pulling apart at the seams .

[waartorn]

* IF IT FEELS LIKE A TRAP, YOU'RE ALREADY IN ONE .

AARON TUCKER. only goes by his family name. used to be a drill sergeant (essentially a military trainer). cold and unapproachable, but resourceful and protective. manages the group's resources.

* basic info .

full name: aaron greene tucker alias/nickname: started being called only by tucker in the military, only goes by it to this day age: forty-one gender: cis male + uses he/him pronouns ethnicity: ashkenazi jewish (previous) occupation: drill sergeant role in group: resource manager religion: jewish, non-practicing orientation: questioning, calls himself straight

* relationships .

parents: deceased siblings: older brother, unknown partners: ex-wife, alive and with the group children: none

* physical traits .

faceclaim: jake gyllenhaal eyes: blue / hair: brown height: 1.82m body build: athletic, buff facial hair: a shadow of a beard, keeps it trimmed other: tba

* personality .

positive traits: experienced, intelligent, resilient, adaptable, rational, (mostly) stable, calm, discreet, objective, simple, protective, self-sufficient, attentive, virile, respectful negative traits: inflexible, withdrawn, ruthless, merciless, cocky, overconfident, traditional, crude, vindictive, hostile likes: tba dislikes: tba

* psychology .

mental disorders: hints of sociopathic behavior (even pre-apocalypse) phobias/fears: losing louise, being to blame for a loved one's death

* sexuality .

preference: versatile, dominant-leaning penis size: 9.5in kinks: likes things rough, list tba anti-kinks: scat, infantilism and things related

* biography .

grew up in rural america, among plantations, firearms and horses, learning how to help around the house in his child/teenage years. lived on the shadow of his smarter, more accomplished and less troubled older brother.

went into the army at eighteen, started making his way up the ranks soon. decides to dedicate himself to it, feels like he found his place in the world among men similar to him. barely goes back home, and family gets bitter after so much time apart.

decides to show up unannounced at a christmas, expecting a proud and warm welcome. gets a cold smile, a passive-aggressive speech about his brother becoming the doctor of the small town, and a night of sleep in the barn.

never comes back. gets in touch with phone calls. one day calls to tell them about making it to drill sergeant, secretly still hoping for a "i'm proud of you," only to get the news dad died two weeks before. it gets to him, and alcohol's his refuge. whiskey and another man's arms; brutal, destructive, unloving arms, and then more whiskey, enough to just barely forget it.

falls in love with louise, accomplished and brilliant lawyer and the most beautiful woman. if he's going to make it work, the marriage and kids thing with someone, it's gonna be her. and he did marry, but kids never came. she couldn't, doctors said, and he held her through tears. it's fine, he said, and it was. but it wasn't for her, and she fell apart, and he became more of a caretaker than a husband.

it became too much, watch her waste away, so he paid someone to care for her and he went back to the army. scream at boys with a shine in their eyes, watch it dim like his did; like hers did, as well. everything was normal; he'd spend the day breaking down boys' souls, then spend the evening drinking until he could stand the thoughts of his secret desires. maybe go out and satisfy those desires, if he felt like it.

then suddenly the world end to hell. he made his way home, to her, mostly on foot, seeing the weirdest things, and she'd gotten this new-found will to live in her. he loved to see it, and to join her in it, and they made their way to their families. hers was far gone, house empty except for the undead. he hold her once again, and it became crystal clear they weren't partners in the same way anymore. they were partners, and maybe soulmates, but not husband and wife.

they make their way to his childhood house, to find mom dead in her bed. his sister-in-law and nephew gone as well, he gets a lump in his throat. louise's outside, waiting for him to shout if he needs back-up, as he opens the office door. his brother's there, curled up in a sobbing ball, reaching out to him for help. he swallows the lump, and closes the door. they're gone too, he tells louise, and they go on their way, until they come across a group.

[raidersden]

open  to:  all location:  stairwell  between  the  5th  and  6th  floor *tw:  gun

anxious.  adjective.  experiencing  worry, unease,  or nervousness,  typically  about  an imminent event  or  something  with  an  uncertain  outcome.

while  it  was  good  that  everyone  was  doing  their  best  to  make  a  horrible  situation  as  comfortable  as  they  could,  he  was  slowly  starting  to  slip  a  bit.  he  was  a  soldier,  a  marine.  he  might  have  had  patience  and  restraint  drilled  into  him  but,  even  then,  he  was  never  skilled  with  sitting  around  and  waiting.  he  wanted  to  move.  he  needed  to  move.

he  was  anxious.

pacing  on  the  sixth  floor  would  have  caused  concern,  everyone  in  their  small  group  seemed  to  still  have  enough  humanity  left  in  them  to  actually  care  about  the  people  around  them,  so  he  often  found  himself  hiding  out  in  the  stairwell  between  the  sixth  and  fifth  floor.

walking  up,  walking  down.

walking  up,  walking  down.

walking  up,  walking  down.

they  needed  more  supplies,  more  food  and  ammunition.  he  tried  to  silence  that  voice  in  the  back  of  his  head  but  it  kept  getting  louder  and  louder;  telling  him  to  slip  out;  telling  him  how  easy  it  would  be  for  him  to  just  sneak  off  and  make  a  supply  run  on  his  own,  he  could  be  back  before  anyone  even  noticed  he  was  gone.

unfortunately  he  also  had  a  shiny,  state-of-the-art  metal  prosthetic  left  arm  to  remind  him  of  how  dangerous  even  the  simplest  looking  run  could  be.  so,  clearly,  that  was  out  of  the  question.  so  he  just  had  to  stay  put.  stay  focused.  sit  around  and  wait.

walking  up,  walking  down.

walking  up,  walking  down.

walking  up,  walking  down.

it  had  almost  become  a  daily  ritual  for  him,  the  pacing  in  the  stairwell.  normally,  if  someone  managed  to  pass  him  because  they  needed  the  bathrooms  or  were  headed  back  to  the  main  floor  he'd  just  mumble  about  catching  his  breath  or  just  ignore  their  presence  altogether,  but  today  he  was  wound  tighter  than  usual  so  when  he  heard  the  scuff  of  a  shoe  on  the  concrete  stairs,  he  reflexively  pulled  the  pistol  from  the  clip  on  his  hip  and  turned  to  face  the  person  approaching  him;  his  hollow  eyes  looking  through  them,  almost  as  if  he  was  looking  at  a  ghost  rather  than  looking  at  them.

they  weren't  in  any  real  danger.  he  wouldn't  have  shot  them.  he  was  just  tense  and  a  bit  jumpy.  they  all  were.  but  he  wouldn't  have  shot  them.

well.

he  might  have.

old  habits  do  die  hard.

"you  want  to  tell  me  what  you're  doing  here?"  he  questioned  as  he  slowly  lowered  his  weapon;  ignoring  the  fact  he  was  standing  in  a  common  passageway  they  all  used  to  get  from  their  main  holding  point  to  the  bathrooms  below.

[waartorn]

he's coming up the stairs, on his way to take a leak before bed, when a firearm is pointed directly to him. instincts quick in, and he goes still as a lion watching his prey. “easy there...” he watches as life comes back in focus on landrum's eyes, and his own nerves let him go back to moving, slowly raising his arms, not daring to move forward. “easy there, aj.”

the expression on the man's face is familiar to him. alert; overly so. he's seen it before, countless times — he's trained boys to the point where that expression appeared as a constant on their faces. his breaths come back to normal once the gun is lowered, and the man clumsily, awkwardly asks him what he's doing there. he ignores it, going for a taste of his teasing humor that does no one ever any good.

“we ain't got that many bullets, don't waste 'em on me, huh?” a little chuckle, and he steps closer to the other, considering how to approach the subject. feelings. never been good at it. hand on his shoulder, like he remembers his father doing. “you get jumpy like that a lot, aj?”

[tay-swifts]

JAKE GYLLENHAAL as Elwood Dalton in ROAD HOUSE (2024)