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loveindefinitely · 10 months ago

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༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

08 — HONEY, HELL IS WHEN I FIGHT WITH YOU

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

Chicago looks stunning, at this time of night.

Some windows shining with artificial light, the odd shop sign lit with neon colour. Driving alongside the river, you watch as the water ripples, knowing that Gaz and a team of Marines will be down there. Next time you get a chance, you’ll ask him if he has a surfboard or two.

It’s cool, in the SUV, Laswell behind the wheel while you sit in the passenger’s side. A laptop sits on your thighs, running hot against the cargo, opened to a screen you can’t even begin to understand.

“First, we find the missile,” she says, eyes focused on the road as she manoeuvres down the quiet late night streets. Soft music plays from the radio – a way to steady you both more than anything. “Then, once this is over and the boys are getting ready to head back to base, we’ll talk.”

“Just worry about, y’know,” you start pulling your hair back, “Saving lives, and shit.”

Laswell hums, amused, and you figure it’s as good as a laugh coming from the put-together woman. From what you know of Sarah, they seem to be a perfect match.

Your window’s down, the past-midnight breeze brushing your face. It’s cool, leaving your hair to stand on end and lips to feel dry. Swiping your tongue against your bottom lip, you look to the rearview mirror, seeing nothing but road and city behind you.

It’s then that the laptop starts flashing, a red dot pinning a warehouse shed three blocks from where the two of you are driving. Laswell immediately looks to it, switching her radio on in the next moment.

“Watcher-One to Bravo-Six Actual. Perimetre is secure. We have a possible hit on the missile container. We’re moving in now,” she reports, steadfast, as her foot presses down further on the accelerator. You wind your window up, looking between the laptop screen and her.

There were many different conditions to experience, when being trained for Special Forces, or a position of leadership. It wouldn’t always be as simple as being given a building to raid and neutralise, or having a detonator in one hand and a pack of ammunition in another. Sometimes, there were covert missions, ones where no fighting or blood would be necessary.

But you could say with absolute, complete certainty that you’d never experienced something like this.

It’s somehow more exhilarating, more terrifying than any sniper’s scope focused on you, to be sat beside Laswell with the task to find a missile. Even when you don't have to do anything but watch, listen, it makes your blood run cold where it trails from your heart.

Laswell’s eyes are narrowed, a determined glean to them as she pushes down on the accelerator further, the speed of which she’s driving sending spikes of adrenaline to your heart.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, looking to her from your peripheral vision, the lights of the city cascading her skin in an array of colours, “I believe in you. All of you. You’re going to save lives, Laswell. I know it.”

She doesn’t respond, but her frame eases, and her fists loosen slightly from the wheel, her knuckles quickly gaining their colour once more.

The laptop starts flashing once more, vibrating, too, and when Laswell quickly scans the contents, she slams her palm against the wheel with a hiss. Your eyes go wide, heart pounding in your chest, foot going tap tap tap.

“Watcher-one, we’re on the target floor. What’s your status?” Price’s voice crackles through the radio, and the sudden rumble of the earth beneath the vehicle is felt down to your bones.

You’re not a specialist in missiles, or technology, for that matter.

But you can guess that this isn’t exactly good.

“Laswell, Sweetheart – what the hell was that?” Price asks, voice as close to panicked as the headstrong man can sound.

Meeting your eyes, Laswell gives you a knowing look, before saying, “John, the missile is active, it's in first stage. Be advised- controls are not in the container.”

How the men tasked by Laswell can find all of that in a matter of minutes, you’re in shock. The two of you were serving as main communicators and on-ground support, connecting the two different goals of the mission. You would get out if it came down to it, but all things considered, you were the only one in the operation without a direct assignment.

“That means Hassan has them,” Price curses into the radio, “We’re pushing into the target area. Out.”

A spark starts at the base of your spine, travelling up in bursts of movements. A reaction, a warning, your intuition coming into play again.

“Laswell,” you say, tap tap tap, “I need to get to Ghost.”

She looks at you, then, like you’ve truly lost it. Maybe you have. Maybe this is the beginning of you gaining it, after everything else has been taken from you.

Maybe this is the beginning of the end.

“Alright,” she says. “Alright.”

She takes the left.

“Fucking hell.”

Your shoulders ache from the weight of the bag strapped to your back, sweat clammy where it sticks to you like a second skin. The night breeze caresses your exposed skin, your gloves burning hot from the friction of the pulley underneath your fists.

Ghost, you realise now, had had it very easy. Got dropped off from a helicopter, no scaling needed.

But you, and your shitty gut feelings, mean that you’re trying your damnedest to get to the top of this building, lack of planning or concrete evidence the least of your problems.

The pulley pulls to a stop as you use the momentum from a swing to grip your hand onto the edge of the roof, using your arms to pull you up, torso flattening over the concrete. With a few kicks and leverage from the wall, you manage to scramble full-body onto the floor of the roof.

“Christ,” you curse, head aching as you stand on wobbly feet, hooking the rappel onto your belt and bundling up your rope to slide into your vest.

Just as you’re about to look around to find the very man of whom you’d come to greet, the feeling of silver against your throat and a chest against your back has your body stiffening. The silence, and that miniscule scent of timber has recognition ringing in the back of your mind.

“Starting to think you get off on holding me at knifepoint,” you say, words coming out breathy as the knife presses just above where your previous wound’s been wrapped up. Your lips remain parted as his chest meets your back, his head above your own. The stars glisten around you, the darkened night the only thing you can see in the distance, apart from the building where the mission’s taking place.

“I can assure you,” he grits out, words brushing against your ear where he crowds your space, “When I ‘get off’, you’re the last thing on my mind.”

“Well that’s not fair,” you retort, eyeing the ground around you, attention spiked, “Your little Johnny gets all the fun, hey?”

The knife clatters to the ground, the weapon being replaced with Ghost’s strong grip, his hand bruising your windpipe where he squeezes. You let out a small cough, eyes watering when he continues to apply pressure.

“Don’t pretend to know anything about me,” he squeezes harder, and breathing is suddenly a very difficult task, “Or him. Or us. You’re a distraction from our goal, and you will do well to be reminded of that.”

He releases his hold on you, and you find yourself falling to your knees, coughs a grating sound in the quiet of the night. You inhale deep breaths of air, eyes squeezing shut against the ache in your head. Turning to look at him, you meet his dark eyes with a snarl.

“Why do you hate me so much?” You ask, the words coming out without conscious volition. The words are croaky, your expression a mix of disbelief and pleading. “Tell me, Ghost, what it is you have against me.”

He takes a step forward, truly looking down at you like you’re nothing but a roach on the ground.

His eyes blaze with something you can’t quite place when he kneels down, picks up his blade, and meticulously places it back into his belt.

“I will not let you hurt them,” he states, “Even if it means killing you.”

The crease between your brows softens, and your throat works around a swallow as the two of you remain in a suspended silence. No radio, no warnings – just you, him, and the cool of the night.

“I’ve given you ample time to go through with that threat, Lieutenant,” you reply, standing back up to your full height, head tilted back to meet his gaze head-on. You study him as his eyes flit over your features. “I think your hatred runs deeper than your love for your men.”

“Do tell me, Colonel,” he bites back. It’s as if nothing exists apart from the two of you, in this moment. “Tell me what could possibly be worth more than my men.”

You don’t back away, don’t loose a single breath out of place.

“The fact that I outrank you,” you challenge, rising to his bait, rising to the tips of your toes, “And that I fit in easier than you ever have.”

He stumbles back.

Like you’ve delivered an actual shot from your rifle, or a swipe of your blade.

His eyes are wide, beneath his mask – stark against that of his greasepaint. The very same greasepaint spotting around your own, mostly wiped off from the day’s work.

Opening his mouth, he’s about to say something, anything, a threat, a promise –

Sharp pain strikes through the edge of your cheek, a pained gasp falling from your lips a moment later.

Ghost raises his gun, bodily stepping in front of you, eye to the scope of his rifle as he fires a shot. The crackle of your radio starts a moment later, the side of your face throbbing, blood trickling down from the wound.

“Bravo Zero-Seven, we’ve just stationed more men for overwatch. Several unknowns have been reported to be heading for your position!”

One of the members of Bravo Team – he sounds panicked, frantic.

Stepping from behind Ghost’s shadow, you unhook one of the guns Laswell had lent you from your backpack, switching off the safety and looking around the perimeter of the building.

It’s…

“Clear,” you say, lowering your gun in confusion. “Where the hell was I hit from?”

Ghost turns, then, immediately focusing on your cheek. He goes to raise his hand, taking a step closer, but thinks better of it and lets it fall back to the weapon in his hand. Your hair blows with the increasing wind at this height, catching in the blood on your face and making you hiss.

The way he stands over you, now, feels like a complete one-eighty to how he had when there was bloodthirst in his eyes.

No.

Right now, he’s looking down at you like he has a responsibility to uphold, a mission to protect you. Split between looking to his wrist, and your bloodied and injured face, he mutters under his breath as he pulls something off of his ligament.

“What…” you start, but trail off as he gestures for you to turn around. You raise a brow, and deliberately cock your gun, making sure he eyes the movement, before you do.

He can’t kill you when you’re about to fight for your lives, you think. And, he might be a bit of a nutjob, but he wouldn’t actually kill you.

…Right?

Your thoughts pull up to a halt, however, as the hair on the nape of your neck stands on end, a flurry of sensations jolting you into standing to your full height.

Gloved, large fingers brush your bare skin, threading through your hair. They brush against your face, too, gathering excess strands with the mass already gathered in his fist. Wrapping a band around the ponytail, you feel yourself shiver as he pulls away once more.

He’d.

Tied your hair back.

The sound of boots against concrete and the shifting of leather has the two of you disbanding immediately, getting into familiar battle positions.

A tiny voice in the back of your mind screams, your intuition was right!

“Charlie-One to Bravo-Three,” you murmur into your radio, “Unknowns scaling overwatch point now. Will report when we’ve neutralised all targets. Out here.”

You switch off your radio – and look to Ghost with a small nod. He gives one back; and you think, briefly, that it’s the first non-hostile interaction you’ve had with the Lieutenant. Except for the doing your hair thing, something that you will most certainly discuss with the man later.

The first unknown grapples onto the building, and your heart sinks.

You switch your radio on as Ghost delivers a clean shot through the soldier’s head.

“Bravo-Three, Watcher-One, they aren’t unknowns.” Your heart thunders, and your eyes narrow as you pull the trigger on another to your left.

“They’re Shadows.”

There are many times in your life where you’ve had to make an impossible decision.

When you were just a child, you had to choose between mourning the death of your mother, or using the pain of her absence as a way for you to grow. For you to become.

It had been impossible, then, but you’d made the choice. Made the best one, even.

Now, it feels much the same.

Ghost, bullet in his thigh, unsteady on his feet, is going hand-to-hand with the last Shadow.

Soap, hidden in the destruction Hassan’s floor’s become, is silent, painstaking with every passing second.

You, left arm bent where it sits uselessly, are struggling with the blood in your eyes, the throbbing in your head, the weight of one last mag in the sniper set on the edge of the roof.

Oh, how things have gone sideways. The pain of watching your men be pit against the 141, against you like this, is an unimaginable sort. Not unlike a splinter in the tip of your index finger, or a bruised, painful stubbed toe.

Ghost is yelling something. That much you’re sure of.

Soap looks damn near unconscious, from your position.

“Sweetheart, Ghost…” Your radio crackles, the faint voice of Soap like a shot to your system. Both you and Ghost reply, simultaneous, pained and unsure, with his name.

“Soap.”

“Watch the window…” Soap grits out, and even with the sounds of grunting and kicking and violence behind you, you lean into the sniper, eye against the scope as you move the gun, before stopping as you spot him.

And, oh, what a state he is in.

Blood splattered all over his frame, head hanging limp as Hassan drags him to the shattered window, careless with the man’s broken body.

If Ghost wouldn’t kill you for it – if you wouldn’t run the risk of killing him – you’d try and shoot the man atop of him with the sniper. A fruitless cause, with their frantic tossing and turning, the pride and stubbornness of the Lieutenant fighting with everything he has.

Seconds stretch out into what feels like hours, before you’ve lined up the notches, perfect shot aimed for Hassan’s head.

You’d never been one for long-range weaponry. Always was an on-the-ground kind of girl, better with blades and short-distance guns. Preferred the weight of them in your hands, the grim of which the dirt slid against your uniform.

Snipers had never been your thing.

You could count on one hand the amount of executions you’d performed with one.

A breath in, a breath out.

Ghost lets out a grunt, and another punch sounds. Wind whistles through your ears.

A breath.

You pull the trigger, and Hassan falls.

Black filters in your vision, pulsating spots, mind a mess with the impact and previous concussion and pain in your arm. The adrenaline crash, after all this time, it was happening.

And it was happening fast.

Soap says something, you think, but you aren’t sure. Can’t be sure, not with the state of your body like it is.

On your knees, your good arm supporting your weight, you blink with heavy eyes as Ghost and the last Shadow roll around, guns having skidded off of the roof. Just fists, flesh and vengeance.

Why were they here?

Just to sabotage the mission? Even if it aligned with Graves’... Shepherd’s goal, too? To take you back? To kill the 141, witnesses be damned?

Your backpack. A pistol, in one of the front pockets. A way out. One last opportunity.

Shrugging off the pack with unsteady hands and filtered vision, you wrestle out the small gun. It fits into the palm of your hand comfortably, and you raise it, arm wobbling and every ounce of energy sapping out of your body, as if magnetised by an invisible force.

It’s so dark. Night encompasses everything within its grasp, including the men in front of you, including yourself.

The mission was a success. Hassan was neutralised. The missile self-destructed.

Ghost and the Shadow struggle, and with sluggish movements, you manage to rise to your knees. Stilted and slow, you find yourself upright, feet on the floor, and frame bent over.

It’s something, a more reasonable position, a hope.

Jumping back to his feet, distancing himself from the Shadow, Ghost goes to stomp the man’s face in.

Your bullet is faster.

It rings in your ears, eyes trying to flutter shut as the gun shakes in your hands, body taking an involuntary step forward.

Ghost, too, is fast, wounded or not.

Just as you find yourself fading, falling, allowing every last drop of adrenaline to evaporate from your body, your injuries and emotional turmoil catching up to you, hands wrap around your torso, and a warm chest keeps you upright.

You think you hear something, but you can’t be sure.

If you’re at all reliable, it’s Ghost.

“I’m going to be the one to kill you, Sweetheart, not a bloody Shadow.”

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koshkamartell · 3 months ago

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No One But Me

masterlist

chapter warnings: unhinged! Joel, mentions of PSTD, nightmares, drugging, forced captivity, mention of pregnancy.

Beau Henley was on night patrol at the front gates of Jackson that night. He didn't enjoy the shift; it was boring and uneventful and seemed to stretch on forever, the minutes ticking by slower than molasses in winter time. Because he wasn't properly trained as a sniper shooter yet, he was posted on the inside of the gates on the ground more often than the lookout points, which were a hell of alot more exciting than pacing back and forth in the snow with the same unmoving view of the town.

Beau hated it but he couldn't argue with Tommy and Maria about the roster when he was still a junior ranger. Beau had to suck it up and pay his dues, do all the boring shit like check the inside perimetre and stand around during the tedious night shifts guarding the gate. There was so much more to keeping Jackson safe than just riding around on horseback with a loaded rifle like the heroes in the cowboy comics he used to read as a kid. It wasn't all fun and games and action, like the young generation seemed to think it was. There was protocol to follow and a heirchary of roles that had to be exercised, and unfortunately for Beau he was stuck at the bottom in the chain of command.

He couldn't wait to rise through the ranks. Once he had a few more accomplishments under his belt then he could patrol outside more often, which is what most junior rangers dreamed of. Beau loved the thrill that came with patrolling outside the community and the possibility of running into infected or raiders. He also loved the weight of a gun in his hands, how it was seen as a symbol of authority and power. He hadn't had the opportunity to shoot anyone yet but his finger itched to pull the trigger on his rifle. Goddamn, he couldn't wait for an excuse to blast someone's head off with a clean shot.

For now all Beau could do was try to stay out of trouble and demonstrate his potential as a patrolman who would one day take over from the likes of Joel, Troy and Tommy. He tried, but his hot headed nature and egotistical persona occasionally got him in the shit with his superiors. Beau could usually weasel his way out of someone's bad books with a manipulative, charming pretence of good manners and what seemed like sincere apologies. He knew just how much humility to exhibit before he started to look like a kiss ass. The older men could see how strong and eager he was and would let him off with a light warning. Women were easier, though. Beau found his golden boy good looks worked particularly well on women of all ages, so all he needed to do was flash a smile or do some bullshit gentleman thing like hold a door open for them and any grievance was forgotten.

Except when it came to that teasing bitch, Rhi. His cheeks still redden at the memory of Joel Miller reprimanding him for simply jesting with her. All Beau had been doing was showing off to his friends while shooting his shot, silly stuff that guys sometimes did when they were looking for a fuck and being egged on by their guy friends. It had been harmless. But whatever. One day he would rule this fucking town and he could have some glory for himself, including all the pussy he could dream of.

Beau stood at the checkpoint at the gates that night with a rolled cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, idly fantasising about the latest girl he had flirted with at the Tipsy Bison. He was about to take a piss break when he spotted the black silhouette of a large figure on horseback approaching the check point. There looked to be a small cart attached to the horse as it clopped through the snow.

Now what the fuck do we have here?

Beau's eyes squinted curiously as the figure advanced, the features of their face shroud in shadows and unidentifiable from a distance. He took one last long suck on his cigarette and then tossed it on the ground by his boot.

"Whose that?" Beau called, smoke exhaling from the side of his mouth. The figure did not reply but continued to approach him, mysterious and forboding in its dark anonymity. He threw a quick glance at the guard at the lookout point at the top of the gate above him, who just shrugged in return.

When the figure ontop of the horse finally came close enough for the lamplight to illuminate their face, Beau's mouth fell open in shock and confusion.

"Joel?"

Like an almighty general prepared to go to battle, Joel Miller looked formidable and tyrannical sat atop his horse, Tex. The greying curls of his hair were unruly and the bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, yet his orbs were steely and distant; he looked simultaneously exhausted and wired, a disconcerting combination that made Beau feel anxious.

Beau stuck out his chest and stood straight in an attempt to appear assertive, but he couldn't quite disguise the tinge of fear that came creeping into his voice when he spoke.

"Joel, uhm, sir. What can I--"

"Open the gate." Joel demanded simply without meeting Beau's eyes.

"What?" Beau was utterly bewildered by the situation. No one had ever passed through the gates alone or outside of the scheduled duties - it was unheard of and certainly an unprecedented occurance. He had no clue what to do but wondered just what the hell Joel was up to. "Where are you going? I mean, what are you doing? You aren't on patrol tonight. You can't just leave the town."

Joel's jaw ticked once before his head tipped down to glare down at Beau with icy hatred. Joel Miller was an intimidating man at the best of times but when he was displeased he appeared downright frightening; his eyes looked almost black and a dangerous energy radiated from his being, punctuated by a snarl on his lips and a flare of his nostrils. The single gaze from Joel made Beau made gulp involuntarily and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Open the gate." Joel commanded once more, gritting his teeth in aggravation. "Now."

"Joel, I mean sir, you gotta fill out the log book, you gotta record the reason you're leaving," Beau blabbered. "We can't just let anyone go out without permission--"

Without breaking eye contact Joel slowly reached into his coat pocket and produced his pistol. Beau's words immediately died in his throat at the sight of the weapon and when he heard the threatening clicking of the hammer being pulled back, his stomach clenched and his blood turned cold. Although Joel hadn't pointed the muzzle directly at him the warning was still loud and clear.

Whatever the fuck Joel had planned, there was no mistaking how serious he was. Beau held up his lightly trembling hands and nodded vigorously.

"Okay, okay, hold on, I'll tell them to let you out." His head snapped up to look to the guards at the top level of the wall above them. They were already peering down and intently watching the interaction, concerned yet not daring to aim their own guns at the infamous Joel Miller. Beau hurriedly signalled for them to open the gates.

The wooden infrastructure creaked laboriously as the massive fortress like entrance gradually unfurled. A sudden blast of frosty wind rushed through the gap, a prompt demonstration of just how unforgiving the fierce wilderness could be outside the commune. Only somebody crazy would go out in such conditions, Beau thought. If that was what Joel wanted to then he really is as fucking crazy as they say.

Steeling himself against the wind Beau folded his arms tightly around his chest and trekked backwards a few steps, giving a wide berth to Tex and the cart. Joel rode passed him without speaking a word, the pistol still held tightly in one of his gloved hands. Aside from the dim moonlight and twinkling stars in the sky the landscape beyond the walls was devoid of light. Beau watched silently as Joel departed through the gateway and out into the ominously black wilderness, the cart rolling behind Tex like a faithful old dog trailing after it's owner.

Beau stood frozen on the spot until the entrance to the outside world was folded back and sealed once more. He frowned and shook his head, not knowing what exactly to make of the surreal situatikn that had just occured. It had been like a dream, too peculiar for Beau to fully process. He was suspended in the trance like state until the uncomfortable throb in his groin reminded him that he needed to empty his bladder. He whirled around and marched over to a nearby bush tucked into the shadows along the gate.

"Fucking psycho," Beau muttered to himself.

If Joel Miller wanted to go outside Jackson in the middle of the night, who the fuck was he to stop him? And why should he? He hated Joel; why should he give a shit that the old man was going against community rules and acting like a crazy person? It wasn't any of his business, and so he wasn't about to sound off any emergency sirens.

Fuck the Millers.

The idea had been significantly less challenging to execute than Joel had originally thought. It had not been something he wanted to do so soon and with so little preparation, but he felt he had little choice right now. After the confrontation with Ellie had essentially shattered Joel's world, his ability to employ logic and critical thinking had been shattered, too. His main reasoning for surviving these years now despised him. There was no coming back from that. How could she ever forgive him? When she spat those cursed words at him, Joel's fight or flight had been activated and all he wanted to do was flee.

Leaving Jackson had just been a fanciful notion until now. A distant desire kept tucked at the back of Joel's mind that subconsciously spurred him to collect and stow away bits and pieces for the future venture. If he had more time to adequate prepare, he would have done so methodically to ensure the safest possible journey for you both. There were so many facets to consider for survival, after all. But time was not on Joel's side; he didn't have as many supplies as he wished, but he had the basic neccessities and they would have to suffice. You would have to learn to get by.

He had been quite convincing in his explanation to you. He told you Ellie had blown up at him over something and then he had a panic attack, but things were okay and he just needed to go back home and rest. You seemed to understand, and even looked a little sympathetic. When you made your nightly cup of tea and left it to steep in the kitchen while you went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, Joel worked quickly.

He retrieved the sleeping pills from the box in the closet then returned to the kitchen. Using the handle of a carving knife he methodically crushed the pills into a powder, then swept the dust into his palm. He sprinkled the pile into your mug of tea and stirred it until completely dissolved.

You had no inkling of what Joel had done, not even when your eyelids started feeling heavy soon after finishing your drink. It wasn't long after that you slipped into a deep sleep on the couch. He had given you enough to be confident that you wouldn't rouse for several hours. You did not wake up when he carried you out of the house over his shoulder. You did not stir when he set you in the cart and bundled you with blankets and one of his coats.

You were dead to the world when Joel transported you both out of Jackson and away from everyone and everything you knew and loved.

The next morning Tommy Miller kissed Maria and his sons goodbye and walked out the front door of their home to begin his day of work. As he twisted the doorknob shut behind him he winced at the twinge of pain that was already leeching into the joints of his knuckles. With each passing season Tommy was becoming more aware of how old he was getting, how the weather and demanding physical work was impacting upon his body, how his tolerance for ineptitude was waning faster. But it was his two young children who gave him the strength to persist each day, it was their youthful innocence that motivated him to fulfil his role within the commune with a smile on his face.

Family was everything. And with that in mind, Tommy knew he had to be gentle talking with Joel today. He needed to be ready incase Joel needed his support and counsel after what happened with Ellie.

The brothers were scheduled together on the day patrol today. Whenever they were working alongside each other they met outside Tommy's house ten minutes prior to the shift and walked to the stables together. Tommy liked the unspoken routine and he suspected Joel did, too, and it seemed to help their relationship improve significantly over the past two years.

However, this morning was different. There was no sign of Joel waiting for him out the front of the house. Tommy turned his head to scan around up and down the street but could not find any sign of his brother. It was completely unlike Joel to be late or missing in action - his fastidious temperment made him pedantic about things like punctuality, and so for Joel to be missing this morning was strange.

It was strange. And it was worrying.

Tommy very quickly tried to rationalise Joel's absence, to calm the instant swoop of alarm that flashed through his gut. Perhaps Joel was sick and couldn't get up out of bed this morning? Maybe he had a late night and didn't wake up in time and was on his way right this second?

Tommy desperately wanted to believe in the actuality of these reasons, even the possibility of them, but deep down he knew they weren't going to be true. He could feel the growing spiral of dread circling inside his stomach, urging him to trust his intuition that something was definitely not right, that Joel was infact in a great deal of trouble.

Tommy bolted into the street and took off in the direction of Joel's home.

When you woke up and opened your eyes, everything in your line of vision was completely blurred. It took a good minute for all the fuzzy shapes and pools of colour to become distinct objects as your eyes gradually adjusted to your surroundings. Laying on your back, the ceiling above you was the first thing you became conscious of. It was made of a darkened shade of wood, totally unfamiliar to you. Your gaze rolled around to see the surrounding walls, bare of any decorations or pictures, made of the same kind of timber.

This isn't Joel's house, and it definitely isn't your cottage.

With great effort you slowly sat up onto your elbows, your head leaden with the sedation of heavy sleep and your body devoid of strength. You registered the feeling of warm, soft flannelette sheets under your hands and realised you were laying ontop of a bed.

A stranger's bed.

Your unfocused gaze skitted around until your eyes settled on the outline of a man's figure across the room. He had his back to you as he crouched down infront of a fire place. Your heart skipped a beat with alarm, but through your foggy vision you quickly recognised the crown of soft greying curls, the colour of his favourite Carthartt jacket.

Joel.

You desperately wanted to speak, to somehow get his attention so he would look your way, but your mouth felt too dry, your throat so parched. You rolled your tongue over the roof of your mouth, the ridges of your palate rough with lack of saliva. You parted your lips but no sound came out. It seemed to take all your effort to get the signals between your brain and your mouth to work in conjunction with one another just to form a single word.

"Joel?" You were finally able to mumur, groggy.

You watched the figure remain in the same spot by the fireplace, his broad back still turned to you, unmoving. He must not have heard you.

You blinked with weighted deliberation, trying to fight against the overpowering tug of drowsiness that was beginning to coax you back to sleep. You opened your mouth again to try speak but it stayed shut, like your jaws were glued together and unable to open. Then your arms gave way and your elbows slipped so that you lay supine once more, your upper body too weighty for you to stay elevated. As soon as the back of your head hit the pillow you once again fell into a dreamless slumber.

Unfortunately for Tommy, his premonition had not been unfounded. When he barged into Joel's house he discovered neither you or Joel were there. The silence was deafening as he searched through the rooms on both levels, finding nothing out of the ordinary.

Fuck.

Tommy rushed to the stables. Tex's stall was empty. There was no sign of the horse in the paddock.

With his heart thundering in his chest and his stomach roiling with anxiety, Tommy sprinted from the stables toward the front gates. His mind was a cacophony of dread filled thoughts.

Joel's dead.

Joel's left.

But there's no fucking way, it's not possible, right? If Joel had left then somebody would have seen him, somebody would have stopped him.

When Tommy reached the check point at the front gate Beau was leaning over the log book, pencilling his signature and clock out time.

"Who was on last night?" Tommy yelled, striding up to him with his fists balled at his sides. "Who the fuck was on watch?"

Beau turned around to face him with a timid reluctance. "Uh, me, sir."

Tommy stood directly infront of Beau, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath and quell his anxiety all at the same time. "Did you see Joel walk through the gates?"

"Well...." He puffed up his cheeks and blew out a sigh of air, shrugging indifferently. "He wanted to go out. So yeah, Tommy, I did. I let him out."

Outraged, Tommy roughly grabbed Beau by the collar of his jacket and jerked him close to his face. Beau's eyes widened and he held his hands up in a surrender pose, suddenly made speechless by Tommy's aggression.

"And you didn't fuckin' tell anyone until just now?!" Tommy roared, his teeth bared.

Beau swallowed thickly and shook his head rapidly. The smug bravado he usually exhibits had totally vanished, all the arrogance drained from his body as the senior man chastised his spineless character. Tommy wanted nothing more than to punch the young man square in the face, but the urgency of the situation granted him the restraint to stop. He cannot get sidetracked, cannot waste precious time on a piece of shit like Beau when Joel has probably kidnapped you and skipped town. No, the penalty for Beau's mistake will have to be served after Tommy sorts all this shit out.

He let go of Beau's collar and shoved him backwards, his top lip curled in disgust.

"Gutless piece of shit," Tommy spat. "I'll deal with you later. Get the fuck out of here and don't say shit to anyone."

He had to find you.

Although the log cabin was not large and wouldn't take long to warm up, Joel tried to get a decent fire going as soon as he settled you into bed.

He stared at the small flames crackling in the fireplace before him, waiting patiently as the fire finally began to swell and engulf the logs sitting in the middle. He was eager to feel some kind of heat; his body was still stiff from the journey in the freezing cold and the ache in his bones radiated in tandem with the throb of the jagged scar on his abdomen. These physical ailments were bitter reminders of his age and shortcomings, of just how mortal he was.

Joel had endured the brunt of the harsh weather as he navigated his horse through the snowy night, with the harsh wind chapping his lips and smarting his eyes. He had made certain, however, that you had been insulated from the elements as well as possible, bundling your body up in a blanket and one of his thick jackets.

The journey here had not been too far from town, for the cabin was one of the checkpoints along the northern route Jackson patrol. It would serve as a halfway stopping point for you and Joel for half a day, just long enough for him to prepare some food and clean out the supplies there. Then you would be travelling further up the state to a bigger cabin, one Joel had discovered on the last raiders mission. The raiders had used it as their base and it had been well furnished and stocked. It would make an ideal home for the two of you, one where you were remote enough to not be disturbed.

Joel thought he heard you stir, that he heard the phantom echo of your voice say his name. He turned back to check on you but you were sound asleep on the bed, the features of your face lax as you rested. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He anticipated that the sleeping tablets would keep you knocked out for atleast another six hours. But the fatigue has started to seep in to Joel now, and the longer he stays awake the more sluggish his brain becomes, his movements slowing like a child's wind up toy.

He ascended carefully from his crouched position, his knees cracking and his back aching. He had to sleep before he passed out completely. Joel lumbered over to the bed and lowered his body down beside your sleeping form, the springs of the bed frame squeaking underneath his weight. The instantaneous relief flooded over him and he groaned loudly. He would rest just for a little, just enough to recharge.

Joel wrapped his arm around you and pulled you tightly into the crook of his arm before descending into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It had been a restless night for Oscar. Another night of vivid dreams and the harrowing retelling of Elvie's final moments, a jumble of vignettes and imagery that made him toss and turn and tangle in the bedsheets.

The last dream had been the worst. More often than not, the most distressing ones were the most simple and unembellished. Usually they began with Oscar searching the woods for Elvie, eventually finding her standing at the edge of a cliff top with her back to him. He calls her name and approaches her. Elvie turns to face him, her face streaked with tears and her large eyes anguished, her hands placed over the round globe of her pregnant stomach. She shakes her head gently and outstretches her arm to show Oscar the fresh wound in her skin.

Bitten.

Infected.

She was bitten after they escaped from a clicker just hours earlier. Understanding of just what Elvie is planning to do hits Oscar with torturous clarity. He lunges to her but he's a second too late, and she topples over the edge of the cliff.

Oscar jerks awake with a loud gasp of air rushing into his lungs. He immediately sits up, panting inbetween coughing and spluttering. He pounds on his chest with his fist to try clear away the choking sensation, and it is truly distressing just how prolonged the sense of terror; it floods throughout his whole being, making his brain race and his limbs shake.

Oscar gasps as he digs his palms into his eye sockets. He waits for his heart to stop thundering.

Oh, how he longs so desperately for a reprieve from the pain and the nightmares, from the yearning and despair.

A series of knocks hammering from the front door of his cottage pulls Oscar back to reality. He somehow manages to stumble out of bed and drag a sweater over his head before shuffling to answer the door.

Oscar is surprised to find Tommy standing on his porch. Before he can say a word Tommy begins explaining the situation.

"Joel's lost the plot, big time." Tommy sighs, shaking his head in dismay. "He's taken her and left. They left late last night."

The news hits Oscar with a force that makes his heart clench inside his chest; it's a crushing pain that squeezes his very soul. "Left? What the hell do you mean? Why would Joel do that?"

"Somethin' happened between him and his daughter. I ain't goin' into details but it hit him hard, so he's not thinkin' straight." Tommy explains calmly. He knows now isn't time to deal with indignation or rage - he need to get down to business and formulate a plan as soon as possible.

Oscar tries to process his words. There is no way you would have left Jackson on your own accord. This is your home for goddsake, where your entire life resides. Oscar pictures you being dragged through snow, whimpering and begging for Joel to let you stay.

The pain in his sternum morphs into a white hot rage that rips through his core. Tommy recognises the torrent of emotion dawning over Oscar, how his eyes blaze wide and accusing, his top lip curling with wrath.

"I know," Tommy assures him quickly but not unkindly, holding up his hands. "I only found out this mornin', otherwise I wouldn't be here - I'd be out there already."

"She would never leave Jackson," Oscar snaps. "Tommy we gotta go get her, right now, right this minute."

Tommy reaches out and plants a firm hand on his shoulder. "Oscar, I gotta come up with a plan first. Can't just hunt 'em down and demand they come back to Jackson."

Oscar exhales harshly through his nose, clearly on the verge of lashing out. "But she could be in danger, Tommy."

"Joel ain't in a good state of mind right now. We gotta be careful." Tommy gives his shoulder a small squeeze, an imploring gesture that begs him for understanding. "The last thing I want is for her to get hurt, but we gotta do this the right way, or else it'll end up worse than this."

Oscar runs his fingers through his hair and sighs heavily. He knows Tommy is right; given Joel's history as a raider and a skilled hunter, this situation will require strategy and diplomacy, lest someone get injured or worse. Oscar cannot bear the thought of you caught in the middle of all this chaos. He cannot even allow himself to entertain the mere possibility of you getting hurt.

"I'm gettin' a group together to go find 'em. You sit tight here and I'll be back when I round everybody up." Tommy instructs Oscar. "We'll all go together. Get ready and be waitin'."

Tommy leaves Oscar's cottage with brisk, determined strides. Oscar watches him disappear down the street, most likely going to round up Troy first. It'll take some time to get a party ready, to equip themselves with rifles and horses and an official plan of action. More precious time wasted that could be finding you, Oscar surmises.

He can't waste any more time. He can't lose you. He may not have been able to save Elvie, but he was going to save you, even if it killed him.

Oscar dashes back to his room and scrambles to get dressed in his thickest, warmest clothes. He swipes his glasses off the night stand and shoves his feet into his boots. He can't be weighted down by anything more than what is essential, so he forgoes taking his sachet with him.

The only provision Oscar allows himself to carry is a pocket knife he managed to stow away from a patrol mission a long time ago. He tucks it in his jacket pocket at the last minute. His impulsively and urgency stops him from contemplating the actuality that he could run into danger; that the knife itself is a comparatively insufficient means of protection when the likes of clickers and bloaters could be roaming wild on the outside.

It doesn't matter. All that matters is finding you.

Oscar doesn't wait for Tommy to return. Ten minutes later he's saddled up on one of the horses and trotting through the front gates of the town.

••••••

The next time you wake up from the tranquilizing trance of the sleeping pills Joel slipped you, your brain is instantly more lucid and sharp and you are no longer groggy. When you sit up your vision is clear and you are able to fully process the reality around you this time - you are somewhere foreign to your usual surroundings but you are warm and uninjured. And Joel is with you.

You turn your head and see him sitting at a small wooden table near the fireplace this time. There is a disassembled pistol laying on the table top and in his hands is a rag. He's cleaning the pieces individually.

"Joel?" You speak croakily, grimacing at the dryness of your mouth. Joel glances up at you with no expression on his face; he says nothing before returning his attention back to the task before him.

You swing your legs to the edge of the bed and rise to stand cautiously on your wobbly legs. "Where are we?"

He remains silent, still focused on the rag and the gun part in his hands. You watch him as he works the stained rag over the barrel and the muzzle for a minute, quietly observing his appearance; you note how tight and hunched his posture is, aswell as the dark circles under his eyes and the clenching and unclenching of his jaw. You have never seem him so on edge before.

"Joel, where are we and why are we here?" You repeat a little more firmly, your eyes fixed on his face.

"Cabin not too far from Jackson." He finally mutters.

You're outside of Jackson?

"W-why?" You gasp.

Joel abruptly stops cleaning the pistol and let's the part drop onto the table, the metal clattering loudly against the wooden top. You're startled by the sudden movement and automatically scoot back on the bed away from him, bracing yourself for an impending slap or harsh word. Yet nothing happens to you; Joel stays seated, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, his eyes screwed shut like he's in pain. You watch on as he exhales loudly and shakes his head, as if he's fighting off an unpleasant memory that's plaguing him.

"Ellie hates me," Joel confesses, his gravelly voice sounding thick in his throat. "I did somethin' bad. I...I hurt alotta people to save her. And now she found out and she won't ever forgive me."

The memory of Joel's panic attack from last night promptly comes flooding back to you. It makes sense that he would catastrophise an argument with Ellie, considering just how deepp he loves her. He must have needed some space away from where she was to get himself together mentally.

"Okay...," you speak hesitantly. "Why don't you just give her some time to cool down and then talk to her? I'm sure it'll blow over."

Joel's eyes flicker open but he doesn't look at you. He runs his hand over his mouth and sighs heavily. "It won't."

You sigh and shake your head a little, uncertain how to comfort him any further. You privately vow you would try your best to help mend their relationship once you get back to Jackson.

"When are we going back?" You ask, looking around the cozy cabin. "And why don't I remember getting here?"

Joel is quiet and unmoving, almost like a statue save for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The longer the silence between you continues, the more aware you become of the sickening sense of tredipation beginning to simmer in your gut. Something isn't right. Something bad is happening.

"Joel!" You cry with exasperation. "Tell me!"

"We ain't goin' back." Joel replies lowly, his brown eyes finally rolling up to stare at you.

"What? Why?"

"We can't live there anymore." Joel says softly. "There's nothin' there for us. 'S best we just make our own life somewhere else."

Somewhere else? Where else was there? Your understanding of the world outside Jackson was very limited, but you knew what awaited outside the safety of the community; desolate place, vast and perilous, filled with monstrous beings and devoid of anything resembling purity or joy.

And that's where Joel had taken you. Away from everything and everyone you ever loved, away from safety and comfort and happiness. You would never see your friends again. You would never step foot in your cottage again. You would never see Oscar again.

Your heart races. The walls are closing in on you as the reality of the situation sinks in. Your lungs feel tight and constricted and you struggle to breathe.

"I love you," Joel confesses, his voice thick with tears, his eyes piercing into yours. "I couldn't leave you there. I can't do this without you. We can have a good life out here, I promise, I'll keep you safe. We won't have anyone else interferrin'."

You shake your head frantically, tears of terror starting to well in your eyes. "No, no, no! This is insane! I want to go back!"

You try to run but your legs are so weak and your head is still swimming; your limbs and brain aren't yet coordinated enough to allow you to move nimbly. When you stumble Joel anticipates your move and is by your side in a flash. Before you hit the ground he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you tight against his body. You sag into his belly and begin to sob helplessly.

"I can't, Joel, please don't do this to me," you wail with your face buried in his chest.

Joel holds you against his front and nuzzles his nose into the hair ontop of your head. "You're all I got left. I'll take care of you, I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Something in his words spark a flame of anger from your very core. After all the abuse and hurt Joel's made you suffer through, the promise he speaks at this moment sounds nothing but a poisonous lie. A sweet, hope filled vow of love that inevitably eventuates into a punishing battle for domination and forced submission. That is all you and Joel will ever have. For the rest of your life, he will hold power over you until he breaks you down irrevocably, with no family or friends anywhere around you.

You cannot allow him to do this to you.

You need to escape.

You covertly peek out the corner of your eye to spy the front door. It's the only way to enter and exit the cabin. It's your only way out.

And it's now or never.

You suddenly shove against Joel's chest with all your might and rip yourself out of his embrace. Before he can grab you and pull you back, you pivot and make a run for the front dood. You grasp hold of the knob and haphazardly twist it back and forth until the door clicks open. You fling it wide and it crashes loudly against the exterior of the cabin, but you don't care how much commotion you make. You just need to run.

With your heart thumping in your chest you sprint into the open like a hare on the loose. It is freezing outside the warm cocoon of the cabin and the pinching shock of the snow on the bottom of your bare feet makes you hiss, but you push onward.

Your frantic eyes dart around the environment - you are somewhere within a forest and you can see nothing but snow and trees. You have no clue in which direction to run, but you instinctively launch straight ahead.

For a fleeting second there is a swell of triumphant energy powering you. You can do this.

You can be free.

Then it all comes abruptly crashing down; you trip over your own foot and collapse face first onto the ground with a harsh smack. You squeal in pain when your chin connects to the floor of the forest and the skin of your knees and hands scrape against the icy snow.

Joel is on you within a matter of seconds. "Fuckin' hell," he grumbles to himself. His strong, rough hands grip your arms and haul you back up to your feet. He seems to exert little to no effort corralling you back inside the cabin, dragging you like a scolded kitten being carried by the scruff of its neck.

He shoves you to the ground and slams the door shut firmly behind him. You fall onto the floor on your ass with a thud.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!?" Joel roars as he glares down at you.

"I'm not staying here with you!" You yell defiantly, glowering up at him from where you are sprawled on the floor.

"You got no fuckin' choice!" His baritone voice booms back at you. "You ain't never been outside Jackson since you got there! You really think you could survive by yourself? Think you could out run infected or a band of raiders?"

Joel is right. You have never shot a gun. You would have no idea how to fight for your survival, whether it be against infected or the weather or another person.

You have never stepped foot outside the gates as an adult, had never even been on patrol before. It wasn't in your personality to want to explore or venture; you had always been too soft, too traumatised as a child yet too sheltered as an adult to even want to brave the outside.

You had never been a great candidate to be a ranger physically, anyway - your body is weak and soft from lack of proper nutrition and disordered eating, unable to defend or attack. You were just one of the many shelteted residents of Jackson that were kept safe by those more powerful and capable than you, like feeble lambs watched over vigilantly by shepards at all times. Except now you felt like a lamb tricked and led astray from the security of your flock by a cunning and blood thirsty wolf.

"I want to go back, Joel." You sob pathetically. "I don't want to be here!"

"Well congratulations, because we ain't fuckin' stayin'!" Joel shouts back, the dimple in his cheek flexing.

You flinch and bow your head, letting the sudden pool of tears cascade from over the rim of your eyes and down your cheeks. You swipe at your running nose with the sleeve of your sweater and listen to Joel's boots thunder over the floorboards as he strides over to a rucksack by the fireplace. He crouches down to retrieve something from inside it.

"Don't wanna hear another fuckin' word out of you," Joel snarls. "So I'm gonna make sure you don't try anythin' stupid like that again."

When he stands up straight again and stalks back over to you, you begin to shake with wracking sobs. He towers before you, his dark brown eyes ablaze with fury as he starts unwinding a long length of rope between his two hands.

You can't save yourself this time.

You can't fight this.

You are going to need a saviour.

taglist - @sofiparallel @harriedandharassed @kewwrites @romanarose @fan-fiction-floozy @anoverwhelmingdin @unknownsuser101 @shesarealcarpentersdream @sheeeeeppp-blog @uncassettodiricordi @axshadows @puduvallee @gossipgirl-03 @mandoloriancookie @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @missannfairy @bean-security @missannwinchester @mrszdjarin

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller dark #dark! joel miller #joel miller dark fic #dddne #dark! joel miller x reader #dark!joelmiller #joelmiller

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sggk · 1 month ago

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Hugely popular at the cranberry bog as i walked the perimetre singing an original song entitled Holding Out For A Froggy (after bonnie tyler) in order to summon the bog frogs my way , SUCCESSFULLY i might add

#Another thing my depression doesn’t make clear about me is how joyful and fun i am . in person

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weiwx · 1 year ago

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pasa que para ellos el negro de mierda siempre es el otro, pero VOS SOS UN NEGRO DE MIERDA TAMBIÉN!! TODOS LOS QUE NO PERTENECEMOS AL 1% MÁS RICO DEL PAÍS SOMOS NEGROS DE MIERDA! CABEZA DE PINGO, SORETE MAL CAGADO.

Lo peor (bueno, además de Literalmente Todo) de esto, para mí, no es cualquier pelotudo que cree en Milei, lo que me da más bronca es la gente que está satisfecha de que "se les van a acabar los planes para todos!!!" Ese puro odio a los pobres es algo que no me puedo bancar.

#trngo una bronca los próximos 4 años lo único que voy a hacer es recordarles todos los días a quien votaron voy a decir TUGO tantas veces #que me van a tener que poner perimetral

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unofficial-aragon · 2 days ago

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Las asociaciones vecinales zaragozanas se han convertido en puntos de recogida para las personas afectadas por las inundaciones en València. Se anima a la gente a donar comida no peredecedera, también productos sin lactosa y sin gluten. Además, también se necesitan productos de limpieza, de higiene personal, compresas, pañales, etc. Recogerán productos toda esta semana (2-8 de noviembre 2024)

El ayuntamiento de Zaragoza también recogerá donaciones en el Refugio (C/ Tomás Crespo Agüero, 1,5)

Otros puntos de recogida en Aragón:

Zaragoza

C/ Predicadores, 28. Horario: 9h-14h; 17h-19h (Sede de Chunta Aragonesista)

C/ Antonio Rocasolano, 3. Horario: Lunes-Jueves, 18h-20h (Casa de la Comunidad Valenciana en Zaragoza). NO RECOGEN ROPA

Zeeman Siresa. C/ Monasterio de Siresa 13-15

Hotel Ilunión Romareda. C/ de Asín y Palacios, 11.

Peña los Goyescos. Camino las flores, Juslibol.

CEIP Dr Azúa. C/ Pedro III El Grande, 4

Cuarte de Huerva: CEIP Foro Romano. Horario: A partir del lunes 4 de noviembre, 8:30-17h.

Azulejos Moncayo, Carretera Valencia km 8700

Ejea de los Caballeros: Recogida de alimentos no perecederos, Plaza de Toros. Horario: 10-13h; 16-18h, 4-8 de noviembre. (Organizado por el ayto.)

Uesca

Costanilla Ricafort, 9. Horario: 9h-15h (Sede de Chunta Aragonesista)

Alcampo de Uesca- Avenida Martínez de Velasco, s/n. Horario: Lunes-Jueves, 19:30-20:30. (Organizado por Alcorazados S.D Huesca)

Mercadona de los Olivos-Avenida de los Monegros, 8-10. Horario: Lunes-Jueves, 19:30-20:30. (Organizado por Alcorazados S.D Huesca)

El Hada de la Fortuna. Plaza Santa Clara, 3

Balbastro: Pabellón del Recinto Ferial. Horario: 10-13h; 17-20h. Alimentos no perecederos, material de limpieza e higiene (compresas y pañales en especial)

Binéfar: Centros educativos y Recinto ferial de la Algodonera, nave derecha. Horario: 16-20h. Alimentos no perecederos y productos de higiene y limpieza

Chaca: Bajos de la pista de hielo. Horario: a partir del 4 de noviembre, lunes a viernes 11-13h; 17-19h, sábados y domingos 10-13h.

Colegio Escolapios. Av. Perimetral, 2

Fraga: Pabelló del Sotet. Horario: 10-13h; 17-20h.

Comarca del Sobrarbe: nave de Protección Civil, polígono de Troteras. Horario: 5 y 6 de noviembre, 11-13:30h; 16-18:30h.

Teruel

C/ San Francisco, 29. Horario: 9h-15h (Sede de Chunta Aragonesista)

A.C. Amigos Soga y Baga de Teruel, en la Plaza de Toros-Patio de Cuadrillas. Horario: 4-7 de noviembre, 19:30-21h.

La Escuelica. C/ Eras de Montalbán, 2 bajo.

Centro de ocio jóven. Plaza Domingo Gascón

Calamocha: La Base (antiguo casino). C/ Cañizarejo, 10

Manzanera: Biblioteca de Manzanera. C/ Escuelas Viejas, 4

#dana 2024 #aragón #actualidat #zaragoza #uesca #teruel

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imaven · 5 months ago

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‘ estás presumiendo ’ puntualiza, cambia paraguas de mano para que su mano más cercana al yule se pudiese levantar hasta su rostro, donde entierra su índice con delicadeza, apenas busca hundir un poco su piel. ‘ es de mala educación, nikolai ’ no se puede ver irritación en sus vocablos, menos en ese semblante que está acostumbrado a esbozar sonrisas en cada encuentro. ‘ ¿tú crees? siento que aún pueden quitarnos todos los puntos y hacer una expulsión masiva ’ se encoge de hombros, lo único que lamentaría es que no siente haber aprendido lo suficiente, todavía. estira su brazo fuera del paraguas cuando deja de ver la suave llovizna, se percata que ha parado y quita el paraguas de encima de su cabeza. ‘ te voy a invitar un helado, pero tú debes invitar el mío ’ ríe entre dientes, sacude un poco la oscura tela cuando lo cierra del todo. ‘ creo que hacía la scala hay una heladería, se veía bien ’ además podría aprovechar de preguntar por el can, ¿no mencionó piers un gelato al momento de perderlo? quizás era sólo para dramatizar un poco. ‘ ¿o tienes una mejor opción? dado que ya comiste algo ’ por su parte, su estómago rugía ante la simple idea de probar un bocado.

“ no creo. Yo acabo de probar un exquisito plato de maccheronis al ferretto” dijo tranquilamente, su gesto relajándose al reconocer al litha. Echando un último vistazo a su móvil, acabó guardándolo en el bolsillo y enseguida se giró para verlo de frente. “ no creo que podamos decepcionar aun más a los profesores, ¿no te parece?” Aunque aquello en realidad no parecía alterarle en lo absoluto. “ entonces, ¿me vas a invitar a un helado? Perfecto, necesitaba el postre” canturreó.

#› 𝗠𝗔𝗬𝗕𝗘 𝗪𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗 𝗕𝗘 \ nikolai.#-pone la perimetral-#ah mentira ¿cómo estáaaaas?#perdón por tardar pasaron cosas...#como una película de voleibol

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rafora · 1 year ago

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So hear me out. In my universe where Ariana is her own person she has a DISGUSTINGLY fat crush on the Goat. It's not even funny she's down So bad. For some reason she gets on the hermitcraft, let's say she's Grian's twin or something, it's a family reunion, he's showing her around the server, they approach the perimetre, Grian's enthusiastically trying to tell her about the prank War and stuff, but she doesn't really care, like what are you even talking about dude. That is until she suddenly notices someone down there and DAMN!! excuse me!!! wow!!! who's that!!! hey grian!! how about you introduce us to each other!! Like I feel like it has a lot of comedic potential, especially if we assume that she's a very succesful pop star and Doc's secretely a fan of her.

#ariana griande fanart #ariana griande #hermitshipping #docm77 #rafora's art #docriande #???#i don't think there's a ship tag for them #WHY aren't they a thing #they need to be a thing #i think about them constantly #I bear this curse alone

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kivaember · 9 months ago

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re: drabbles: i would be interested to see any kind of take on what life in the PCA is like; the EKDROMOI and HC/LC-HM duos in particular always seemed like funny Just Guys Being Dudes dynamics

OH I LOVE IDEAS LIKE THESE... i ended up just going on a ramble dear god... uh i hope you enjoy! a bit of worldbuilding for PCA and RLF (with a surprise Flatwell mention!)

Thanks for the prompt!

When Erik had been handed his posting for Rubicon-3 (or "ISB2262" as most within the UEG knew it), his first dismayed thought had been: i've hit a dead-end in my career.

See, the PCA were not viewed favourably within the UEG's pilot corps for a multitude of reasons, ranging from their infamous reputation as "space cops" to the fact that their direct chain of command was an actual, literal AI called The System, and whom many within the PCA spoke of as if she was their divine god that had descended from heaven itself to guide them.

Also, there were no glorious battles with the PCA, no chances for winning spoils of war during inter-corporate conflicts or achieving swift promotions by looking good at the right moment. All you did in the PCA was sit on some quarantined rock - normally out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere - and weren't allowed to take souviners or salvage anything profitable from the surface. It was basically guard duty but for years.

At least with guard duty on solar colonies you had some form of civilisation to visit. On Rubicon-3? Civilisation had been razed into nothing but ashes after that catastrophic industrial accident almost fifty years ago, and the remanents were just a ragtag group of stubborn colonists who refused to relocate because this is our home! Nevermind that their home was basically a hole in the ground full of contaminated soil.

Needless to say, Erik's expectations had been low when he reported to the PCA's main base on Rubicon-3. The planet had looked ugly when he came in, the atmosphere riddled with enough chunked up asteroids to make navigating the mess an absolute nightmare for the autopilot and what little surface he glimpsed looking grey and lifeless. The oceans looked good, at least, but Erik didn't have gills, and he doubted he'd be spending any time on their blasted-out beach resorts.

His expectations had been this: he'll sit in whatever passed as their guard room watching the live feed from their defence satellites, bored out of his mind except for moments of fleeting excitement when some wildcat miner came barrelling towards the planet in delusional hopes of striking it big with a Coral deposit. The nights would be long, the days even longer, and he'll be cold, miserable and wondering when he'd be posted out so his career could start again.

Instead, reality had been this: piloting the most advanced MT he'd ever sat in, wielding the most powerful weapons he'd ever laid hands on... yet trapped in an endless struggle against ye olde BASHO ACs on a near regular basis like he was in Hell and this was the ordeal he was condemned to endure for the rest of his afterlife.

The Rubiconian Liberation Front. Erik had heard of them back on Earth when he was in the UEG's main pilot corps, but no one had thought them as any serious threat. Just a group of colonists who had hijacked a construction MT or two and occasionally threw rocks through the PCA's figurative windows. They weren't a real threat. They were just civilians with guns. They'd be scared off easily just by shooting a few warning shots their way.

Wrong.

They were like rabid racoons that refused to leave the PCA's dumpsters. Almost every night, Erik and his squad would be crashed out when the perimetres alarms would trip, and almost every night he'd be chasing after RLF ACs and MTs running off with whatever the hell they could carry. Telephone poles. Copper wires. Vehicles like jeeps or vans. One of them had ran off with a fucking HVAC system once and to date Erik was still baffled about that.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was him.

Middle fucking Flatwell.

The RLF leadership was a bit strange, but every PCA pilot knew of Flatwell. He was a Gen Three and had been part of the Rubiconian militia as a qualified, albeit green, AC pilot when the Fires had hit Rubicon. Guy was likely pushing seventy and still piloted rings around the PCA like he was bioengineered in some fucking lab somewhere to be the bane of their existence.

The System - their chain of command, their AI - knew everything it could dig up about Flatwell. His AC schematics, his habits, his history, his fighting profile and even including some interesting yet bizarre factoids like 'has a legitimate Earth citizenship due to successful seduction of a high-ranking Arquebus executive' and 'suspected illicit affair with an intelligence officer within Arquebus HQ', which meant not only was Flatwell a demon in the AC, he was a demon under the sheets too, forbidden knowledge that Erik could've gone without knowing.

But forbidden knowledge or not, the simple fact was: Flatwell was a damn good pilot, and most of the PCA pilots were just average.

In high-tech MTs and using even higher tech weaponry, sure, but still average. But, when Erik had been new to the post, had been dazzled by these amazing MTs and beautiful plasma weapons, he'd charged headfirst into a fight against Flatwell without hesitation, ignoring The System's soft bleat for him to use caution.

Needless to say, Erik had totalled that shiny MT and ended up ejecting before even a full thirty seconds had passed. Guy was fast.

Fortunately, however, the PCA were a lot more forgiving when it came to totalled MTs. Back in the UEG that would've come straight out of Erik's paycheck, as all repair bills did (he was still paying off his previous repairs... just thirty more years and he'd be debt free!) - but the PCA had brushed it off. Turned out they had a pretty sweet fabrication system and could churn out MTs in the hundreds within hours. Where they got the raw materials for that, Erik wasn't so sure... but the PCA were a branch of the UEG, so it was probably legitimate and not at all illegal or suspicious.

(One of the first rules you learn in the PCA: do not think too deeply about how it functions for legal reasons)

But, while the posting was leagues more exciting than he had initially believed, and incredibly more dangerous, his initial dismayed thought still held true: it was a career killer, because here was another, hidden rule he hadn't known until his boots were firmly on Rubicon-3 and his transporter was flying away from the planet:

Once you're on Rubicon-3, you die on Rubicon-3. No transfers, to retiring, no early-release. The PCA's mission was lifelong and no amount of bellyaching or protesting wold change that. Erik had been sprinted through the five stages of grief before he accepted his grim fate.

Maybe he had died on the way here, he had thought. Maybe this was his punishment for contributing directly to the voracious war machine that was the UEG... how many unionised workers had he killed over the years? How many colonies had he visited to stomp down on burgeoning independent movements so corporations didn't lose a source of revenue? How many had he stomped down on, just for his own continued comfort within the callous galaxy that humanity had made for itself?

Rubicon. It really made you think about these things. Erik slowly began to understand why the PCA's relationship with the RLF was how it was. Yeah, they crashed out every night, and yeah, sometimes Flatwell was there waiting for them, but most times...

Erik would crash out with his squad and only chase the thieving RLF a few miles before breaking off pursuit. He told himself there was no point. What they stole could easily be replaced within a few days. It wasn't as if they were stealing weapons or whatever. If they wanted a fucking HVAC system or a bunch of telecommunication wiring that badly, then they could have it. No skin of Erik's nose, and the PCA didn't bill him for failure to retrieve stolen goods.

He didn't sympathise with them, and the RLF certainly didn't sympathise with the PCA. They killed a lot of each other over the years Erik had been posted here, and Flatwell was particularly merciless. But.

They were both stuck on this planet, either willfully or not. They were both on Rubicon-3 for the long haul, and one way or another, they were gonna share the same fate: they were going to die here, eventually.

They were never going to leave this razed shithole.

#armored core #armored core 6 #fanfic #middle flatwell #some worldbuilding stuff with pca and rubicon #thank you for the prompt!#it was very fun :)

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