#ja graffiti | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bits-and-babs · 1 year

Text

𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Previous Joel Fics: Mule [5.1K Words]

Summary: Marlene thinks Joel can save the fireflies. You’re not so sure.

Word Count: 10.2k!!!!

CW: LONG FIC. You have been warned! Slow burn Enemies to Fuck Buddies. Joel is 40 here, 10 years before the events of the game! Military and political themes because, say it with me now, “Jas loves plot”. Moody Joel, before Tess. Aggression. Slight gore. Power play. Hair pulling, f masturbation. Angst. Based off Game!Joel

Tease: “Look at you,” Joel growls. “Totally shameless.”

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

The white graffiti paint drips down the chipped terracotta walls of the hallway you were designated to patrol. Your feet ache in the brand-new leather boots gifted to you in the last donation drop-off, and you want nothing more than to crawl back to bed and ignore the arrival of this smuggler that had Marlene promising that she could take control of Boston in a fortnight.

“What a bunch of bullshit,” you scoff bitterly, picking at your cuticles. The skin is red raw under the fluorescent lighting, crimson blood pooling around your nails. It's a nervous habit you picked up since joining the Fireflies, marginally healthier than staying up all night but still torturing your body somehow.

There was no light to this way of life, no promise that the darkness would ever subside. It was a brutal cycle of killing a handful of soldiers only for them to execute swathes of Fireflies. You saw it in your dreams, your colleague's brains splattered across the streets in the exclusion zone, a carmine reminder that the military would not tolerate any form of mutiny within their controlled zones. Too many had devoted themselves to suicide missions, but still, you had nothing to show for it. How much longer could Marlene continue to hurl young lives at a promise she couldn't fulfil? The likelihood of finding an immune individual grew smaller and smaller each time squadrons of Fireflies failed to return home, and even the most faithful of individuals were beginning to lose hope that this martyr would ever arrive. That was despite your dogged leader insisting that there must be someone out there that could help provide the vaccine that would eradicate the Cordyceps virus.

You hiss sharply as you subconsciously pull a hang nail down your first knuckle, resulting in a stinging sensation that rips you from your pessimistic thoughts. It's light outside now, and you wonder how long you will have to wait to meet this smuggler that Marlene speaks of so highly. She had claimed that she knew the man's brother, stating that Tommy had fought valiantly for the cause until he found himself unable to justify putting his life on the line for someone that they weren't sure even existed.

As Firefly numbers dwindled, so too did the morale that held the frayed edges of the organisation together. Everyone had sacrificed something and lost someone dear for seemingly no reward. Marlene's fantastical idea that one lone smuggler could change the course of the firefly's suffering left you feeling that options were running out.

As you begin to resign bitterly to your seemingly inevitable end, a pair of footsteps sound down the corridor in an indication of your saviour’s arrival, broken bottles crunching beneath his boots. When you look up from your throbbing finger, now stripped to ribbons, you are caught off guard by the view.

Marlene's expression is grave; eyebrows pulled together in a stark and silent warning. Soldiers aren't coming home today. You had seen that gaunt visage before. Hell, you'd seen it almost every week recently. However, the most shocking sight was the person who accompanied her.

The man is old, much older than you had been expecting. His mousy brown hair, trimmed short, is greying to match the thick, peppery beard that coats his jaw. The edges of his eyes are creased, no doubt carved with the years he spent fighting to survive. His thin lips turn downwards, and his eyes are cold and hardy, indicating his desire to get the job done and escape Marlene’s control.

"Soldier," Marlene addresses you with an air of authority that can only indicate she is attempting to impress her guest, "You will be coming with me."

"Yes, ma'am," you stand at attention and cast your eyes over the guest of honour, who is yet to introduce himself. He doesn't look as though he intends to. He watches you with an air of caution as though he doesn't trust you. It doesn’t surprise you. Everyone in this new world order is a threat. Perhaps this wariness is how he survived so long.

Falling in line, you follow behind your superior. There is an uneasy silence settling amongst you. The Commander and The Smuggler don't seem comfortable in each other's presence.

"So, say you take back Boston. What then?" The man's gruff Texan accent cuts through the silence like a dull blade. It's agonising, an unwanted intrusion to the apparent mutual decision to remain quiet.

"I think you know," Marlene speaks with frustration, "Restore democratically elected government control.”

"Didn’t you say that at the beginning? It ain’t as though you are any closer than 10 years ago." The smuggler points out, his assessment lacking any form of amusement. He doesn't seem to revel in the Fireflies' losses, yet he has the confidence to call Marlene out on her ridiculous ambition.

Marlene shoots the stranger a look of indignation, clearly not appreciating his accurate assessment of the Fireflies’ track record. She doesn't attempt to argue, instead leading him into a room and ushering you inside.

“Joel,” she begins, naming the enigma that had walked in and undermined the entire principal of the organisation he had joined momentarily. Marlene closes the door and locks it for good measure before turning to face her ‘last hope’. “I need you to tell me the plan. I can’t just let you blindly lead the last of my men into a war zone-“

“Didn’t expect you to,” he answers lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his flannel stretch across his broad biceps, buttons straining slightly against his frame. You assume that his physique is thanks to lugging around the oversized backpack that rests over his shoulders, the worn nylon fabric practically bursting at the seams.

Marlene offers Joel a look, the kind that indicates she doesn't feel like joking around. He inhales slowly through his nose, then exhales as if preparing to begin a presentation at a job interview. In a way, that is exactly what this meeting was.

"Y’all can only gather the number of weapons you need from one place. You won't find this shit just lyin’ around. We'll have to take it from the military themselves."

You nearly choke on the oxygen in your lungs, rocked back by Joel’s confidence in his ability to steal directly from under the noses of the US Military. You knew that Marlene had faith in him, but this was lunacy.

"And just how do you suppose we do that?" Even Marlene, ever the optimist, looks at Joel as if he is crazy. There was no way to infiltrate the military bases that the Federal Disaster Response Agency sanctioned. They had the place secure, triple-locked to keep out humans and infected alike.

"We'll catch them on one of their supply runs," Joe answers her question simply, as though he thought of this already, “If we ambush during the night in the Outskirts, they’ll lack the defences to hold us off. At most, there'll be four of ‘em in the delivery vehicle.”

It's an insane plan. The soldier’s on the border of the quarantine zones are armed to the teeth to defend against the infected. The team would need to be stealthy, catching them off guard and dispatching them before they had a chance to call for backup.

Perhaps it's the kamikaze-like nature of Joel's plan, or maybe the lack of detail he’s sharing, but understandably Marlene seems unsure. "Do you think it'll be worth it, all that risk?"

"What, armin’ yourself and strippin’ them of their next lot of ammunition? Seems beneficial to me."

You can't help but wonder what Marlene is trading for Joel to run headfirst into a death trap like this. Likewise, is it wise for her to place all her bets on one man who seems intent on being captured and sentenced to execution?

The heavy sigh that rattles through Marlene's lungs indicates to you that she has nowhere else to turn. In exchange for Joel's basic scheme, she extends a nod of approval.

"You will be escorting Joel." It takes a second for you to realise that Marlene is talking to you, still caught up in shock. When you do, Joel looks less than pleased at the concept of having a babysitter. He drags his eyes over to you, expression flat. You can't say that you're precisely thrilled, either.

"Yes, ma'am," you offer confidently despite wanting to beg for mercy. She doesn't offer you the chance.

"Joel, gather all the men and firepower you’ll need." With that final comment, Marlene turns toward the exit, leaving the two of you alone in the unfurnished room. She seems animated and enthusiastic about getting this plot up and running.

Joel makes no move to leave, instead leaning against the wall and peering at the Firefly pendant that rests on your collarbone. You know what he's thinking, but he himself fails to speak the ‘why’ out loud. There’s an awkward edge to him, indicating a man who had grown too accustomed to surviving as a lone wolf.

"I heard your brother was a Firefly," you beat Joel to it, asking the question before he has the opportunity to interrogate you. This area of the conversation appears to irritate Joel, his eyes turning to the ceiling.

"Yeah, he wasn't happy with the way I did things. Said it was too violent. Instead, he joined you and continued his brutal crusade here despite criticisin’ mine." Joel scoffs, picking at the thread-worn sleeves of the flannel he wore. His words are bitter, leading you to believe that the brothers don't talk anymore.

"It's less of a crusade than an attempt to set things right," you justify.

"You're killin’ people," Joel accuses bluntly. It's as though he's tarring you with the same pitch-black brush as those who killed for their own benefit. It sparks a rage in you, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them.

"You kill people to survive this world. I’m trying my best to revert it to the old one. If I have to kill soldiers to do it, who, by the way, act worse than the infected most of the time, then so be it.”

Joel appears to let your argument settle before he nods, pushing himself from the wall and making his way to the door. His boots scuff the flooring, the grating sound punctuating the silence as you await his response, which he delivers with an air of finality.

"Yeah, you just keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit."

—————————————————

Joel has a wealth of knowledge that can only result from his smuggling adventures and the network of insiders he worked with. He is somehow aware of the military's next supply drop-off date, which just so happens to coincide nicely with his arrival. It gave the team two days to plan their attack. It was almost too good to be true.

Your suspicions against the smuggler grow with your inability to discern his reason for aiding Marlene. There was no question that he was no longer involved with his brother Tommy, the two seemingly ending their relationship on less than amicable terms, and there also appeared to be no love lost between your sergeant and Joel.

Yet despite his apparent limited reward, Joel was focusing all of his efforts on ensuring that this mission was successful. His rucksack, which he had held close to him since entering the Fireflies’ hideout, was filled to the brim with rudimentary grenades and modified firearms. He admitted his knowledge of creating these weapons had come from manuals scavenged throughout his time as a smuggler. Reluctantly, Joel shares the blueprints, and the mission squad are armed with Molotov cocktails and nail bombs by the end of the evening.

You wish you could say that Joel's helpfulness had warmed you to his presence; however, you find yourself increasingly irritated by his constant attendance. You see him arrogant and consistently standoffish despite your fellow member's attempts to appease him with light conversation.

Following the half-a-day-long effort to sufficiently arm the team, Marlene had pulled all on-site members of the Fireflies into a meeting room. She stands at a table, an aged, worn map of the Boston quarantine zone spread across the surface. From where you're standing, you can see circles marked in red ink along the border.

Something akin to optimism clings to the air of the dusty meeting room. You feel it when the group goes silent as Marlene raises her hand for attention. Joel stands by her side, eyes assessing the map as he awaits the beginning of the briefing.

"Everyone listen in," Marlene orders, authority drenching her tone as she commands her army, "I want everyone confident in their role on this mission. We only have one chance to get this right."

You swallow thickly, readying yourself to hear how Marlene had taken Joel's absurd mission plan and cultivated it into a scheme for which her troops would feel comfortable risking their lives.

"We have information that the military is due a supply drop from FEDRA in two days. We are almost certain that this restock will contain firearms and ammo that could help us take down the military presence in Boston." A series of murmurs sound, those in the room comforted by the prospect that they may no longer need to ration their supplies.

"It is crucial that we obtain these weapons to take control of the Boston quarantine zone. With civilian support, we could increase our numbers and once again focus our efforts on obtaining a vaccine for the Cordyceps virus."

It was an unspoken truth that the Fireflies' efforts to acquire a vaccine had ultimately fallen by the wayside, the lack of soldiers, weapons and equipment making it increasingly difficult to travel across the country to the medical facility at Salt Lake City where the trials were taking place. The Fireflies focused most of their resources towards protecting the medical officials integral to finding a cure. Taking control of the militarised zone would provide more than enough manpower, vehicles, and firearms to travel safely and restart the process of searching for an immune individual who could help turn the tide of the war against the virus.

"I can confirm that most supply drops are handed over on the east side of the quarantine zone. Our best option is catching the vehicle containing the cache in the Outskirts before it reaches the wall.”

The Outskirts are notoriously dangerous, their desolate plains unlit and infested with runners that try their luck getting past the military blockade. If you somehow managed to survive the creatures, you then had to contend with the snipers on the wall. Many Fireflies had lost their lives crossing these lands to supply the medical facility in Salt Lake City at the peak of testing.

"I will be handing the mission over to Joel to ensure we have the best chance of obtaining these critical supplies,” Marlene finishes, stepping back and letting Joel take control of the meeting.

Wasting no time, Joel points towards the circled area on the east side of the quarantine wall. "They plan to hand over the cache at the gate on the East wall. If we can intercept ‘em before they reach the lit areas surroundin’ the zone, we should be able to take out the soldiers and grab the weapons before they can call for backup."

You're unsure where your frustrations come from. Perhaps it's the simplicity with which Joel delivers his plans, but you find yourself questioning whether or not it was possible to succeed without losing enough men to bring the Fireflies to their knees.

"I assume you expect us to travel through the underground tunnels beneath the apartment buildings. Who's to say we won't run into Clickers and Runners that drain our resources or leave us late and unable to complete the mission?" You question Joel with sincerity, but he looks at you as though you’ve queried his authority.

Marlene opens her mouth to interject and scold you for insubordination, but Joel raises his hand.

"I am gonna do a run of the smugglin’ tunnels myself and sweep for any infected so that the path is clear for tomorrow evenin’," Joel answered smoothly, despite the obvious irritation laced between his words, "Shipment is due at 9 p.m. tomorrow. We're gonna move out at 5 to make sure that we have enough time to get to the Outskirts and set up for engagement."

Still, you find yourself concerned with Joel’s leadership. None of you knew him. He hadn’t developed trust between the team and himself; instead, he kept you all at arm's length and maintained distance.

“How do we know you won’t hand us all in and take the weapons yourself? You’re a smuggler; you’d earn a lot from them,” you accuse, not unlike the tone Joel had taken with you hours before.

“Soldier-!” Marlene speaks up, running out of patience with your disregard for her ‘smuggling saviour’. Once again, Joel keeps his hand aloft to quieten her and fight his own corner.

“This is a job,” he states with a gravelly tone that betrays his relaxed posture, “I ain’t for your little militia group, and I’m not against it. I will lead this mission, hand the weapons over, take my ration cards and my cut of the firearms and leave. You wanna distrust me and end up dead? Be my guest.”

You can’t help but scoff, taken aback by his inability to choose his side of the moral compass. To fight for good with the Fireflies or battle to maintain the new world order with FEDRA. Instead, he doesn’t even sit on the fence. He’s situated in the shadows, benefitting from either side only for himself.

Joel’s expression serves as a warning to interrupt him again, pointing to the map as he begins to detail the step-by-step of his mission.

“Plan’ll go like this….”

—————————————————

You can’t exactly claim to be surprised that you had been left out of the mission squad and ordered to remain at the hideout after questioning Joel’s leadership. ‘One loose link’ and all that. However, you find yourself wracked with nerves as you return to your room for the night. What if they needed you? What if everything went south, and you were the one pair of hands required to maintain a grip on the delicate situation?

That wasn't to say that you didn't have faith in your fellow soldiers to carry out the mission successfully. Joel had picked the brightest and most skilled of Marlene's troops to carry out this night raid, and you knew they had enough experience to achieve this critical assignment. But what if…?

Marlene had delivered her scathing reprimand following the meeting when she had dragged you down a corridor and insisted you get your act together. You hadn’t been able to look her in the eye, believing her reckless for putting the lives of her troops, your friends, in the hands of a man who couldn’t care less what happened to them as long as he got his payout.

Were you being naive? Was it foolish to believe that every surviving person not aligned with FEDRA should stand opposed to the regime and attempt to restore some level of order? Or had humanity evolved beyond the return to everyday life, much preferring to fight for themselves, to remain in the dog-eat-dog system this virus had granted them?

You find yourself fearing the answer.

As you enter the doorway to the barracks, you hear the rapid pacing of footsteps down the hallway approaching you. The sound drags you from your thoughts, but not before a hand firmly grips your collar and pushes your back to the wall so hard that you hit your head off the jagged brickwork.

Pushing his forearm across your chest, Joel stares back at you with rage burning in his pupils. The metal of a watch strapped around his wrist digs into your collarbone painfully, but you grit your teeth in response, standing firm against Joel's display of intimidation.

His chest is heaving with heavy breaths, seemingly infuriated by your display in the meeting room. Despite his fury, his voice is relatively even. "You gotta problem with me?"

"Ha," you scoff, "That's funny. What was it you said? ‘Be my guest’?”

Joel answers first by applying pressure to your chest, his forearm balancing his weight and crushing your bones beneath it in a painful warning. You grab at the skin exposed by his rolled-up sleeves and dig your nails in, though it does little to de-escalate the tension.

"Look,” he sneers, brows creased together, “You don’t gotta like me. Ain’t even gotta respect me. But what you’re not gonna do is put doubt into your fellow soldier's heads. That shit’ll get them killed. You want that?”

"What's it matter to you? You don't care how many die as long as you get your payout," you dig in, not allowing Joel to think he could muscle you into submission.

He inhales shakily in anger, glaring at you as you attempt to pry his arms off. "The role Marlene gave me ain't to ensure the survival of your friends. My only goal is to guarantee y’all get your hands on those weapons, no matter the cost. So I suggest you assure their best chance of survival by keeping your mouth shut and your opinions of me to yourself."

"Aye, Aye, Captain,” you sneer.

"Atta girl."

The sarcasm dripping from those three syllables sets you off again. You grit your teeth while pushing hard on the limb that has you firmly pinned down, but your limited strength has little effect until Joel pulls away completely. Almost instantly, a bruising ache settles across your skin, and you suppose it's Joel's version of a parting gift.

There is a pause between the two of you as you take in Joel's command. He appears to be watching your expression for any sign of acknowledgement towards his order. You both breathe heavily, on the comedown from your respective anger aimed at each other. It's intense, the crackling tension in the air shared by both of you.

You're unsure how or why the mood shifts so violently in the room, but you can feel your heart racing as you watch Joel settle his hands on his hips. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip as he exhales what must be the last of his anger. In this quiet moment, you note how handsome he is despite his weathered appearance. His usually aggressive, guarded expression is momentarily brought down and exposes the warm, earthy brown tone of his irises.

"Just…" Joel hesitates, searching for the correct words as he looks you in the eye. He's quiet for a long, drawn-out second as if processing you. "You ain't gonna like the guilty conscience of believin’ somethin’ you said is the reason your friends died. Trust me."

The gentle tone Joel offers indicates he has experience in what he's warning you against. When he offers this advice so calmly, who are you to deny this slither of kindness? So you just nod in acknowledgement, refusing to extend him any more appreciation.

Joel steps away whilst clearing his throat, appearing satisfied with your non-answer. He, too, provides little recognition, instead turning around and exiting your room in the direction he came.

You watch as he paces down the corridor, his broad back disappearing around the corner and leaving you alone to dissect what the fuck just happened.

—————————————————

On the morning of the mission, you see very little of Joel. It's all hands on deck, the mission team working hard to ensure they had the supplies needed for the hijacking. Every so often, you would catch glimpses of Joel's red tartan flannel or hear the rough intonation of his Texan accent. It was silly, but you began to think he was purposely avoiding you.

Yes, he had acted carelessly last night by cornering you the way that he did, though you're not sure that is entirely out of character for him. Instead, you believe that whatever happened that caused your heart to race when he pulled away was a shared experience.

Rather than concerning yourself with why he was skirting around you, intentional or not, you focus on enacting your promise from last night. You work hard to ready the troops for the deadline, a subtle nod that you approve of Joel's leadership to urge their confidence in him.

It is painful, but you take your time with each of them. There is almost a certainty that some may not return home, and so you commit them to your memory. It's something you did every time someone left to enter the field, but it felt especially pertinent considering how close the Fireflies were to shifting their luck. Those who died tonight wouldn't get to appreciate the spoils of their sacrifice.

By mid-afternoon, Marlene considered her soldiers ready for battle and ordered them at ease to relax and rest up before heading out. Some opted to share their last meal; others played card games while recounting the time they had spent together with fondness despite the difficulties shared.

Quietly, you had slipped away from the main halls and left them to their final goodbyes. You weren't going out there, so it felt disrespectful to sit amongst those waiting for the call to arms. Alternatively, you made your way to one of the medical bays to ensure that someone set up enough equipment for those who may come back wounded.

By now, you had set out multiple antibiotic syringes, readied bandages and sutures and prepped gurneys so that everything was ready should there be an emergency. You felt better this way, as though you had aided in the effort.

So caught up in the process, you failed to notice Joel leaning his shoulder against the doorway until he cleared his throat to alert you to his presence. When you look up, the sound having startled you, you find him watching you with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you… Uh-do you need something?" You offer awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. Joel shakes his head, eyes flitting down to where you had laid out the medical equipment.

"No. Everythin’ is ready, and the tunnels are clear of infected. Just comin’ to tell you I'm headed out." He walks across the room towards the desk you are sitting at, stopping at the foot of the wooden table and laying his palms flat along the surface. You can see the veins raised through his skin.

You look at him through your lashes, swallowing back the nervous energy you feel creeping to the surface as he leans over the table.

"Why should I care?" You ask. You intend for it to appear nonchalant, but it just sounds breathy even to your ears. Joel raises an eyebrow in question.

"Woah Woah, easy. Still bratty then, I see," Joel points out, his tone flat. You cringe inwardly, knowing that that must have been his attempt to extend an olive branch. "Thought we could put this little disagreement behind us before heading out."

"There isn't one."

"Could’a fooled me," Joel chuckles, but it lacks humour. His gaze slips over your body and appears to take note of all the tiny details. You hope it's all in your mind, but you can feel your face heat up and your heart thrum in your chest again.

"You know, you really remind me of Marlene."

Of all the things you expected Joel to say, that certainly wasn't one of them. You look back at him slack-jawed as you feel the warmth of what you assume was a compliment wash over you.

"Huh?”

"She doesn't put up with none of my bullshit neither. Always tellin’ me to take a hike when I'm outta line and put me back in my place," there's a hint of a smile and Joel's face as he recounts their strange dynamic. A fondness touches his eyes, a fraction of warmth you hadn't yet seen in the hardened smuggler. "Thinkin’ that's maybe how she managed to keep Tommy in check for as long as she did."

You hesitate in your response, unsure how to approach this conversation due to the awkwardness from this morning. Turns out you don't have to because Joel continues.

"Only difference between y’all is that you have the balls to question things you feel ain't right. That's a high-value quality in a leader."

You feel as though you've been bowled over. Yet another compliment from the man who had attempted to strangle the life out of you nearly 12 hours ago. They were starting to make you think that maybe he'd succeeded and that you had entered a strange alternate dimension.

Laughing awkwardly, you shift the syringes around the tabletop in an attempt to keep your nervous hands busy. "Don't let Marlene hear that, shall consider it mutiny."

That earns you another elusive chuckle, the Texan shaking his head in amusement.

"Yeah, well, it ain't mutiny if I ain't part of her little militia army. Don't think I got much to worry about." This dynamic isn't friendship, you figure, though it's undoubtedly more amicable than tussling in your bedroom. It may be the closest Joel ever got to anything akin to amity.

It's not hard to assume that almost 20 years of solitary survival might make it challenging to establish emotional ties. Plus, you know nothing of Joel's ordeals getting to this point. Still didn't excuse his arrogance, though.

Again, silence creeps between you and you feel your stomach somersault while Joel maintains his close proximity. You dread to think what you look like, horrified that your expression could give away your internal panic. Even if it did, it wasn't Joel causing it. It wasn't.

"I'm off," Joel grumbles, standing up and pulling away from the desk and allowing you to breathe a silent sigh of relief. You watch him stroll leisurely towards the door, his hands on his hips. "I'll see you in the mornin’."

Most people in the Fireflies were surprisingly superstitious. It wasn't often you heard someone announce with such certainty that they would return from a mission. Regardless of its abnormality, it manages to ease your nerves – not that you were concerned about what happened to Joel.

"Good luck."

The flippant comment causes Joel to stop in his tracks, pausing in the doorway. He peers over his shoulder at you as if to make certain that you said it. He appears surprised.

"Yeah. Thanks."

—————————————————

Pacing.

You're pacing uncontrollably, circling the room in a failed attempt to ease the nervous energy pent up in your system. No matter how hard you attempt to block out the repetitive dialogue in your mind, it rushes back to the surface of your brain. What if, what if, what if –

Joel and his squad had moved out the minute the clock struck five, just as he had promised. Although Marlene had provided Joel with a walkie-talkie, the mission's reliance on stealth meant that no one intended to use it. You were completely cut off, uncertain of Mission status or if the squad was even alive.

Hoping it would make your wait more bearable, you turned your ticking clock to face the wall and put your watch inside your bedside drawer. It had helped initially, but now the sun had set, and you were expecting their imminent arrival. Every second your colleagues don't step back into the compound, your faith dwindles.

Though she maintained a stony expression, you knew Marlene was equally anxious. The most wanted woman in America, though able to defend herself, still depended heavily on her armed personnel. Reliant on this mission being a success, she had offered them up to Joel in the hope that their experience would assure victory. You can't help but wonder if she feels exposed without them.

What if they didn't come back? Could she survive without them?

It’s bordering on the edge of midnight when Marlene informs you she’s turning in for the night. You can’t say you blame her, needing to sleep on the off chance the team didn't return. She had informed you upon the group's exit that if the mission failed, the two of you would be heading to Salt Lake City at dawn.

You opt to stay awake, knowing well enough that you won't sleep until you are confident there will be no return.

Continuing your anxious circling of the room, you pick at your wounded cuticles. They are weeping blood down their knuckles thanks to hours of torture, yet you can't bring yourself to stop the self-destructive behaviour. Not while you wait for news.

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest at the sound of the main doors creaking open. It's so quiet you almost miss it in the silence, the sound of your blood rushing through the shell of your ear nearly drowning out the barely audible noise.

Grappling for your pistol, you release the safety and suck in a shaky breath. No one had announced themselves, and without guards on the door, there was no way to discern that those who had entered the building were Fireflies.

You shake with nervous energy, carefully stepping across the rickety wooden floor to conceal the sound of your movements. Had the US military found your hideaway? Surely not; they would have moved in before any threat to their organisation could be enacted

Leaning your back flush to the door frame in an attempt to conceal yourself, you listen out for any advancing danger. It's quiet at first, but you hear the scuff of a boot against the uneven floor cut through the silence. Inhaling swiftly, you ready yourself before lurching out from behind the door frame with your pistol aloft.

Shock wracks your body upon setting your eyes on the intruder that stands before you. Joel. Covered in blood from head to toe, his hands drip the viscous liquid onto the floor. The shoulder of his flannel is ripped open, loose threads sticking to his sweat-soaked skin.

"Oh-oh shit-“ you gasp out, horrified by the state you find him in. Given the state of his clothes and the sheer amount of blood that continues to run from his hair down his temples, your immediate thought is to check for wounds-but you can't see any. Sure, there is a scrape on his shoulder where the fabric of his flannel has ripped open and a cut that spans the length of his whole knuckle that you can see when he wipes the sweat from his brow, but other than that, you can't see any wound that would cause that much blood loss.

Joel, however, appears relatively unfazed as he points over his shoulder.

"Most came out with minor wounds," he states calmly, his gruff voice laced with exhaustion, "Lettin’ Marlene know we are back and that I have her guns."

It's as though Joel had just completed a simple sweep of the hideout parameters rather than one of the most dangerous and vital missions since the fireflies began their fight for humility, all without having received a single major wound.

As he walks away and leaves you gawping after him, frozen in place, you hear your team filtering in through the main doors behind you one by one. They are shouting your name and proclaiming their victory as they surround you, holding their hard-won weapons aloft. Despite their hollering, you can barely hear them over the frantic thoughts buzzing through your mind.

How?

It takes hours to ease the excitement and adrenaline buzzing through each of Joel's soldiers. You stitch up the wounded and listen to their battle stories in awe. They are enthusiastic about informing you of Joel's brilliance, frequently admitting that they could not understate how much of this victory they owed to him.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” one laughs incredulously. "There were more than we had expected, but it didn't phase him. He took out two of them on his own, and when his gun jammed, he knocked them out with his fists!”

Turns out that the four soldiers the fireflies had expected were accompanied by another five unaccounted for. Joel hadn't let it affect the team, pushing them ahead with the mission. By blinding them with smoke grenades, the team had been able to ambush successfully, and despite the physical tussle that resulted in Joel's bloodbath, the mission had otherwise gone just as planned, the fighting all wrapped up within moments.

According to the many recounts told as you patched up your friends, the only reason it took so long was that the weapons boxes were heavy and made for a tight squeeze in the tunnels. You could have cried at the stupidity of it all.

Eventually, Marlene joined in with the festivities, having been woken by Joel to confirm "Mission accomplished." Leftover Molotov cocktails from the mission we used as celebratory drinks that had the majority of your colleagues wasted within the hour - including your commander.

As fresh, golden beams of sunlight peered through the windows, you excused yourself to bed despite the drunken protests of your colleagues. After explaining your exhaustion, thanks to your immense concern, they reluctantly allowed you to leave on the condition you would celebrate with them later. You imagined their hangovers would be too severe for further partying.

Practically clawing your way to your barracks, you breathe a sigh of relief as you walk through the open door. You can still hear the shouts of jubilation downstairs, noting that you’d probably have to drown out the sounds by covering your head with a pillow. The mattress calls to you like a siren, promising rest. You plan to skip removing your clothes and fall into bed as you are-

"Didn't expect to be greeted with a gun to my head."

The heavy, Southern drawl that sounds from your doorway behind you makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. You wish you could say it was a fear response or disgust, but your heart leaps in your chest with excitement.

Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes to collect yourself before you turn to face him. Your inhale is so deep you feel the edges of your lungs ache at the strain before you turn around to face the Walking Headache.

Joel is leaning against the door frame as he had in the medical room before he left. He has bathed since you saw him an hour ago, scrubbing the gore from his body and dressing in fresh clothes. His hair is still damp, and you assume he’s been forced to borrow the outfit from one of his new-found friends, the seams a little too tight on his broad body.

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect to find a serial killer walking the halls either," you dig at the state he had returned in. It earns you a deep chuckle that resonates in his chest, and you can't help but note the way you hold your breath to hear the pleasant sound better.

"That how you treat all your commanders?" Joel questions, his voice lilting with a hint of humour that you find dangerous, your heart stuttering at the drastic change in him since the last time you were in this room together.

You let out a scoff that doesn't quite match the indifference you were attempting to convey. "Don't flatter yourself. You were consulted to lead one mission; that doesn't make you a commander."

He doesn’t like that.

Standing gormlessly in the middle of the room, you immediately regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. Joel is gazing at you with an intensity in his earthy irises, taking in your feigned lack of respect with a slight arch of his brow. It's less of a look of surprise than it is an unspoken challenge. It makes your body flush with heat.

The sense of security you feel with him on the other side of the threshold to your door bursts the moment he effortlessly steps inside. He has no issue with invading your personal space, finding it even easier when you fail to find the words to protest his intrusion.

Joel doesn't hesitate, but he also lacks urgency, taking his time to leisurely bridge the space between the two of you. Again, he is close enough that you can see the intricacies of his face. There is a myriad of delicate freckles and a small, ruddy scar that kisses the bridge of his nose.

You're so wrapped up in the tiny details that you almost miss the flicker of consideration in his eyes. Despite his steady, authoritative body language, he’s questioning whether or not he can say what he has in mind as he studies your expression carefully.

He leaps.

"Insubordination results in punishment, don’t it, soldier?" His volume pitches right down, each syllable buzzing through your veins as he maintains heavy eye contact that has your knees melting beneath you.

It's only when he speaks that you realise you have stopped breathing, your lungs burning in a desperate attempt to shake you from the trance he’s put you in.

You have no explanation for your response. You don’t have the chance to argue, to insult him for playing this ridiculous role. Instead, each word forces itself from your mouth upon your shaky exhale, coming out in a broken whisper.

“Yes, Sir." Your answer is spoken embarrassingly quickly. There’s a flash of something powerful in his eyes, like he’s still buzzing on residual adrenaline left over from the mission. It surges forward at your answer, and he clings to it, taking control of the room- of you.

“Atta Girl.”

It drips through you like honey, coating your insides and warming them. Your body tingles and pleads for Joel’s attention despite your best efforts to fight the need he draws from it as he drags his eyes across its length.

A tiny voice in your mind rears its ugly head. He’s probably pent up from fighting, and you’re still stressed from waiting up all night. You could give in to what you want. Doesn’t mean you like him.

Joel seems to hear it too, his eyes searching for a hint of approval. You can see he’s itching to touch you, to release the anger that you’ve built in him back onto you with tongues and teeth.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“On your knees, soldier.” He commands, and it’s like his voice strokes something hedonistic inside of you because your body surges with arousal at the implication of his order.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

Against your better judgement, you slowly sink to your knees in front of Joel, eyes pin-set on the toes of his dirtied boots. The wooden floor smarts your knees, but you maintain your position in an effort to appease him.

Joel doesn’t move, feet firm in their place on the floor as you bow before him. He’s making you wait, arms loose at his sides. You don’t dare to lift your head to look at him, to urge him forward, instead straining your eyes upwards to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Prickling heat teases at your skin, your arousal triggered, knowing he was watching you submit to him so easily. The tension grips you, finding it ironic that Joel entered every situation all-guns-blazing yet had utmost patience when it came to prolonging your suffering.

Your need condenses, acutely aware of Joel’s entire being. It’s as though you can feel his eyes trail over your body like a feather-light touch, and you swear that you can smell the dampness of his hair. Most of all, you focus on Joel’s even, quiet breathing, the expansion and deflation of his lungs acting like a metronome in the silence.

Then- God, then he’s moving his hand forward achingly slowly, fingertips pressing delicately against your left temple. The brush of his fingerprint over your skin ignites a humming arousal between your thighs, and you subconsciously press them together when he pushes his digits into your hairline.

Your jaw drops, slack as you exhale shakily. So starved for Joel’s touch, you’re more than grateful for the innocuous brush of his fingers along your scalp. It’s probably so obvious to him, your desperation, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he takes a step forward, his boot settling into the wooden planks you’re kneeling on, his feet on either side of your thighs.

Joel is so close you can feel the fabric of his jeans brush against your forehead. So frequently worn, the denim has lost that rough texture and could almost pass for cotton. You don’t dare to move, knowing if you so much as twitched, your nose would graze over his crotch through the material.

“Atta girl,” Joel murmurs, unironically this time, his voice rumbling in his chest. It cuts through the quiet so suddenly that it makes you jump, almost loud to your ears. He sounds pleased with your reception of his proximity, rewarding you by taking a firm but painless grip on the roots of your hair.

It’s as though you can read his mind. His pulse thrums in his palm against the soft flesh of your scalp, matching the thumping pace of your own. Joel doesn’t speak his thoughts out loud, yet it’s like he whispers into your ear. ‘Good soldiers get rewarded.’

The pressure he applies to the crown of your skull is minute, but it’s enough to push your face into his crotch. Your gasp of surprise is so loud that it almost drowns out the resonant hum that he releases, gripping tighter to your hair as you nuzzle into him.

Rock hard beneath your cheek; you can feel Joel’s cock twitch at the delicate friction you gift him. Having plunged so deep now, you no longer have to reason with yourself to take what you want, kissing the shaft of his dick through the fabric he wears. Again, your reward is to be pushed closer to him, the adrenaline pulsing through Joel’s veins causing a heavy-handedness that makes the walls of your pussy flutter.

“Look at you,” Joel growls as your tongue drags across the fabric his cock strains against, as if resorting to desperate measures to taste him, “Totally shameless.”

You can’t contain it, the whimper that bubbles in your throat. It sounds around Joel’s twitching cock, and it seems to rile him up, momentarily cracking his composure when he thrusts his hips forward slightly.

Fuck, it’s like he’s hypnotising you with his grunts and groans, your body liquidating as they heat you from the inside out. Heaving breaths indicate the magnitude of your desire, and you’re kneeling up before you can even think of the consequences of taking matters into your own hands.

Pushing your nose into the seam of the crotch in his jeans, you use the tip of your tongue to search for the zipper. The brass is warm when it brushes your tastebuds, a metallic tang coating them as you slide your tongue beneath it.

Carefully, you take the fastening between your teeth, lowering your head to drag the zipper down. You probably only manage four links of the chain before Joel’s hand shoves itself between you and the fabric, bumping your nose as he tears the button of his jeans open with a stuttery exhale.

He releases his cock from the confines of his pants, and God, you’re so thankful he does. A thatch of thick curls frames the base of his cock, a subtle curve to the veiny shaft that stands at attention beneath your gaze. The tip gleams in the low light seeping through your thin curtains, coated with precum that weeps from the head that’s flushed a dusty purple. He’s not too big, with a perfect girth and length to him that has you convinced he’d fit inside you just right-

Joel doesn’t allow himself to examine how you practically melt at the sight of him, wrapping his fingers around his shaft and steadying it with his thumb. In any other situation, the gentle slap of his cock against your cheek would have you leaping from the floor and throttling him, but you’re both so needy that you open your mouth greedily without prompt. It drives Joel insane.

“Hah,” he heaves, pressing the tip of his dick to your flat tongue, “Shit- oh shitshitsh-“

Joel sheathes himself inside your mouth with one long stroke of his hips, and you’re almost sure your throat stretches beyond its limits to accommodate him.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Joel curses heavily, watching your eyes brim with tears at the intrusion as you fight your gag reflex. When you glance up at him through your watery lashes, you catch the way his upper lip arches at the sensation of your tongue tracing the underside of his cock. He’s sweating, brow glistening with evident arousal on his brow, and your stomach flips at the concept that you were the one making him feel this way- breaking his almost impenetrable composure.

Carefully, you inch him further down your throat until the tip of your nose buries into the curls framing his pubic bone. A musky smell that is uniquely Joel coats your senses, and you find yourself almost dizzy at the concept of being totally surrounded by him, filled by him. Just hours ago, you couldn't stand him, couldn't bear to be around him, and yet now you think you'd cry if you pulled away.

Joel groans above you as you swallow around his length, his fingers grappling with your hair for purchase and gripping tightly to the strands at the crown of your head. You use Joel’s distraction to begin bobbing your head, slowly pulling off him and feeling him drag against the walls of your throat until the tip of his cock rests over the flat of your tongue. Before he can complain, you sink back down and take all of him back into your mouth, and you swear that you can see Joel’s eyes roll back into his school in your periphery.

"Ah- fu-“ Joel appears entirely enraptured by the sensation of the head of his cock catching on each little ridge of your throat, and you can see him watching you work him in and out of your mouth at a lazy pace. "Look at you- Hnng- So fuckin’ good."

As you get used to the sensation of the velvety skin bumping against your throat, you begin to experiment a little more. You use the slow, steady pace to drag your tongue over the length of his fraenulum and swirl it around the head. The salty taste of the precum beading at the slit pushes you further, feeling him twitch with your ministrations.

Throbbing aches begin to settle in your knees, complaining about kneeling against the wooden floor but are drowned out by Joel's heady groans and the tight coil of arousal between your thighs. It's as though you can feel your pulse throughout your body, complaining about the lack of attention, but also invested in the way Joel appears to be losing his composure that you can't find it in yourself to protest.

“Christ-“ Joel groans out above you, suddenly taking a firm grip of your hair and pulling you up and off of him. The burn in your lungs has you gasping for air as you look up at him in concern. Had you messed up?

Opening your mouth to ask him what you’d done wrong, you find the words die in your throat when Joel pushes the tip of his weeping cockhead against your lips again. He’s staring down at you with this look in his eyes, something dark and potent swirling in his pupils. You taste him on your tongue again, and Joel pushes your head down onto him again.

He's unable to control himself, driven by the sensation of your mouth around him. The comprehension makes your mind spin with pride, and again you submit to Joel.

It’s rough, your hair wrapped around his fingers to better his grip as he forces you to still. Your eyes tear up, leaking tears down your cheeks as he begins to fuck your mouth at a brutally satisfying pace. Despite the bruising sensation of his cock hitting your throat, you’re practically dripping in your underwear when seeing the way Joel snarls at the overwhelming bliss.

Grasping desperately onto his hips to brace yourself, you cling on as Joel fucks deep into your throat. The hinges of your jaw ache at the effort of holding your mouth open for him, but Joel doesn’t let your efforts go unnoticed.

His free hand brushes his rough knuckles across your cheekbone, sliding down your face so his palm can cup your throat. Joel lets out the most wicked groan, applying pressure to your neck to feel himself slide in and out of you.

“God- You feel that?” He laughs out incredulously, his cock twitching, “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” He’s mouthing off, a lot more talkative than usual. You put it down to the blood having rushed from his head to his co-

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and it’s like the oxygen he’s starving you of begins to make you think you’ve imagined it. Your eyes flutter and blink back tears, your brain working to figure out if he honestly said it. It’s only when he yanks your hair in an attempt to wordlessly urge you to do as told that your hands snap down to your waistband.

Blindly, you push your fingers beneath the waistband of your trousers, practically sobbing with relief as your fingertips clumsily brush your clit. It sparks white hot, the muscles in your thighs trembling as they brace your weight on your knees.

“Mhmmm fuck,” Joel rumbles, watching your face as he fucks into it, noting how your brows pull up at the pleasure you draw for yourself between your thighs.

It drives him insane. You can feel it. His dick twitches against your tastebuds, and you can feel his pulse in the thick vein that runs down the underside of his cock. Joel’s fingers paw at the back of your head, pushing you down onto his length and making you take him impossibly deeper. You’re choking on him, gagging around his girth. It makes your eyes stream, yet it just makes your fingertip swirl around your clit quicker, seeking that high you craved.

“Nuh-uh,” you hear Joel’s gruff voice, his palm patting you harshly on the cheek. Just enough to sting. “Focus right here, right here.”

Blinking through the teary haze and the surging arousal that grips your muscles, you only notice with a particularly sharp slap to your cheekbone that you had closed your eyes. Joel’s urging has you looking up through your wet eyelashes as he continues with his harsh thrusts.

Sinking your digits into your heat, you melt against the intrusion in your throat as the walls of your cunt flutter around your fingerprints. Severely neglected, your pussy aches and arches towards orgasm at breakneck speed. Under the weight of your body, your thighs tremble at your ministrations, and your brows pull together as if to brace against the impending crest of ecstasy.

“Oh fuck, yeah, just like that,” Joel rumbles under his breath, eyes set on your twisted expression as his hips begin to stutter. You feel his pulse on your tongue and draw clumsy, sloppy circles over your clit to match.

The groan that tears its way through Joel’s throat when he cums almost startles you, and you’re almost sure it does the same to him. His fingers are white-knuckling your hair in an attempt to brace for the surge of pleasure, his cum streaking down the back of your throat.

He watches as you desperately stroke over your throbbing clit and swallow his load without prompt. Even through your blurred vision, you can see his awed visage as he watches you take everything he gives.

Perhaps it’s the apparent appreciation he shows you when you hear him mumble a muffled ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ’, or it’s finally rendering the argumentative Joel Miller borderline speechless. Still, you hurtle off the edge with barely any warning other than a split second of a hot white crackle up your spine.

Your body contracts inwards as you rub yourself through the crescendo, grateful Joel was with it enough to remove himself from your mouth just before. The ragged gasp you exhale sounds strangled, your orgasm blinding you in its onslaught. Your vision spots and slides out of focus, seeing double as the warmth ebbs away.

Soon, the only thing your hearing focuses on is the inhale and exhale of your lungs, sharp and clawing at the oxygen that keeps you from blacking out. Had you stopped breathing?

Joel turns away for a moment to right himself, pulling his jeans back up and buckling his belt again. The afterglow of such an earth-shattering orgasm makes everything slow, and you can’t help but smile almost dopily to yourself as you watch him ruffle his salt-and-peppered brown locks.

A sharp inhale drags you from your brain-melting comedown, settling back on your haunches and stretching out your aching legs as you watch Joel struggle for words. He looks conflicted, opening his mouth to speak and then firmly pressing his lips together in frustration.

Cotton sticks to your back thanks to the perspiration beading there, patches of the khaki shirt you wear stained with darker sweat patches. The birds are singing to fill his silence, allowing him a moment to approach his thoughts without awkwardness. You don’t push him.

“You wanna help me?” He tests the waters, mahogany eyes flicking to your face to gauge your reaction, “You know… Takin’ some time to smuggle instead’a doin’ this militia suicide task?”

It’s like he douses your sticky sweet, pleased muscles in ice-cold water in your shock. You certainly hadn’t expected him to like you, let alone ask you to work for him. It’s your turn to be speechless, the oxygen you had fought so hard to breathe catching in your throat and choking you.

“I-“ You swallow thickly, wanting to approach this carefully, “Joel, I made a promise.”

He nods slowly, eyes shifting to the wooden floor and seemingly tracing the rough surface of each plank as though it were the most exciting art installation he had ever had the time to take in. Perhaps it was. Joel didn’t seem the type to stop and smell the roses.

“I have to fulfil my promise to help find a cure,” you tread delicately, but it’s almost pointless because Joel agrees with a nod of his head, neither forceful nor resentful. He appears to take your word, wordlessly encouraging you to chase that ‘pipe dream’, as he had once called it.

“You got it,” he clears his throat roughly, clasping his hips with both hands as he exhales slowly, letting the implications of your decision sink into his bones. Certain death. There wasn’t much else out there for a Firefly, and you weren’t naive enough to think any different.

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

You couldn’t turn away now. Not when these guns he’d hand-delivered made that light almost close enough to touch.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you watch him slowly pace to the door, wood creaking beneath his weight. He leans his palm against the frame, glancing back at you momentarily.

“There’s a spot for you, y’know? If you change your mind.”

A melancholy smile plays at the corner of your lips. The likelihood that you’d survive long enough to begin sufficiently regretting your decision and change your mind was slim, but the thought that Joel was willing to set a place aside for you…

“Thank you, Joel,” you whisper, shocked to hear your voice crack with emotion with the gratitude you show him.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“Mhm,” he nods awkwardly, thumb brushing against the circumference of the watch that had dug into your collarbone 48 hours ago. There’s a tenderness in that touch, something that your cheekbones ache to experience. Instead, you ignore the infuriating pining of your body for the man who had irritated you only moments before, watching as he steps out into the hallway and out of sight, no doubt to grab his stupidly oversized backpack and slink away into the darkness of the underground tunnels and return to his regular trade.

Your heart strains in your chest, but it doesn’t mean you like him.

It doesn’t.

END

Taglist 🏷️ : @hoeneey @howaboutcastiel @welcometostayingawake @syrma-sensei @ethanhoewke @polaroidpetal @foxilayde @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart @buckys-other-punk @anxious-sappho @alexloveskili @captainrexstan @astroboots @knights-power @southcrnbelle @niallsbunny @ofmortems @hold-our-destiny @xcatnapsx @vermillionwinter @stormkobra-5 @erenbissexual @alwritey-aphrodite @maggotzombie @deadpige0n @bakerstreethound @whatthehekko @cottagebunny9 @bit-dodgy-innit @peachyproserpina

#Joel miller #Joel miller x reader #Joel x reader #Joel miller x y/n #Joel miller x you #Joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller fic #Joel miller imagine #Joel miller the last of us #joel the last of us #the last of us #TLOU #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #1k+ club

2K notes · View notes

spraystory · 1 year

Photo

"Szabadság, egyenlőség, testvériség"

4.rész Az amerikaiak

A megannyi külföldi jöttment közül, akikkel a sors összefújt graffitis éveim alatt, valójában épp a graffiti teremtésének földjéről érkezők, az amerikaiak voltak legkevésbé jelen a velem történtek alatt. Minden bizonnyal ennek az egyik oka, hogy egy fél kontinens és egy hatalmas óceán van közöttünk. Emellett mintha az amerikai firkászok kevésbé lennének utazgatósak mint az európai kollégák. Akár helyesen ítélem meg, akár nem, tény hogy meglehetősen ritkán vetődött felénk amerikai writer. Első találkozásaim amerikai graffitisekkel egészen halványan vannak csak meg. Volt amerikai vendégem - sajnos nem emlékszem ki - fiatal firkászéveim alatt, akitől egy Mear/CBS pólót kaptam ami azóta is megvan és véletlenül ugyancsak CBS tagok Cisco és Izm voltak, akikről az első írásomban megemlékeztem, akik egy darabig Budapesten laktak, akikkel a TDF-es srácok összehaverkodtak és akiket csaknem a magyarországi tartózkodásuk utolsó pillanatáig nem tudtunk “elkapni”. De a CBS még mindig nem volt az igazi amerikai kapcsolat, hiszen őket az utolsó pillanatokban ismertük meg. Volt egy másik vendégem is az USA-ból, Auph One, aki egy vázlatot is rakott a blackbookomba de befejezni nem tudta és sajnos vele kapcsolatban sem emlékszem többre. 2002-ben összetalálkoztunk a How&Nosm párosból Nosm-al és elvittük festeni őt, ha jól emlékszem kétszer is, egyszer biztosan a System 120-as Skodájával, amibe alig fért be. Ezek után az amerikaiakkal való találkozás terén, hosszabb csend állt be. Mígnem 2006-ban az angol Aroe-nak köszönhetően Brightonban, egycsapásra ott találtam magam az amerikai graffitis vérkeringés akkori ütőerének sodrásába. Az MSK - amennyire ezt én mint kívülálló, meg tudom ítélni - akkor élte ragyogásának delét. A haverkodás köztünk amúgy néhány udvarias, hülyéskedős megjegyzésben kimerült. Bő három esztendő telt el, amikor 2009-ben egy különleges vendég érkezett az Egyesült Államokból. Ő volt a nagyon ütős stílust festő Jurnes, aki ma Scienceism néven van fent az instagramon. Egy igazán intelligens, kedves, higgadt és tudatos writert ismertem meg benne. Ma, igen tisztelt és “nagy név” a graffiti szakmában - ha ezt így egyáltalán ki lehet fejezni. Egy biztos, kiváló stylemaster és rendre egy lapon szerepel a worldwide graffitis kingekkel. Ha jól emlékszem európai turnén volt és Budapest csupán egy állomás volt neki, de egészen mozgalmasan telt. Pontosan nem emlékszem hogy kik, de biztosan ismerősök, elvitték traint festeni ami sikerült is, mi pedig véletlenül épp egy klassz spotot intéztünk, a Duna Plaza parkolóházában kaptunk falakat, Journes oda jött el velünk festeni egy jót. Talán még most is ott vannak a cuccaink.

Ezek után ismét eltelt négy esztendő, amikor 10 évvel ezelőtt, 2013-ban elindultam New Yorkba. Időközben szeretett és kedvenc festékmárkám a Molotow "supported artist"-ja lettem, ami egyrészt óriási megtiszteltetés volt nekem, másrészt egy roppant izgalmas vállalkozás. Feladatom az volt hogy egy éven át kb havonta fessek egy-egy - amennyire lehetséges - tematikus full color cuccot, amihez a Molotow adja a spray-ket. Csodálatos feladat. A new yorki út hallatán a Molotow rögtön jelezte, hogy összerak 2-3 színes cuccra való csomagot, amely engem már ott fog várni New Yorkban. Melyik writernek ne lenne ez álom utazás? A Molotow a support sprayket egyébként egyik kedves barátunknak a queens-i lakására küldte, később pedig itt is töltöttünk egy hetet. Négyen utaztunk, köztük “B” barátommal. “B” már megjárta a Nagy Almát, így volt némi tapasztalatunk is arról, mire számítsunk. Mielőtt azonban elutaztunk volna, előkutattam egy biztosan rossznak vélt email címet Jurne-höz és vettem a bátorságot hogy érdeklődjek, van-e bárki jó barátja New Yorkban akivel elmehetnék festeni. Írtam hát Journes-nek. Biztos voltam benne hogy sohasem látok tőle választ, hiszen a találkozásunk óta négy hosszú év telt el. Óriási meglepetésemre 2 napon belül válaszolt és ami sokkal extrább info volt, megírta hogy ő ugyan nem oda valósi, de azokban a hetekben éppen New Yorkban lesz, így persze, fussunk össze. Nem is akartam elhinni hogy ilyen jól alakulnak a dolgok és az volt hogy végül, valóban ilyen jól alakultak a dolgok. Mondanom sem kell micsoda érzés volt a repülőtérről, egyenesen Brooklynba metrózni és először élőben látni mindazokat a tageket, legendás cuccokat amiket már magazinokból ismertem. A graffiti bölcsőjébe kerültem, oda ahonnan mindaz jön amit évtizedek óta megszállottan űztem. Le voltam nyűgözve. Mint vallásos ember, aki eljut a szent városba, olyan áhitattal falták a szemeim minden centijét New Yorknak. Jurne-el már azt hiszem első vagy második nap estéjén találkoztunk Brooklynban, meglepetésemre Rime (MSK) és Host18 (Shots DYM) és más writerek társaságában. Este érkeztünk hozzájuk, épp valamiféle megrendelést festettek egy amolyan klasszikus new yorki bolt redőnyre. Az amerikai srácok részéről a lehető legkedvesebb, legbarátságosabb fogadtatásban volt részünk. Journe bemutatott Host-nak, ennek a kíváló embernek aki később - viccesen a nevéhez hűen - valóban házigazdánk lett. New Yorkban nincsenek legálfalak. Az európai nagyvárosok közül nemigen lehet olyat találni ahol ne lennének legálfalak, a legtöbb városban több is. New Yorkban ilyen nincs. Vannak helyek amikre azt hallhattad hogy “elvileg” lehet oda festeni, de szerintem épeszű ember nem tesz olyat hogy egyedül odamegy és elkezdi valaki ismeretlen writer cuccát lefedni. Kapcsolat kell, ismerned kell valakit aki tud helyet. És nem is nagyon láttam ezerszínű, nagy gonddal készült legál cuccokat, viszont a legkingebb throw upok, bombingok, tagek olyan mennyiségben vannak gyakorlatilag mindehol és olyan stílusokban hogy olyan érzése van az embernek, ahol ilyen gazdag és bámulatos a throw up és tag kultúra, ott nincs szükség legálkodásra. Akkoriban amúgy a 5pointz még állt, de hogy őszinte legyek nekem sosem tetszett annyira az a hely és volt valami writer, akinél be kellett jelentkezni hogy oda festhess, de ezt az embert nem lehetett elérni, vagy valami bonyodalom volt ami miatt az egészet elengedtük. Egyébként például subwayről szó sem lehetett és nem is akartam. Megelégedtem a hely varázsával, a kiváló társasággal és azokkal a spotokkal és lehetőségekkel amiket sikerült intéznem. Vittem magammal viszont rengeteg stickert, jobb híján azzal voltam elfoglalva hogy jó helyekre kerüljenek. Ezzel kapcsolatban, francia barátok később mesélték hogy előttem járt New Yorkban az egyik igen nagynevű francia writer, akinek a cuccait én magam is nagyon szeretem. Az első napon elkapták valami civil zsaruk matricázásért (!), több napra becsukták s mire kiengedték, állítólag ki is rakták Amerikából. Micsoda szerencsétlen fordulat egy egyébként bevállalós stylemasternek.

Szóval nekem-nekünk nem volt tervem bármi vadulás és ha jól emlékszem “B” volt aki tudott egy helyet. Hamarosan megfestettem hát az első cuccomat New York Cityben, “B”-vel és más helyi srácokkal a Tuff City shop hátsó udvarán. Ez olyan spot volt ahol naponta változnak a rajzok, de ez egyáltalán nem érdekelt. Ott voltunk New Yorkban és egy tag is csodálatos érzés lett volna, nem hogy egy full színes cucc. Szuper nyugis fújás, baráti beszélgetések, jó hangulat, szép idő - graffiti mennyországban éreztem magam. És az is volt.

Később találkoztunk “B” barátom egyik kedves ismerősével, egy amerikai fiúval Mike-al akit “B” még korábbról ismert. Mike a legjobb arc, mosolygós, vidám, intelligens srác aki kiválóan fot��zik. Nem tősgyökeres new yorki, Portlandből jött NYC-be és egyébként Budapesten is járt már a mi new yorki utunk előtt. Mikenak az volt az egyik skillje hogy egy csomó tetőhöz volt hozzáférése. Azaz a híres new yorki rooftopokra fel tudtunk jutni Mike segítségével. Tudta a kódot, ismerte a bejárást, volt kulcsa vagy egyenesen ismert olyat aki felengedett, voltunk pl a Vogue egyik fotósának a privát kis tetőjén. Rögtön az első napokban nagyon klassz tetőkön találtuk magunkat és találtam több olyan cuccot amit azelőtt már láttam magazinokban. Ez később természetesen hatványozódott, egész utcarészeket, blockokat, muralokat fedeztem fel amiket élőben látni varázslatos érzés volt. Az a kultúrális táplálék ami New Yorkból származik felülmúlhatatlan, ha valaki ezt figyeli mint akkor én, ugyan úgy le lesz nyűgözve. Egy kedves kis történetünk is lett Mike-al. New yorki tartózkodásunk első része alatt Brooklynban, Bedford-Stuyvesantban laktunk, majd később Queens-ben. Amikor még Bed Stuyban volt a lakásunk, egyszer meghívtuk Mikeot magunkhoz egyik estére. Együtt mentünk haza, mikor a metróból kijövet megjegyezte, hogy ez jó kis környék, ő épp erre lakott évekkel azelőtt. Mikor befordultunk a mi utcánkba, kiderült hogy ő is ugyanebben az utcában lakott. Mikor azonban a házunk elé értünk, ami egy csendes kis közben volt, elcsodálkozva mondta, hogy: - “ Ne csesszetek ki velem, pontosan ebben a házban a laktam”. A házunkban két külön lakás volt, az emeleti és a szuterén. A mienk az emeleten volt, mire Mike : - “ Véletlenül nem Dean lakását bérlitek?” Kisült hogy Mike éppen a mi lakásunkban, ezen belül is a mi szobánkban töltötte első boldog new yorki éveit. Hiába ismerték korábbról egymást Mike és “B”, erre semelyikünk nem számított. Mekkora esélye van annak, hogy 8 millió new yorki közül épp egy olyannal sodor össze az élet, aki éppen ugyanabban a lakásban lakott ahol sok évvel később mi is?

Második és egyben utolsó spotunk a new yorki king, Host18 (Shots/DYM) meghívásának köszönhetően, egy brooklyn-i iskola udvarán volt ahová Host-nak volt kulcsa és engedélye bemenni. Ehhez a festéshez csatlakozott hozzánk többek között Rime(MSK) akivel 2006-ból, Brightonból már ismertük egyást. Ide "Nekst" memorial cuccot festett. Csodálkoztam, mit keres New Yorkban, hiszen nekem az ő neve LA-hez kapcsolódik. Elmesélte hogy a szerelem csavarta el a fejét és ragasztotta őt annyi évre LA-be és az MSK los angelesi aktivitása ellenére ő maga valójában New Jersey-ből való, éppen ezért használja a Jersey Joe művésznevet. Végül pedig queens-i magyar házigazdánk és kedves barátunk, Mizta Bush (DZ/CFS) is velünk festett, akiknek ezalatt szeretetteljes vendéglátásában volt részünk egy héten át. Ez a fújás is tökéletes volt. A hely, a társaság, a hangulat, majd naplementében hazametrózás, mind mind varázslatos pillanatok. New York hibátlan és lenyűgöző volt.

Időközben, az élet úgy alakította a sorsomat hogy 2006 (a Hellboy2 forgatása) óta folyamatosan - az utóbbi években szinte megszakítás nélkül - dolgozom a Magyarországon készülő amerikai, hollywoodi filmprodukcióknak. Tudtommal a Hellboy-hoz készült díszlet város volt az első nagy amerikai filmprodukciós New York díszlet, ami Magyarországon épült és én voltam az első aki összefújhatta (illetve itt néhányszor még velem tartott Band és Crape is). Az utcabútorok mind igaziak voltak, mint a postaláda, újságosláda, villanyoszlopok, rendőrautók stb. Emlékszem ott nézegettem hogy úh, ez mind most jött amerikából. Azokban a filmekben amelyekben szükség van a munkámra, az a dolgom hogy olyan graffitiket festek, tageket, throw upakot, utcai falfirkákat (stb) készítek, hogy a látvány a jelentekben a kornak megfelelően nézzen ki. Nagyon izgalmas és kreatív feladat. Nem egy-egy cuccról van szó, hanem egész utca, többször egész városrészeket kell úgy elkészítenem hogy a nézőnek az legyen a benyomása, itt évek, évtizedek óta megy az utcákon a graffiti. És persze hogy elhiggye, épp a 70-es vagy a 80-as vagy épp a 90-es (stb) években van. Minden egyes írásnak, tagnek, bombingnak azt a benyomást kell keltenie hogy mind-mind más kéztől származik. Így aztán több olyan produkcióban dolgoztam heteket, hónapokat, ahol tagek, throw upok, bombingok vagy színes cuccok százait, de talán az sem túlzás hogy ezreit - kellett elkészítenem. Mindehhez az évek alatt meg kellett tanulnom a korszakokhoz tartozó stílusokat, alaposan tanulmányoznom kellett minden olyan jellemzőt amivel a legeredetibb látványt tudom nyújtani. Ezért gyakorlatilag csaknem mindennapi kapcsolatban vagyok - főleg - az amerikai, ezen belül is a new yorki graffitivel, a 60-as évek végétől egészen napjainkig. Figyelem a social media fiókokat, amelyek ezekkel a kultúrtörténeti témákkal foglalkoznak, bújom az internetet és a könyveket. Feletteseim is sok esetben amerikaiak. Így aztán évek óta viszonylag szoros kapcsolatban állok az amerikai graffitivel. A filmvilág és a valóság között pedig valójában csupán annyi a különbség, hogy a filmben nem a saját nevemet írom, hanem száz és száz kitalált, fiktív nevet és stylet amik illeszkednek az adott korhoz és helyhez. Sokszor eszembe jut ilyenkor, hogy olyan mintha minden ilyen napon valóban ott lennék a legendás utcákon. Az amerikai writerekkel való kapcsolatomról általánosságban többször volt olyan benyomásom hogy akiket én megismertem, egyáltalán nem beképzeltek, hanem valahogy elégedettek. Mintha tudnák hogy az ő hazájukból jön mindaz amit másokkal - köztük én magam is - művelünk és ez mintha valami magabiztos elégedettséggel töltné el őket. Amerika megteremtett egy kultúrát ami életre kelt és elindult világhódító útjára. S ha van némi büszkeség bennük, hát lehet is, mert szerintem amerikának graffiti téren nincs szüksége másra. Inkább nekünk van szükségünk rájuk. Az amerikai firkász ismerőseim és köztem, napjainkban csak a social media a híd, de nem is szükséges több. Ebből a kevésből is tökéletesen értjük egymást. Mike-al sűrűn üzenünk egymásnak, tartjuk a kapcsolatot, továbbra is New Yorkban van. “B”-vel azóta is ugyanolyan jóbarátok vagyunk.

1.kép : Journes-el a Duna Plaza parkolójáan, alul Nikon, Blik - 2009

2.kép : Tuff City backyard - New York 2013

3.kép : Kilr, Nikon - Tuff City backyard New York 2013

4.kép : Graffiti, rooftop visit, bagel, happiness - New York 2013

5.kép : Toper, Nikon, Host, Bush, Rime - Brooklyn schoolyard, New york 2013

6.kép Nikon - Brooklyn schoolyard, New York 2013

7.kép : Tuff City backyard, NYC, a brooklyini apartmanunk. NYC, Brooklyn schoolyard, Manhattan

8-9.kép : stickers

#Budapest #graffiti #newyork #2000's #2010 #storytelling #goldenyears

45 notes · View notes