44, Mother, In Contact - Sherwin Chopra - 40, Father, In Contact

►FAVORITES

FOOD: Pizza DRINK: Sex on the Beach MOVIE: Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen TV SHOW: Perfect Match, Too Hot to Handle BAND: Madonna, Dua Lipa, ABBA SONG: Levitating - Dua Lipa

► EXTRA INFORMATION

JUNG TYPE: ENTP ENNEAGRAM: The Enchanter (3w2) TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral SIN: Pride VIRTUE: Drive ELEMENT: Fire CHARACTER PLAYLIST

"When the night's here, I don't do tears. Baby, no chance."

► BIOGRAPHY

Kamari was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, to two over-the-moon parents. Though she only spent her younger years in South Africa, her hometown still holds some of the best memories of her life. From dancing around with her mother in the kitchen, to singing with her father in a hammock. Her parents moved to Denver, CO, due to her father's job in the tech industry. He worked so hard to go back to school in order to provide once Kamari was an announced pregnancy. Little did he know that would uproot his family to America. Though, Kamari was excited as the 5 year old she was, that she was going on a plane and starting anew. Kamari easily rooted in Denver. Her charisma made her lots of friends, and her intellect made her somewhat of a teacher's pet. She was in Honor Society once she hit high school, and her dating life was overtly active. Even with her mother's worry, it was her father telling her mother to let her live her life how she wanted. Dance was all her idea. She excelled in any and every type of dance class she was enrolled in, and she always wanted to learn more. From belly dancing to tap classes, Kamari was absorbing it all like a sponge. It was to the point that she was put into competitive dance courses and competed for all of her high school years. She even went on to tour with a couple pop stars before going off to college. When granted a full ride scholarship to USC, Kamari was ecstatic. Her parents, though excited and proud, also faced some sadness with watching their young girl go off into the world without them. Kamari took up sports medicine as a major in order to appease her parents as she continues to dance on the USC dance team. Nowadays, Kamari is in Denver, CO, between semesters. She works as a dancer still - going on tour with some of the stars when offered. She also works as a dance instructor at the same place she took lessons as a kid; her side gig being that of a front desk receptionist at The Fitness Factory.

► PERSONALITY

Kamari is a party girl through and through. She's usually the life of the party, as well; Always able to peel people from the walls and getting everyone in high spirits with dancing. Kamari is a winner. She's so used to picking up various sports and skills and just being good at it. She's not used to losing, and that might be a downfall but to Kamari, it keeps her in tip-top shape. You can usually find her with a couple people around her desk; Gregarious to a fault and also a major flirt, Kamari attracts people to her like a magnet. She tends to lead people on both in a romantic sense, but also in a friend sense. Everyone thinks they're Kamari's best friend, but little do they know that they aren't. But, if you genuinely are one of her close friends, Kamari is reliable and a great person to go to when one's stuck in a rut. Kamari is basically FUN personified, okay? Okay.

► PLOTS

They're just girls, breaking hearts: Gimmie Kamari's girl group of friends! They're always out together and they gossip and shop together. Definitely a group that turns heads wherever they show up. Fun and wild vibes, all around! - OPEN (x3)

Jealousy, jealousy: Someone who is Kamari's frenemy who also is jealous of her and vice versa. These two attempt to one-up one another and their friendship is basically running on competition. - OPEN

Girls just wanna have fun: These are the friends who reach out to Kamari when they're in a funk and need to let their hair down. Definitely a balancing act of a friendship. They help to ground Kamari when she gets to be too much. - OPEN (x2)

My favorite bra lives in your dresser: Kamari is head over heels for this person, but they claim it's just casual. Kamari is starting to get frustrated and this person can tell. She's trying to be the cool girl in this situation, but she's ready to raise hell and confront them. - OPEN

Getcha' head in the game: This is someone who tags along with Kamari to games. They also tend to play basketball or even kick a soccer ball around with her. Very wholesome vibes of enjoying one another's company and friendly competition. - OPEN

My kink is watching you ruin your life: Exes on bad terms. We can talk about the specifics, but Kamari genuinely hates this ex's guts. It's almost a screaming match every time they cross paths. - OPEN

[valjean444]

John Yates Scamming by the Numbers

John Yates (2022 only) as reported on reddit, JY's youtube/IG, posts from those who paid, and other public sources.

Natalie (Rent, car, "loans", venmo payments . This excludes superchats.) $31,000

Unknown hag (New Macbook Pro) ~$3,000 in value

Christy Denver (2 months rent. This excludes superchats and free tax preparation service) $2,600

Unknown hag (1 month rent) $1,300

Birthday beg cash ~$2,000

JY birthday beg merchandise $2,000 (total upgraded to reflect more expensive items among the haul, leather jackets, sneakers, etc.)

Timeshare vacation gift $1,000 in value

Cody birthday beg ~$500

Patrick (Lego set) $500

Legal fundraiser (January) $1,000

Channel memberships (low ball estimate, 500 bottom tier members -JY claims 1,000 members, I've halved this to be conservative- across both IG and YouTube at $5 -many hags pay at the $20 level, but for this estimate we will go low.) 500x5x12 months $30,000

Hospital fundraiser ~$2,000

Conservative low estimate (actual total is probably much higher, as this does not include superchats, unknown venmo payments, etc. and I've halved his membership estimates and low balled estimates for vacations etc.)

New 2022 estimate for JY begging/scamming profits: $74,900

Please reply with anything I missed.

[jc-lambert]

House Credit

Kate...

Keith...

I'm in Wichita...

By the interstate in my grandmother's old neighborhood. I now have the credit to call myself "John Elway" and come at the cost of their quality of lives in Denver...

while supplementing the quality of my life.

I totally scored the number, 777-JOHN

Wanna sit down and have fun and get a couple cars and some coats have froo froo coffees and new fishnets and this and that?

Monica's Buntcakes, as in Monica Lewinsky's bakery, that's here in Wichita.We can do that right?

Put it on the house and the house be in Denver???

Oh...

then Kate and Keith need first class flight tickets to Wichita, and they might want their own private Cessna plane, with shag carpet...

and a hired pilot at competitive wages...

and pocket cash.

[allprogaragerepair]

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[star-of-flame-eternal]

Basic Income Pilot Project- omg I need more news like this.

A couple quotes from the article. Link below.

"Denver's basic income pilot — which first started payments in fall 2022 — focused on over 800 Coloradans experiencing homelessness, including people living in cars, temporary shelters, the outdoors, or other non-fixed living situations. Participants like Laws were given direct cash payments, no strings attached, and could spend the money on whatever they needed.

Denver released the project's one-year report on June 18, showing that 45% of participants secured their own house or apartment after receiving basic income for 10 months. They also experienced fewer emergency room visits, nights spent in a hospital or a temporary shelter, and jail stays. The report estimates that this reduction in public service use saved the city $589,214."

""What is fundamentally different about our approach is the way that we start from a place of trust," Mark Donovan, the project founder and executive director, said at a Tuesday press conference.""

https://www.businessinsider.com/denver-basic-income-reduces-homelessness-food-insecurity-housing-ubi-gbi-2024-6?amp

[whitepolaris]

Tulsa's Time Cars

Here in Oklahoma, a handful of vehicles have taken a trip through time-a journey across decades that begins and ends in Tulsa.

The Buried Belvedere

In the summer of 2007, a vehicle appeared in downtown Tulsa, having driven down what was most definitely a road less traveled. It was, for all intents and purposes, a trip through time-a journey from the 1950s that began and ended on the courthouse lawn.

No, the vehicle was not a DeLorean, nor was it driven by a handsome young Michael J. Fox. Rather, the car was a gold and white 1957 Plymouth Belvedere hardtop coupe that had been entombed below ground as party of the city's celebration of Oklahoma's semicentennial.

It had been placed about a hundred feet from the intersection of Denver Avenue and Sixth Street beneath a bronze plaque marking the "Golden Jubilee, Inc. Time Capsula." Engineers built a steel-reinforced concrete vault, approximately twelve feet by twenty feet, into which the plastic wrapped vehicle was lowered via crane. As part of the burial ceremony, organizers also included a steel capsule containing various historical artifacts. At the last minute, someone decided to dump the contents of a woman's purse into the glove box, items that included bobby pins, combs, a compact, a tube of lipstick, a pack of cigarettes, matches, tissues, a plastic rain cup, a little over $2 in cash, gum, an unpaid parking ticket, and a bottle of tranquilizers. Somebody else donated a case of Schlitz beer.

Organizers also had the foresight to include with the car ten gallons of gasoline and several quarts of motor oil, just in case all the futurists were right and we had all moved on to nuclear-powered flying cars by the twenty-first century.

Finally, a package of microfilm was added to the time capsule, which contained the name and guesses of all the contestants who had participated in a contest held in tandem with the event. Entrants were invited to predict the population of Tulsa in 2007, and whoever came closest would win the Belvedere when it was unearthed.

When the day finally came, fifty years later, most people had forgotten about the car. But as news of the impending disinterment spread, excitement grew not only throughout Tulsa, but around the world. Visitors across the globe came to see just what had become of the vehicle after all these years. Would it emerge pristine, a gleaming showroom-ready classic, or would it be a pile of rusted metal?

A sock hop was held in honor of the event. Car collectors brough in hundreds of classic vehicles for an auto show. The courthouse lawn was cordoned off and the Tulsa Convention Center was prepared with a special stage and a light show for the Belvedere's unveiling. When the vehicle was unearthed, it was kept under wraps; no one was allowed to see its condition until the big event.

Finally, before seven thousand spectators and a live television audience, the certain was lifted and the special protective wrap was removed. Gasps filled the auditorium. The vehicle, which had taken on the endearing nickname of Miss. Belvedere, was a mud-covered and rusted hulk. A celebrity hot-rod builder, who has been invited to take part in the event, called her "a mess."

The car's vault had been built with advice from experts at the Atomic Energy Commission, who unfortunately were skilled in designing things more for protections against nuclear attack than the rain. As a result, when the seal was broken and the lid lifted away, Miss. Belvedere was discovered sitting in about three feet of water, been filled with water. The upholstery had disintegrated, the frame had rusted, and most of the contents had dissolved away. Only the glass jars full of gas, a few dirty cans of Schlitz, and the steel came capsule had survived.

A week later, officials announced the winter of the rusty Plymouth. Raymond Humbertson, who had apparently just been passing through town in 1957 when the contest was held, came within less than 2,300 of the actual population. He had died in 1979, and so the car went to his sister.

The Planted Prowler

In 1998 a second car was entombed in Tulsa, this time to commemorate the city's centennial. The vice president of Chrysler Corporation had seen historic footage of the Belvedere being lowered into its time capsule and thought it would be a great idea, not to mention a terrific PR opportunity, to donate a vehicle and repeat the event.

Tulsa was given a handsome prototype of the new Plymouth Prowler, a retro-styled tribute to 1950s-era hot roads, that would serve as the centerpiece to an all-new capsule to be buried in Central Park. Citizens donated a collection of items to include with the car, such as a pair of inline skates, a cell phone, and a faceplate from an ATM. In the spirit of the former Schlitz donor, someone contributed a more politically correct case of root beer.

The lesson from the Belvedere's burial had yet to be learned, but organizers decided to be better safe than sorry and made careful arrangements for the Prowler's interment. All fluids were drained or substituted with synthetics, the car was sealed in a specially designed plastic container, the air inside was replaced with an inert gas and the whole thing was closed up in a vault made from corrosion-resistant aluminum. And rather than being stuck below ground, the container was only halfway buried, then covered up to form a small hill. The keys were left in the ignition, and once again, a container of gasoline included just in case. Finally, a Central Park was renamed Centennial Park lest anyone forgot it was there.

No contest was held this time, however. When the Prowler is revealed in 2048, it will be given back to Chrysler.

The Inhumed Harley

When Miss Belvedere was unearthed in 2007, Tulsans decided to bury yet another vehicle. It would be a replacement for the semicentennial capsule, which would remain sealed for another fifty years in anticipation of the state's 150-year celebration.

However, coordinators decided this time to bury a motorcycle. A local dealer donated a 2007 Harley-Davidson Street Glide and organized the donation of items such as iPods, a DVD player, a Budweiser sign, and various personal artifacts, all to be entombed in Veterans Park.

Taking a cue from the small steel container buried alongside the Belvedere, organizers chose as their capsule a scaled-up version of the pressure vessel, five feet wide by fifteen feet long and made from half-inch-thick carbon steel.

Oddly, though, no one could decide exactly where in the park to place the capsule, so after it was sealed in November 2007, the big tank was hauled off to a storage facility to be buried unceremoniously at a date undetermined.

[canyongaragerepair]

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