#ziptie au

[picnokinesis]

What angsty topic/scenario would you think is interesting to put Campervan!Thirteen into?

I am SO sorry it's taken me a hot minute to reply to this one - I was on holiday in Wales and walked a looooong way and ended up very tired rip me (it was great though!!). But I have been thinking about this and HMMM

In general, when I come up with angsty scenarios, a lot of what I'm thinking about is like...'what would be worst for this character in particular' - trying to tap into their specific fears, that sort of thing. I always like to give characters a particular fear, be it something very specific and tangible or more vague and general (or both at the same time!), and then at some point in the story, I'm going to want them to face that fear, OR make that fear drive them to do something they wouldn't normally do otherwise, or maybe make them cause problems for themselves and the plot in some other way. And I also want to know what the ROOT of that fear is, and dig into that too. For example, I've got a character rattling around in my brain for an original script concept, who can see the future and has a maaaaassive complex about not being believed, because as a kid everyone thought their 'visions' were some kind of psychological disorder. Which drives them, as an adult, to collect evidence for EVERYTHING - which is great for their job, which is an investigative role, but less so for their relationships lmao. But their fear is not just in not being believed, or being considered insane (though that is definitely a thing), but also not being able to act on the things that they see and make things happen differently. They have this gift and they're terrified of the possibility that they can see something horrific and not be able to do ANYTHING about it, because the future is already written (or is it? I don't actually know lol) - making the whole thing futile. It's a little existential haha

ANYWAY. All of that to say - with the Doctor in campervan au, there are a few things that she's really terrified of at the moment:

Losing the people she cares about (and her fault in that) - as you know from the series, she is VERY aware of the danger that she actively puts herself and other people in, and the fact that she always seems to come out of these situations alive and relatively untouched, whereas her friends get killed or injured or whatever. Half of her fear of vulnerability and her attempt to keep her distance from everyone comes from this - because if she leaves before anything bad happens, it'll hurt less (and she believes the hurt is inevitable at some point, due to her lifestyle - and, to be fair, she isn't completely wrong lol). But she is also desperately lonely and desperately wants to BELONG, which is why she clings on despite that. One of her biggest fears at the moment is that she's going to get Graham, Yaz, Ryan and/or Grace killed.

Her past and all the things she doesn't remember - basically everything that Koschei embodies - that void in the back of her mind, where she DOES NOT KNOW what used to be there. The fact that Koschei is, well, the way that he is, but also that part of her RECOGNISES THAT, but has no real memory of that (until the end of part 6 ofc, where things are starting to creep in) is terrifying. In part 6, you see the existential crisis that she's having about the whole thing. If a man is the sum of his memories, what does it mean if he loses them? Is it possible to have two separate lives, one before the amnesia, and one after? What happens when the wounds of the past bleed into the present?

Fear of vulnerability - touched on this already, but there's another element to this, because fundamentally the Doctor believes that if she's completely open and honest about things that are hurting and scaring her, then there will be awful consequences. This is an irrational and subconscious fear that runs so deep, it kicked in even when she had no memories at all. If you've read the extra oneshot with Bill, you might find it interesting to note that Bill is probably the first/only person she BEGAN to open up to about things, whilst sitting on that bathroom floor - but then Bill died. Horrifically. And, again, irrationally, it only solidified this fear of vulnerability linking with bad things that happen around her that the Doctor already had. There are other reasons that she feels this way, but obviously that's spoiler territory

Lack of control - this is a big one too, but literally so much about what the Doctor (and Koschei, DEFINITELY Koschei) does is about trying to have a sense of control over things, because feeling like she has no control over what's happening to her is so terrifying to her. She's also desperate to FIX things as a solution, and the idea of not being able to fix something is also horrible to her. Again, there are reasons for all of this!

So then, an angsty scenario that I would find interesting would invoke either one or several of these - and not necessarily head on, either. It's more emotional, and these various things bleed in everywhere, into everything that she does and every decision that she makes. That said, I definitely do explore some of these things in a more literal way - Ziptie AU is like, 'campervan, but make it worse' HAHAH because it starts off with Koschei not giving the fam that keycard at the end, which means that they never escape the lab and thus die in the explosion (number 1, check). But ALSO, the Doctor is captured by the Judoon and co along with Koschei by the end of that night, and ends up being locked up in a lot of rooms and having all her choices stripped from her (number 4, check) - and then, even when she DOES escape, she's ziptied to Koschei and I take great pains to ensure that the plot prevents them from getting access to scissors for at least 24 hours, and even THEN they're still tied together in a more emotional sense, and so she's forced to face him and all that he represents (number 2, check), aaaaaaaaand then she has to deal with being in this awful situation and, eventually, other people coming in and trying to HELP but actually they're making it worse for reasons she can't really explain without sounding NUTS, and it all circles around Koschei, the guy who killed her unofficially adoptive family, who she also can't bear to be a part from because of, well, everything. So, if you squint, that's number 3.

And then, of course, a LOT of this stuff is going to come into part 7 too, when I can finally get my butt into gear and write it. But, for me, the angstiest stuff is going to come in parts 8 and 9 - where she gets the truth of the past revealed to her, and then has to deal with the consequences. One of the true tragedies of this story is that she is never going to magically get all of her memories back, and there is a HUGE AMOUNT of her childhood friendship with Koschei - something that he's defined his entire life of - that she is just never going to remember. There's this uncrossable void between them, and there are things that will never be resolved because they just can't be. No one has the information anymore. On the flip side, in anterograde au, the Doctor COULD have these conversations and actually heal from what happened........only, she can never remember that she had the conversation in the first place. Time heals, but she can't feel time anymore. She's always going to be scared and out of control. (Only, actually, in the end she learns that it's less about her keeping control over EVERYTHING, and more about feeling safe, and clawing back as much independence as she can whilst being able to lean on others and have a support network. And THAT is something that she can and does achieve). It's interesting, I think, because all of these stories dig into the same fears, but in different ways - ziptie is hard feral angst, rancid and bloody, whereas anterograde is softer but still hurts a lot. With campervan au, I'm sort of aiming for somewhere in between those extremes.

[doostyaudi]

Rave-N Mag Agent Torture (Rnorture) (he/they) (music is undecided :p)

Not my proudest design but it's... Something..

Rnorture is a bit of a cranky fella, he gets angry quickly and is 90% of the time in a pissy mood. Hes a bit mean but that's okay we still love him 🫶💖

Oh yea, have some doodles! And a random rendered bust... I don't know why i did it but yea, there u go lol

Honestly id draw the other mag agents, if anyone cares to ask me too lol. i don't really have any ideas for them atm, but ill come up with something eventually :p

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

45 / 1.9k / soap soulmate au, part 11

...

Mercenaries can be paid off for just about anything.

So when Price rings your cell phone to propose a trade—Laswell had your number, naturally—Horangi has no qualms with fishing it out of your pocket. You glare at him, but he doesn’t bother giving you anything more than a dry look before he answers it.

You hear Price’s voice from the speaker in Horangi’s ear. "Was wondering what was taking you lot so long."

Horangi sighs. It never ends, apparently. "What do you want?" he asks.

"Just to talk," Price replies. "What's your rate?"

"Come again?" Horangi asks.

"We're all soldiers here. Unfortunate that our mission came at the cost of yours, but we can all walk away happy, hm? I want to make sure you don’t go uncompensated. That’d be a shame."

Horangi scowls, but one of your squadmates in the back seat grips your shoulder and shifts his weight toward the phone in obvious interest.

"What do you have in mind?” Horangi asks.

"First, your rate."

"Too rich for your blood."

"Try me."

Horangi narrows his eyes. Then he shrugs and throws out a number. It's far more money than KorTac’s real fee, but before you can decide whether to say something, Price speaks again.

"We'll double that."

"Will you now?"

"I will. Even pay you all directly if you like. No need to involve the company. Just keep your handler’s cut for yourselves. I won’t say a word," Price says. "That should be good enough, shouldn't it?"

Horangi leans back, tapping the steering wheel in thought, but you can tell he's interested now. "What's the job?"

"Not a job, really. Just a favor. Let us have custody of your songbird, and the money's yours. Make up some story about how she got away or got shot if you need a scapegoat. We’ll turn a blind eye if you prefer. Keep the record nice and clean."

Horangi glances at you. “Songbird’s worth a lot to the company.”

“You’re not the company, now are you? You already did the damn job. You should get paid. You and your team.”

He likes the sound of that. Price's offer turns both of your situations into something everybody can be pleased with. Get the mercs paid for what they lost. They get the girl. Fine by him. He hums in thought. “Cash in hand.”

There’s a beat of silence on Price’s end. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Cash in hand,” Horangi says again. “Or no deal.”

“Are you sure about that? Wired funds spend just as well as cash.”

“I can afford to be picky, my friend.”

Another long pause. “Is that so?”

“Apologies. I’d be happy to consider your deal if I hadn’t already made a better one with someone else. He’s willing to pay cash.”

“Who?”

Horangi scoffs and ends the call. He tosses your phone into the backseat floorboards and ignores your stare burning into the side of his head. “Don’t worry, rookie,” he tells you. “You know it’s a better deal than you’d get back at base. You’ll thank me one day.”

…

But you don’t make it back to base.

It’s an ambush. A trap—Horangi doesn’t see the charges on either side of the road until it’s too late, and the truck transporting you flips forward onto its roof. One minute, you’re feeling the melted snow in your boots; the next, you’re looking down at the road through the windshield. Then you’re coming to in a haze of gunfire and hoarse voices barking call-and-response orders all around you.

It’s not until your teammates have evacuated the wrecked truck that you attempt to move yourself and do the same. Maybe they plan to come back for you; maybe they think you’re dead. Maybe you are dead. You really fucking hope not. Whatever death has in store for you, it had better not force you to contend with the agonizing pain of a dislocated shoulder and broken glass buried in every second nerve ending.

You push against the seatbelt holding you to the seat, having to twist out of your coat just to slump to the pavement. You’re still ziptied, but you have to move. If whoever laid this ambush finds you, you're done for.

Somehow, all you can think about is Johnny. If he could see you now, he’d never let you hear the end of it. He’d lecture you like a goddamn recruit. You hate how much you want to see his stupid face get angry at you again.

There’s a long lull in the gunfire. Then the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone curses and orders the others to “spread out,” searching for your scattered teammates—for survivors.

Your teammates aren’t coming. You’re on your own.

Then you remember Price’s call and Horangi swiping your phone from your pocket.

Desperately, you shoulder your way back into the wreckage. Somehow, you find it. The screen is cracked, but it still lights up when you wrestle your bound wrists under your feet and touch the screen. Thank Christ. You redial Price's number from the call log.

He picks up on the first ring. "Go for Price."

"I need to talk to Johnny."

There's a moment of crackling silence through the line. Then: "Soap's tied up at the moment. What's going on?"

"I don't know. Ambush. The car flipped." You wince, feeling broken glass cut into your shoulder. The slushy pavement under you is turning ruddy. Oh, that’s your blood. "It's bad."

Price swears under his breath. "Where are you?"

"Near the base of the mountain. In the side. There's a... a lot of trees. Twenty hostiles. I think. I can't see."

"Stay put. We'll find you. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime."

"I want to talk to Johnny."

"For God’s sake. You can talk to him in person when we find you. Just sit tight."

"Let me talk to my goddamn soulmate," you hiss. You put as much venom into your voice as you can, but even you hear how weak you sound.

Price says something away from the speaker you can't quite make out. There's shuffling and then another familiar voice picks up, low and gruff, and tinged with a Scottish burr.

"Hen?"

The wave of relief that sweeps through you renders you mute for a second.

That makes the worry in his tone swell. “You okay? They hurt you?"

The concern in his voice has your throat tightening. Dammit.

Before you can reply, there's another burst of gunfire and a hostile voice much too close by for comfort. You grab the phone and edge your way further into the tenuous safety of the wreckage. You clutch the phone in your hands, barely clocking the glass screen digging into your palm.

The sound of your voice cutting out over the line triggers Soap’s anxiety all over again. He curses up a storm on the other end, his voice rising with every word and the urgency in his tone growing as he calls you by name.

You hear more footfalls, but whoever it is, they don't seem to notice you. You've not been gunned down yet, at least. You need to find somewhere safer.

Peering around the wreckage, you look for somewhere else you can hide. The tree line is close. You don't know how long you'll last in the snow no matter what, especially without your coat—but cold cover is safer than none. Staying under a leaking, gasoline-filled truck carcass isn’t a good long-term plan.

Soap’s voice rises over the line. "Dammit, say somethin'!"

Finally you do. "Johnny?"

"Jesus." Soap closes his eyes, hoping like hell he's not about to hear you get shot, or captured, or worse. He can already tell by the rough sound of your voice that he's not going to like what you say next. "I'm here," he says quickly, trying to keep the worry from his own voice. "Where are ya?"

"I’m an idiot. I'm sorry for everything I put you through. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn about..." You let out a harsh sigh. "You. Just wanted to tell you that."

It suddenly feels like there's a block of ice lodged in Soap’s chest. "That a goodbye, darlin'?" he says.

"I'm doing my goddamn best. Alright?"

"That’s a sorry fuckin’ excuse. You’re aways doing your best," Soap snaps. An ugly, hard thread of bitterness creeps into his tone. "Trouble is you always choose the worst way of goin’ about it. I’m not lettin' you go like this.”

"I know it's my fault," you retort. "Okay? I should've listened to you. Are you happy to hear me fucking say it?"

"Does it look like that's gonna fix things?" Soap’s voice rises with every word now. His temper is frayed at the edges. "No, I'm not bloody happy. I don't want apologies. I don't want some grand realization. I just want you to survive. You're damn right you fucked up. And you've got a lot of work to do to make it up to me, so you'd best stay alive. You hear me?"

You swallow, clutching the phone tighter in your hands.

"Answer me."

"I'll try."

"No. You'll do," Soap says in a voice that brooks no argument. His voice drops low again, but the anger is still there. "You will make it back to me. You'll do whatever it takes. You don't get to leave me alone after all the trouble you gave me. I'll not hear one more sorry excuse."

God. You want him so bad it hurts. You close your eyes, concentrating on the pain of the glass in your skin and your dislocated shoulder to sharpen your focus. "Fine."

"That's my girl." The words come out rough, heated, and tinged with something like pride. "You just stay put," he says. "We'll find you."

You tense as another set of voices raise in aggravation nearby. The longer you stay here, the greater the chance you'll be seen. "I have to go," you say lowly into the phone. "Need better cover."

"Stay on the line," he says quickly. "Do not hang up. Hen!"

You bring your ziptied wrists down hard on the edge of your boot—and again, and again, pain radiating up your arm—until it finally snaps.

With your hands free, you pull yourself out from under the wreckage and away, leaving Soap on the line to hear nothing but shouting and gunshots.

Soap listens through the phone, biting down hard on the curse that threatens to tear free. He can't lose you. He's going crazy imagining the worst right now. His mind is all too happy to cycle through a parade of gory images. No. No, you can't go, not like this.

He'd give anything to be a knife on your belt right now. A bullet in your gun. Anything but this—this utter fucking helplessness. He can’t do anything but sit on the other end of a line and listen. It's torture.

Even with Price at the wheel, racing all of them toward the bottom of the mountain.

"We'll make it, Soap," is all Price says.

Soap nods, but he barely hears it. All he can listen to is the sound of gunfire through the phone and the cold, visceral rage in the pit of his stomach. He'll claw his way to you with his bare hands if he has to. It doesn’t matter how much blood and sweat it costs him to get you back. You’d better keep your word and stay alive to make it up to him.

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / [part 11] / part 12

more Soap / masterlist

[writingfromasgard]

𝕆ℂ:𝔻𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕝

Masterlist

Meet Dustball

Ao3 - All asks are in ch2

Personnel File

This is my OC! She is not canon to CoD but I really enjoy her. I'm in the process of writing a fic for her.

𝕋𝕖𝕩𝕥

Ask: Why in the vents || [pt 2] Ask: How unhinged is Dustball Ask: Has she gotten stuck? Ask: Birthday + Offerings Ask: Is she taken? Ask: Weirdest exchange Ask: Does she decorate? Ask: is she autistic? Ask: Konig AU || [pt 2] [nsfw] Ask: Nationality Ask: How vents, army, and rank? Ask: Does Gaz flirt back? Ask: Is there drama/pettiness? Ask: What's her type? || pt2 Ask: Dustball ordering around TF141 [nsfw] Ask: First time introductions Ask: Maintenance vs Dustball Ask: Where is she from? Ask: Does she go out in the field? Ask: Weirdest seen Ask: Her Degree

Simon's in the kitchen [Scroll down] || pt2 Vitamin B Free Range Chat: Zipties Pool Party! || Ask: Where's simon?

𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒

For reference purposes: Ruby Barker is similar in appearance.

𝔽𝕦𝕝𝕝 𝔽𝕚𝕔𝕤

Dustball's Smoke Break Meeting Price Meeting Soap Meeting Gaz Meeting Ghost Meeting Laswell

[a-killer-obsession]

Android!Killer notes and lore

Post will probably be updated over time as I think of more things 💙

Official name: Killer 2.0. Bounty posters call him Metal Man Killer. Marines considered him a new pirate, so he had to start his bounty from scratch, and as such is no longer considered a Supernova

Built by Kid to deal with his grief after Killer dies. Android contains his brain, retrieved from his original body after it took too much damage to support life

If you see posts with him interacting with original Killer its cos its just a fun lighthearted alternate timeline where Kid just built him as a replacement just in case. Don't ask me how he gave it Killer's personality, those posts are just for the giggles

Uses his original mask (repaired and restored) as headpiece. Lights have been installed in the holes to fill the gaps and hide the underlying electronics and brain

Helmet contains lenses for vision. Equiped with higher level vision such as nightvision, thermal imagining and xray

Aerial on side of helmet allows for better hearing as well as allowing others to communicate with him directly via den-den

Just as strong and agile as he was in his human body, though it did take a lot of physical rehab to get used to the mechanical body

Metal sections made from high quality metals making him essentially bullet proof

Basically, he's a purpose built super soldier

Water resistant, but not submerge safe. Kid is a skilled engineer, but hes no Vegapunk. Killer 2.0 can not submerge his chest section, or his systems will fail to work, and much like a devil fruit user he would sink like a stone. He can be pulled out and repaired, his brain is well protected, but he can't save himself

Chest, abdomen and buttocks are squishy, imagine the texture/firmness of those silicone chicken fillets you use to make your tits look bigger

Has a cock that's essentially a dildo that can emerge from a slit in the rubber between his legs, and yes it can vibrate

He can feel touch on most of his body, though mostly it just feels like pressure, he's basically a touch lamp, but Kid had Franky help him wire some parts to feel more, such as his hands and dick, allowing for pleasure, though he doesn't really have the ability to 'finish'. He can recieve an artificial boost of hormones to simulate pleasure and satisfaction but thats as close as it gets

Why did Kid give him a dick? Because he's a good friend, that's why totally no other reason

No mouth or asshole though, bit of an oversight on Kid's part tbh

Doesn't actually plug his hair in to sleep, those cables are entirely just scrap for show, hastily spraypainted to replicate Killer's hair. He does get plugged in to charge, but his cable comes out of the panel on of of his hands (both hands have charging cables for convenience so he can use whichever side is easier)

Lights flash when he's on charge because Kid stole the wiring and coding from some random electronic. He regrets it every fucking night.

Spends a lot of time oiling and polishing his hair cables and touching up the paint, it's sort of a force of habit but mostly it makes him feel more normal. Ties his hair up with zipties sometimes.

Serious mental health issues. I mean come on, the dude went through all the Wano bullshit, literally fucking died, and now he's not even human. Please someone get him some therapy. Sometimes uses his old lipstick to draw a big smile on his mask when he's having a mental breakdown.

Still loves to cook, but now he has to have a taste tester with him because he has no capacity to eat or taste

Kid obsessively does maintenance on him every single day because he can't bear to lose him again

Kid also needs therapy. This whole android situation is a cry for help tbh

Kid did his best to replicate Killer's voice, but there's something electronic and uncanny about it

All the Android AU posts

Refs:

[olithatwriter]

Hello, everyone! My friend and I came up with an idea for a Sherlock AU! (I think it's an AU? Or more of an adaptation, as they look VERY different.) John is a YouTuber! This is HEAVILY inspired by Sherlock & Co, and the idea came about because she said some fanart made Sherlock and John look like YouTubers. I hope this idea hasn't been done before! I'm going to write it on A03, and as soon as I do, I will tag whoever would like to read it! Doc_And_Detect or just YouTuber Sherlock Holmes is what I'll call this! Also, I made some designs, but I can't draw so I used Gacha Life 2.

If you'd like some funfacts about them, here they are!

Sherlock: Keeps a notebook full of detective work in it. Said notebook is being held together by duct-tape, zipties, and God himself. Gay. Autistic. Is a consulting detective, as per usual, and is best friends with Lestrade. He hasn't seen his brother in ages. Is actually nice once you get to know him.

John: He got a injured from a grenade blast. Has scars all up his arms, back, and legs, which is why he always wears long sleeves. Pansexual (probably). Still on the fence, but transgender? (FtM). Most likely has ADHD. Definitely has PTSD. He wears a knee brace.

[b33tlejules]

WIP wthursday

got tagged by @autumnfangirler !!

i taggggggg YOU 🫵. get tagged. post a wip if you want.

okay so I dont have any drawing wips but uh. i have a writing wip of a sidestep crossover au with Teo and Rhan because their dynamic is fun to me.

Teo's pov, Rhan isn't named.

(i am. getting back into writing. be kind to me.)

"What... exactly do you have in mind?"

You look up at the backlit figure, hallway light framing their silhouette. Lean figure, shaved head, definitely shorter than you. Weilding a baseball bat casually in one hand, though you can tell they don't have as much experience actually using it. Still, they managed to land a good hit to the back of your head, evident from the dull ache underneath your thoughts.

It's the strangest thing when you meet their eyes. Like shining a light into a dog's eyes, their pupils seem to reflect some unseen light. Its creepy.

"Oh nothing much. If you're really from an alternate timeline like you said, then you're probably doing the same villain shit I'm working on right now." They're kneeling at your level now. You say nothing.

"You're going to help me wipe out the Rangers once and for all." The grin in their voice is palpable.

You stare at them for long enough that their smile starts to falter.

"... Okay? That's it?"

They blink.

"What?"

"You don't have a greater goal? Wiping out the Rangers isn't going to magically solve your problems."

"No it absolutely will, what are you impl--"

"No no because the issue lies in the government, okay? The system that allows the rangers to exist in the first place--"

"Oh don't you fucking interrupt me, you're the one who's literally at my mercy I could--"

"You could what, tough guy? Beat up an innocent captured woman? What would your neighbors think, because I sure as hell am not dying quietly--"

"Oh my god I am not going to kill you shut up shut UP."

Your captor is standing now. They take a few paces away from where you're sitting, muttering something under their breath. You take the moment of distraction to quietly work your hands out of the zipties.

[crushedsweets]

so I can't find it, but when the proxies were helping clocks, you mentioned that Tim doesn't like it when she screams or cries. Something about it bothering him. I wish I could recall.

OK SO i also cant find the post (cuz of tumblrs tagging system) buuut i'm gonna use this to ramble about clocky meeting the proxies again, since i sorta adjusted it...

in my au, O/S syndrome refers to slender sickness. it usually starts with the operator taking COMPLETE control over someone's body and mind, and then slenderman 'stealing' them and making them do his bidding (clean up operator problems) which results in them having a 'proxy mode' vs their 'normal' mode

so clockys backstory goes as usual, then towards the end she starts slowly getting O/S syndrome. i sort of want her introduction to toby/the proxies to be ALMOST a reflection of how toby and clocky canonically met. (her getting hurt cuz of him, him helping her as an apology)

so around the time natalie replaced her eye with a clock, O/S syndrome fully set in. while sick, she couldn't form memories, she had inhuman strength, an insatiable bloodlust - just became a general menace, and because bodies started dropping all around tuscaloosa with operator symbols slashed into walls, the proxies had to intervene.

it started with toby stalking her while she's stalking her next victim. her and toby get into a huge tussle and she locks onto him as her next victim. he chooses to play cat and mouse and run off to the forest, having her follow. i'm imagining an almost comical scene where she's slashing around branches and stuff with a machete and he's like 'ahhh cant catch meeeee' and she's screaming obscenities. . .

then by time he ends up at the cabin, tim or brian probably knock her out since she's, yknow, a huge threat. a bat to the back of her head.

and she would wake up in their spare 'storage' room thats filled to the brim with boxes, old bikes, massive stacks of newspapers, cds, etc. she'd probably have her wrists zip tied to an exposed pipe and she'd be losing her fucking mind. screaming at the top of her lungs, thrashing around, whatever. "LET ME GO YOU FUCKING FREAKS LET ME GO ILL KILL YOU ILL FUCKING KILL YOU"

the way to slowly heal O/S syndrome is being around slenderman(aka in his forest) for a long time, until the Operator loses grasp. the way to quickly deal with O/S syndrome is to um.. no nice way to put this. slendermans jaw unhinges and he oozes this gross fucking black tar-like goo, and drinking it (or putting it into pill capsules and taking those) makes the operator let go. it doesnt really have a taste, thank god, but it is thicker than water.

so it would be a whole ordeal of toby coming in like heeeeyyyy... lol... and he would think shes REALLY BADASS because he's never met a woman like her (so strong, loud mouthed, violent, etc). plus he's kinda lonely in general so LMFAOOOO . so he wants to befriend her, and is kinda ignoring the fat that she's mad as hell.

but she's in so much agony. from the O/S syndrome to getting hit with a bat, she's screaming and crying and never shutting up. throwing up, trying to literally bite and kick the proxies if they even bring in water. so toby would be 'designated' to her because "well youre the dumb fuck who brought her here, you deal with it"

he'd probably have to trick her into taking one of the pills or putting the sludge into an opaque water bottle or something. after the first bit is ingested, she quickly gains more clarity. he'd try getting a cot or air mattress set up for her. bring a book and drawing supplies. he wants her to trust him. within a day or two, she'd already start feeling immensely better and the operator is letting go - and toby would stupidly trust her, and completely undo the zipties, and she'd run the fuck off, and he'd be like FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKK. and not even a week later, she'd come back. because she's horribly sick again. and she'd beg for the stupid pills.

and she'd start to trust toby, and eventually kate. . and a little bit brian. but she would still not fuck with tim cuz it is true, he would hate all the screaming, and would occasionally bang on the door and shout at her to quiet down.

but yeah . . thats how she gets situated with the proxies and her O/S syndrome is healed. :3

[teethkid67]

HEY I JUST FINISHED LOOKING AT YOUR BLOCK PARTY TAG AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH GRRRRRRRR. i live for fucked up dsmp aus. also fun fact i live in a trailer park and one time the kid across the street ziptied his 7 year old broyher to the porch and just. left him there??? eventually i came along and cut the ziptie and it was fine but yknow. god bless america ig?????

HELLO? THIS IS SICKENING. hello. this is insane. hello i will now be insane. im so glad you like it it makes me crazy as well . um but literally that happened in real life that is CRAZY? that is crazy.

[freeuselandonorris]

I’ve had this stuck in my head for MONTHS but between your tags about Oscar being techy and hench and the videos of Olivia Rodrigo’s tech team being quite fit and doing her dance it has to come out. Cirque de soleil au where Oscar is a tech running around in all black and Lando is one of the very bendy people. I want him as either the mad contortionist (actual term hand balancing) or as one of the flippy people in the aerial group (Russian cradle). I think it he’s part of the aerial thing then Carlos would be the big muscle guy that catches him and Oscar *knows* the physical closeness on stage and in rehearsal ect is not only professional but necessary and safe but he’s so fucking jealous. That’s literally as far as my brain has gone but I saw the show earlier this year and genuinely could not stop thinking of this. The world needs more AUs where Oscar is fit and Lando is stupid about it.

(sadly cannot take credit for those v funny and correct tags that was @glasscushion’s work)

YEAH i’m into this anon! i do pole classes so my brain is instantly picking this up and running in a slightly different direction of lando being a pole or aerial hoop dancer but your headcanon does actually make more sense in terms of having a tech team and other dancers he gets to be very close with.

oscar in a tight black T-shirt and a headset with a ziptied collection of coloured gaffer tape through one belt loop!! YES!!

[tessa-quayle]

looking California and feeling Minnesota

Joel Miller x OFC Grace (and a nod to Joel x Tess)

Prompt: “what do you want from me?”

THANK YOU to the incomparable @jomiddlemarch​ for 1) creating this OFC and letting me take the character for a spin, 2) being the best beta reader and editing this so it’s actually readable, 3) the prompts, and 4) being generous and encouraging.  

Do yourself a favor and read the series she started on this OFC/Joel on her AO3.  It’s a loose fit series with a Ted Lasso AU crossover. This fic can be read alone here on tumblr and is so lovely

I haven’t written a fic in 5 years (an explanation, not an excuse) - you can find this one on AO3 here.  

Rating: M (language, a sprinkle of sexy-time spice, no full-on smut sorry) 

Word Count: 2.8K

Summary:  Joel says Tess’ name in his sleep. Grace (an OFC) asks too many questions.  Joel and Ellie are evasive.  Joel and Grace quarrel.  A scavenging mission becomes a cold war.  Little traumas everywhere.  

Pairings: Joel/Tess, Joel/OFC-Grace, OFC-Grace/OMC-Kian

Warnings/Heads-up: angst, brief allusion to torture and violence, politics, foreshadowing for season 2 if you squint, alcohol, post-coital angst, foreplay angst

It wasn’t the first dream he’d had about that afternoon in the rotunda.  

The gasoline scented air thick with dust and heat.  Black cables snaked on the tiled marble.  

“I never asked you for anything, not even to …”

"I felt the way you felt, Tess.  I’ve always had.”  

She arched her neck to the side, revealing a peach flesh tendril under the army green collar.  

“You flinched.”

“I’m - I’m sorry.”

Tess shrugged.  

He watched her thumb the silver wheel on the lighter again and again: flick, flick, flick.     

“You should go."

“I saved Ellie,” he offered.  

"Keep going, Joel.  Save who you can save.”   

Save who you can save.  A plea, a promise.  

Tess.  Joel whispered her name like a prayer, a secret.  Eyes shut, drool pooling on the corner of his partly open mouth, his right cheek pressed against the pillow.  

___

Joel.  Joel.  Grace repeated his name three, four times.   She’d already lightly run her fingers through the tufts of soft curls as she murmured into his left ear “Joel, you’re okay, you’re in Jackson, Wyoming.  This is Grace.”   

He jolted awake.   

“You ok?  Must’ve been some dream.”

____

Grace didn’t want to ask, she knew she shouldn’t, and that they don’t - not here, not now - but she wanted to know.  She had those types of dreams about Before Jackson - the ones that made you sit bolt upright in sweat drenched sheets.  

His name was Kian.  Tall, dark brown eyes.  A boisterous laugh that filled every room.  

“How’d you predict it’d fall so quickly?”  It was the month FEDRA had begun disappearing people in the Seattle QZ, mutilating corpses in the square.  She figured he’d give some answer about being the son of parents who fled Tehran during the revolution, some intergenerational trauma or imprinting, a Spidey sense of recognizing fascist fuckers lurking on a street corner.

“History rhymes.  You really thought our institutions were going to save us?  Bush v. Gore didn’t prove to you that the courts were never going to save us?”

He looked down at her as their legs tangled on a twin bed narrower than the one she had in college, a thin mattress against a wooden frame, rumpled sheets, the comforter and clothes strewn on the floor.

Outside the sirens blared as he whispered, softly chuckling into her hair: “Grace, babe, we save ourselves.”

And she failed at that.  

Grace never told a soul how ready she was that still-dark morning.  She’d heard his screams from her cell.  She was done.  Grief turning into a death wish.  A clean shot to the back of the head.  She imagined dead-Lauren quipping: that would have been enough.  

The FEDRA woman ripped off her blindfold and cut the zipties.  

It was dawn and streaks of red orange hovered over the darkened trees on the horizon, the moon a faint sliver in the purple gray clouds that filled the rest of the sky.  

“You came in the middle of the night to save my life at Harborview back in ’01.  I remember you - Dr Yang, yeah?” 

Grace swallowed and nodded, her head aching and dizzy, unable to recall how or what she’d done, whether she’d cauterized a bleeding stomach ulcer or merely fished out a bone lodged in the esophagus, how this officer must have mistaken her for someone else who’d done real heroic shit.

“This is what you’re going to do,” the FEDRA officer continued.

She rolled the body bag off the truck, a hard thump on the ground, and proceeded to throw Grace’s belongings at her feet, along with a revolver she removed from a holster, and pressed Kian’s cherry red Swiss army knife into her palm.  

 “You have one hour.  Bury your boyfriend, then get out.  Follow the train tracks.  Go east.  We’ll call this even.”

 ___

Ellie and Grace waited by the gate for Joel.  The sun already hot by mid morning, Ellie took off her hoodie and tied it around her waist.

Against her better judgment, Grace blurted out: "Hey, may I ask you a question?  You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to…

The fourteen-year-old eyed her skeptically.  “Um, okaaay.”   

“Who’s Tess?”

“Tess?”  Ellie echoed in a lilt.

“Yeah, Tess.”

“Um,” Ellie’s eyes darted behind them, as if to make sure they were alone.  “Um, Tess was Joel’s partner in the Boston QZ.  She died on our way here.  The Fireflies had paid her and Joel to take me to this a hospital in Salt Lake City where um, my condition was going to help create some vaccine.”

“Wait.  What’s this about a vaccine?   What do you mean, ‘condition?’”

Ellie pushed up a sleeve to reveal her forearm, the gnarled bite mark resembling a skin graft, a soft rubbery keloid. 

Wide-eyed, Grace exclaimed: “Oh God. Was that a bite? You’re immune? What the hell happened in Salt Lake? Is that where you and Joel went last year? What’d they do? Did they run blood tests? Do a spinal tap? How did…?”

Grace was relentless in her line of interrogation.  She asked Ellie a total of twenty plus questions about drugs, equipment, storage, procedures, doctors and nurses and staff, the Fireflies, how she originally got bit, who was with her, who found her, when she realized she was immune.  She didn’t probe any further about Tess.  Maybe it was that death had become so present, she felt no urge to dig for details, and imagined somewhere Tess and Kian and maybe Lauren were throwing back drinks, exchanging stories about those they left behind.

Ellie began to stammer: “Shhhhh. Stop. I don’t know. I don’t know! I mean, I’m immune, for sure. But I don’t remember much - I was drugged up. Joel had to get me out of there when the raiders attacked.  He said they didn’t need me, that there were other kids immune, too.”  

She looked down before continuing. 

“I remember Marlene and then waking up in the back of a car in this paper hospital gown….”  Glancing up, slightly panicked, Ellie pleaded: “You can’t tell anyone, Grace. I swear. About me. About all of this. We can’t talk about this anymore.”

____

“Joel, don’t freak out.”  Grace drew in a deep breath. “I just thought you should know.  That I know about Ellie and what happened in Salt Lake. And I promise I won’t tell anyone. I’m just glad you both made it back … back safe.”  She wanted to say “home,” but was unsure what that word may mean to him when she couldn’t figure out what it meant to her.   

Joel looked at her, startled, and opened his mouth to reply before she interrupted and began peppering him manically with questions, her curiosity getting ahead of her. 

“What did they have? What did they say? Was there a lab? Do you remember who you talked to?”  She began gesticulating wildly, a habit she slipped into when excited and talking too rapidly.  “There was this woman Abby I met when l left the Seattle QZ and she told me her dad was some doctor out in Utah or Colorado trying to do something with vaccines and I asked her how they had the technology or a way to operationalize it in the middle of all of this and it just sounded too good to be true. You know? And then Ellie said you said there were other kids like her? Were they all there?  How…”

Joel waved his hand dismissively and shrugged.  “I don’t remember much about it. I saw Marlene, but I don’t remember anyone else.  Lots of clickers turned up. Last thing I know I grabbed Ellie and we got the hell out." 

“Holy shit, raiders AND clickers? Ellie said raiders attacked.”

“Well, yeah, both,” Joel backtracked.  “I can’t recall every detail…” He straightened his posture and squared his broad shoulders, crossing his arms defensively and she couldn’t help but spy the muscled forearms exposed below his rolled sleeves.  ”How did you even start talkin’ to Ellie ‘bout this?”

“I dunno.” Grace mumbled, looking down at her boots and blushing. “I asked her who Tess was and then…”

“How did you hear about…?” His eyes darkened. “We don’t talk about Tess. We don’t ever bring up Tess.”

Staring back at his scowl, Grace felt her ears burning and heart pounding.  She bit her lip trying not to say what she wanted to yell: you brought Tess up first. Said her name in my bed. 

“Dude - what the fuck. It’s fine. We all have our histories. I’m just …”

“Well, we can keep our fucking histories to ourselves.”  Joel snapped.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Joel. You love who you love. I’m just trying to…” Her fingers curled into fists on the frayed straps of her backpack, its bottom slack since she’d kept it half-empty to hold anything they’d find, the stitched-over seams loose for once.  

“What do you want from me?” Joel growled. 

Dead-Lauren would have warned Grace: You get really petty when you’re angry. Grace stomped ahead deliberately to his right, up the rolling incline swatting away the wildflowers brushing her knees, muttering under her breath Not this fucking bullshit.

“What did you say?” He turned to her.

“Nothing.” Bile in her throat, her voice rising into a shout.  “Nothing, alright?  I want nothing.” She quickened her pace as she looked back and spat out: “And don’t you dare fucking talk that way to me again.”

___

Ellie was stuck.  Between Joel’s asshole voice and Grace’s resting bitch face, their fourteen days were painfully silent hikes interrupted by surprisingly successful scavenging: dilapidated convenience stores, an untouched mom-and-pop pharmacy, an abandoned vegetable garden overgrown with mint.  Ellie launched her best puns and jokes, none of which landed, both Joel and Grace humoring her by letting out the occasional chuckle, and then marching quietly ahead up yellow grassy hills or down rocky pastures.  They stole glances at one another when they thought they could, glimpses quickly turning into glares when Ellie caught them in the act, the teenager rolling her eyes and shaking her head in exasperation.

In the evenings around the campfire, a crackling flame pierced the silence as they ate wordlessly, pine and sage and forest moss wafting in the smoke.  

____

“Grace.”

She shifted on the boulder and lifted her head at the sky, trying to find Orion, fiddling with the zipper on her fleece, pretending not to hear him.  

Joel walked toward her and held out his worn bronze honey-colored jacket, “weighty and warm,” she had remarked when months ago he first draped it around her thin shoulders, both of them huddling under the stars, him pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“Grace,” he tried again now with the jacket at arm’s length: “Here, take this. It’s freezing.”  

“No thanks, I’m fine.” She replied evenly, a sharp breath of cold air rose into the dark.

He refused to plead.  “Okay, suit yourself.  But wake me up later, alright?  Ellie’s exhausted and I’ll take her turn.”

“Whatever,” her eyes narrowing, “I’ll do the whole night.”  She’d worked 100-hour call weeks for three years throughout a malignant residency program.  She could survive the chill and long hard hours, even loneliness.  She wasn’t ready to endure the nearness of Joel.   

The following day they trekked back to Jackson and helped restock the community pantry and clinic stash, carefully lining the dusty jars and bottles on the shelves.  Tommy and Maria greeted them, initially not noticing how Grace and Joel barely regarded one another.

“We’ve got dinner ready for y’all,” Maria said.  “Grace - it’s the fancified top ramen recipe you shared - poached egg and chashu pork slices. Come over before you head back to your place. You must be starving.” 

Grace winced. She was famished, but found herself more exhausted than hungry, and just wanted to be alone.

She smiled wanly at Maria: “Thanks so much, but I’m gonna head back. I’m sorry. I’ll see you around?”  She turned on her heels to walk away before she could catch Tommy looking questioningly at his brother.

When she reached her house, she closed the door behind her, slumped to the floor, and sobbed.

___

Grace used to have a post-call ritual.  Riding the post-call high before crashing into the post-call delirium, she’d take a luxurious hot shower so long the mirrors would steam and the fresh gardenia scented soap perfumed the bedroom.  She’d pop in the Before Sunrise DVD and lounge with a Pinot from Walla Walla or Dundee.  While the leftover spaghetti was reheating in the microwave, she’d momentarily debate calling the nurses station to make sure she’d placed that PRN order for trazodone.  

 That was then. Now it was midnight. She did indulge in a warm shower and scrubbed away the grime from the terrible-no-good-two-week expedition. She even allowed herself a bigger dollop of shampoo than usual, and a squirt of travel-sized conditioner she’d saved for rare occasions.  She combed her wet hair and let it air dry and pulled the oversized Lollapalooza t-shirt over her head, the hardwood floors creaking beneath her bare feet.  This tee - thinned over multiple washes with red block letters now a pale pink - was one of three items she still possessed from Before.  

1992, Shoreline.  Converse sneakers indented the muddy grass.  Amps blaring as a chord from an electric guitar revved up the crowd, two teens yelling at each other.

LAUREN!  This is way too big!

That’s all they had left!  Just take one - it can be a pajama top!

Grace decided to make herself an old-fashioned. The range in her kitchen was temperamental. After repeatedly turning the knob click click click and click click click and click click click with no burst of a purple flame, she finally resorted to striking a match against the black grate to light her stove.   

She prepared simple syrup to mix with the whiskey she borrowed from Tommy. Equal parts sugar and water, foam swirling in liquid amber in a pot. She wished she’d had Angostura bitters, but the unspoiled orange would have to do. She was pressing a blade against the pebbled skin to peel the rind when she heard a loud knock at the front.  

Wiping her hands quickly, she peered out the window and saw him standing on her porch.  She imagined real-Lauren, the ultimate wingwoman, whistling at the sight of a broad-shouldered dark, handsome stranger showing up at Grace’s doorstep, his hair slicked back, the green flannel somehow bringing out the glint of grey in his scruffy beard.  Almost resentful he cleaned up better than she did, Grace exhaled loudly and attempted a pep talk: Keep it together, don’t fucking cry.

She opened the door.  She held his gaze and found his brown eyes softening. 

“What is it, Joel?”  She cleared her throat, trying not to let her voice tremble. “What do you want from me?”

He stepped forward and leaned down to kiss her, one hand cupping her cheek and the other around her waist, and only when he crossed the threshold did she finally pull her mouth from his, breathless.  She looked up at him and stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck, her lips meeting his for a more urgent, bruising, hungry kiss.  Tangled, they stumbled into the other room, she led him to the kitchen chair before climbing on top of him, his jeans scraping against the back of her bare thighs.  It wasn’t until she nearly forgot about the concoction simmering on the stove, the syrup thickening into a caramel, that she realized that was the only answer he gave her.   

_____

“This used to be some old boyfriend’s?”  Lying on the edge of her bed, Joel reached down to the floor with one arm to pick up the shirt to hand it to her.  

“Um, no,”  Grace replied, not meaning for the emphasis to sound so harsh, “It’s mine.  I actually went, believe it or not.”  She bunched up the tee before throwing it into the corner across the room.

“I don’t recall them letting little kids into Lollapalooza,”  he teased.

“I was 15, Joel,” she bristled.  “Definitely not little.”

“Figured you were younger.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”  She plopped her head down onto a pillow and turned away from him.  

“You don’t disappoint.”  He wrapped an arm around her waist, interlocking his fingers with hers, squeezing her palm.  

“Sure, whatever.”  She pulled the covers over her breasts and nestled her back against his chest, closing her eyes.  He kissed her neck and shoulder before shifting his weight and rolling onto his back.  She heard him take a deep breath.

“What a lineup that year,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling.  “Tess loved those bands.”

Surprised, Grace opened her eyes and laid still on her side, slowly smiling to herself: “Yeah?  She had great taste.” 

[picnokinesis]

WIP ask game: 5, 9 & 10 for the ziptie or anterograde aus?

Also, I binged your zombie au a few days, and much like w/ the campervan au I was so impressed about how you incorporated the show’s dialogue, especially in regards to the climactic meeting between Theo and Koschei. Also also, I was so excited when Jericho showed up - what a tenseful way to introduce him to the reader, too. If you’re comfortable w/ answering: 1 and 2 for this au?

Ahh hello! :D Thanks for the ask - and ahhh I'm so glad that you enjoyed zombie au!! It's one that I'm actually pretty proud of, I have a massive soft spot for it. One of my favourite things to do with aus is take lines/ideas from the original content and weave them into the new story - I mean, you've seen that in campervan au, but for me one of the most interesting things about writing zombie au was taking lines that I'd also used in campervan and putting them in a new context and shedding a different light on them, but also taking lines and ideas that I haven't even touched in campervan and exploring them here instead! And augh, man, I'm still SO proud of that part where Theo finds Koschei in the corridor during the attack - everything just came together, and I could just see it in my brain but I feel like I actually managed to get what I could see onto the paper in a way that really captured it. I'm so happy that you enjoyed it!!

But hmmmmm let me see...I'm gonna put this under the cut because it's long, but:

5 - What has been your biggest struggle with your wip?

Oooh this is kind of tricky. I think one of the biggest problems with both of anterograde and ziptie is that they're so interlinked with the main au - I can't really write them or post them until I've finished the entirety of campervan. Anterograde is also quite large and nebulous - it spans over several years after the initial train crash, and so I'd really have to figure out how to structure it if I wanted to do it properly. It's much more 'slice of life' than the other ones, which are much more plot driven. The other problem with both of them is just sitting down and writing them, yknow? They're both BIG stories! Ziptie in particular also has a lot of logistics going on that I'd need to actual sit down and figure out if I wanted to write it properly, but at the moment the main draw is thoschei being feral

9 - What aspects (tropes, maybe?) of your wip do you think will draw people in?

With anterograde au - I feel like it's the slower, domestic version of the main au, but with bucketloads of angst to make up for the general softness. I think it's also just the premise of it too? Like memory and identity are SUCH interesting themes to me (see: I write about them all the time), but I think holding up campervan and anterograde next to each other is what makes them both so fascinating because in one you've got the Doctor with retrograde amnesia, cut off from her past but still ending up defined by it; with anterograde, the ONLY THING SHE HAS is her past, and everything else is thrown into confusion and uncertainty. And then, you've got Koschei, who is suddenly having to deal with a very different situation to the one he was originally envisioning for himself (and for the Doctor) and it's just......really cool to see how the same characters, with the same backstory, end up in completely different places (emotionally and literally) because of the Doctor's brain injury being different depending on the verse. Also just the inherent....trust that comes with them living together and Koschei fundamentally ending up as the Doctor's carer. And not just the trust between the pair of them, but also with other people too (like Graham and Grace, Jack, etc.). I think anterograde reaaaally makes it clear that Koschei is, at heart, still the terrified 15yo that he was in 1999, and that he's never had anyone to actually help him. Anterograde kind of gives Kosch this chance to actually have a support network and help himself, which does allow him to heal (to some degree) from a lot of his stuff. The inherent tragedy here is that the Doctor, on the other hand, has suddenly lost her sense of time and so can't tangibly heal in the same way, because she can't remember it. However, there is a lot of healing going on under the surface - which is takes a while for both of them to notice and understand, but it is definitely there.

With ziptie - I think the premise of 'spydoc ziptied together' is the main draw HAHAHAHA but serious answer, ziptie spydoc are just...so painfully co-dependent in the worst way ever. And they hate it! Because they get thrown into this working AGAINST each other, and then are suddenly in a truly awful situation for weeks where they're suddenly the only person that the other can trust. And then by the time they get out of that, everything is worse and they're also messing with each other's heads in a very literal way (because in ziptie, they both have the kasaavin on their necks and can't get them off) and it causes a lot of interesting issues.

10 - What are your hopes for your wip?

This is interesting, because I have thought a lot about this - because, truth be told, I'm almost certain that anterograde and ziptie and the other aus will never be written in full. However, when (and it IS a when, I am determined) campervan is finished and fully posted, there's a reasonable chance that I'll post some excerpts from the other aus, if people are interested! It might also be fun to like, write an explanation or summary of the au? Or maybe make a video or something explaining everything? That would probably take ages to make but I feel like that would be the best format. I would definitely like to share them somehow, someday, because they offer such an interesting insight into each other.

And then - for zombie au!!

1 - What was the first part of your wip that you created?

I'm genuinely not sure with this one!! I'm pretty sure I just opened a document and started writing haha! I feel like that's right - the opening of zombie is very much just me going 'uhhhhhhHHHH LET'S JUST START IN A RANDOM PLACE' ahahaha, you can kind of tell that I just threw Theo into the set and told her to improvise. Which, to be clear, is something I do WAY too much. Even when I plan fics, I have no idea what's going on, so I have a tendency to just coast on vibes and see what happens as the story unfolds. Especially when I'm starting a story. Usually by a few chapters in, I've started to get a sense of things.

2 - If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

Hahah well the fic title is take from a song off the album Future Dust by The Amazons, so no one is surprised that I would probably pick a song by that band. Either In My Mind or Mother. As a fun sidenote though, the theme song for Theo and Koschei before Gallex gets released is Junk Food Forever.

THANKS FOR THE ASK!! <3

[otto-serena]

Not Gone

AU Verse

@otto-troy

Laurel had gotten away from Madison, from PADRE. Her hands were still ziptied as she wandered through the forest of the mainland trying to find her way to Troy's compound. Although that would have been a lot easier if he told her where it was. But when sending her back to PADRE to gather information for him, he had kept that a secret from her. It had been a struggle to get out of a PADRE, Madison had locked her in a room to keep her there, although Lyn had gotten out through the air vent in the room.

Now she was wandering, trying to get her hands out of the goddam zip ties Madison had locked her in. Although Lyn figured Troy had enough men, eyes, and ears around that she'd be found soon enough, she just had to keep moving, hopefully in the right direction. If worst came to worst she could get to Morgan's small cabin and there was probably a radio there.

After walking for a while Lyn heard something behind her, she turned and saw three walkers stumbling towards her. She took in a sharp breath and looked down at her hands which were still zip-tied together.

"Shit..." Lyn cursed walking backwards as she kept her eyes on the creatures. Looking at her leg she saw the blood from the cut she got while escaping, she cursed again, the blood was probably attracting them. Her eyes scanned the ground before she saw a good-sized rock. Struggling a bit she eventually grasped the rock just as the first walker got closer. Shoving the walker into a nearby tree she slammed the rock into his head until its skull broke and it fell down, officially dead. Although Lyn was quickly knocked over by the second walker. She fell onto her back, with the creature on top of her.

"No...no..." Laurel fought to hold the walker back trying to push it away which was more difficult with her hands tied than she thought. Suddenly the walker was shot off of her. The corpse fell off of her, and Lyn shot up turning to look behind her, expecting to see Troy or one of his idiots, but it wasn't someone she recognized. It was a man, she knew that perhaps as tall as Troy but she couldn't see his face. He wore a mask, a ski mask from the looks of it, that covered his mouth and his forehead, and then he wore some kind of goggles. He had a rifle pointed towards her still and she didn't move. He had a pack slung across his back. He wore a jacket, which looked like it used to be an old faded camo jacket and dark pants. The man raised his rifle again and Lyn readied herself to get up and run, but the shot landed behind her and the third walker fell to the ground.

"Who are you?" Laurel demanded looking at the man who stood a few feet from. He stared at her for a second, before he slung the rifle across his shoulder, and pulled the goggles away from his face, then the ski mask down from his face.

"What...the fuck..." Lyn's eyes widened in both shock and confusion as she recognized the face.

Mike chuckled softly and nodded, "The feelings mutual, princess. It's been a while." The man was older but still had the golden brown hair, the beard, and the familiar eyes of Mike Trimbol. Although he looked hardened, different, Lyn could tell by looking at him he wasn't the same soft soldier who joined the Militia at the ranch. He had a scar on his cheek, that looked like something from a knife tracing down his jaw till it tapered off towards his neck where his beard no longer grew.

"What, what are you doing here? You...you're supposed to be dead..." Lyn asked softly still in shock as she stared at Mike. He walked over to her and helped her up, pulling a knife from his belt and breaking the zip ties around her wrist.

Mike laughed again, "I could say the same about you." Lyn looked at him in confusion and he continued, "I went back to the ranch. Saw it was overrun. Found Jake...Coop...figured everyone fucking died. So what the hell are you doing out here?"

Laurel swallowed, "trying to find my way back. Got mixed up in something complicated. Trying to get back to my own group. But I don't know where it is."

Mike looked around, "passed a compound to the east. I wasn't close enough to know what it was, but uh, I can take you there. See if that's where you need to get to."

"Thanks," Lyn nodded, "while we walk, you can tell me how the hell you're alive."

Mike grinned and shrugged turning to walk back towards the direction he had seen the compound, "well that's a complicated story."

As the two walked back towards Troy's compound they talked, and Mike explained everything that happened to him. What happened between Troy and his family, Troy didn't kill him, but Mike's own father shot him in the shoulder while trying to aim for Troy. Mike wounded had run away and nearly died in the desert before someone found him and helped him. He had stayed away and returned to the ranch a few months later although found out it was wounded by the dead, and he figured everyone died. As the two got closer to the compound, Mike pulled his mask back on so he wasn't recognizable, figuring it might best so Troy wouldn't shoot him on sight.

Before the pair got too close to the compound a group and Troy's new Militia ambushed them, guns pointed at them. Mike raised his as well out of instinct but didn't fire.

"Hey," Laurel snapped stepping in front of Mike, so Troy's new second in charge was pointing his gun at them both, "put that down. Get Troy." She ordered, "Now!"

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

41 / 3k / soap soulmate au, part 10

...

Gaz's bullet slides neatly into the target's head, folding into his frontal cortex, his hypothalamus, and lodging to a satisfying stop in his brain stem.

Your job is done.

Ignoring the radio chatter between Gaz and Price, you slip away from the dead man. Your boots grind blood and broken glass into the carpet as you go. You should vanish before Soap's team can catch up to you. You head for the opposite corner of the mansion. They don’t have eyes there.

You slide the ground floor window open and pull Soap's radio collar from your neck. You’re about to remove the earpiece when it crackles in your ear. It's Ghost's voice.

"They got Johnny."

You pause. Your teammates are rough, but they won’t kill Johnny. Right? They won’t kill a soldier.

"Where is he?" Price's voice crackles back.

"Basement lounge," Ghost mutters. The radio catches shouting voices in the background.

"Can you get to him?" Price asks.

Gunshots crackle through the earpiece. Ghost curses. "Negative, sir. Too many mercs and he's agitatin' 'em as it is. Might be able to fish him out, but I'd need a better vantage point.”

“Is he in immediate danger?”

“Don’t think so.”

"Then keep yourself hidden, Lieutenant. Kyle and I are en route."

Your stomach twists. Price doesn't sound like he plans to negotiate. You switch the radio's to KorTac's frequency. "Horangi, what's going on?"

There's a long pause before he replies, and several other voices echo underneath his. "Where the hell are you? SAS is fucking up our whole job. The cargo is gone."

You force yourself to get a grip on your own cover story even as you slip through the window and drop silently to the ground. Snow squeaks under your boots. "How did he know about the cargo?" you ask, your voice careful and even.

"I don't know. Shit, maybe someone fed him information. Military dogs love their rats." There's a pause. Horangi's voice sounds more distant as he speaks away from the mic. "Oy, shitbag. Who gave you the intel?”

You let out a breath of relief. Johnny will have no choice but to give them your name in exchange for his freedom. You'll be far, far away before your teammates know you're gone. KorTac won't bother with trying to track you down. It'd be a waste of money. Even if they did, you've disappeared before. You know how not to be found.

It’ll be a clean break for you both.

Then Johnny's voice crackles into your ear through Horangi's mic.

"No rat," he says. You hear him smirking, but a snarl edges the bravado in his voice. "Your security's piss-poor."

What? No. Bad, that's bad. Johnny’s playing at taking the blame. Of course he is. He thinks he's protecting you. Stubborn idiot.

Horangi chuckles. “You want to die here? That can be arranged.”

Something under your sternum clenches. This is your fault. You stare down at the fresh snow in front of you. You can still leave. Your plan never involved seeing him again, and it certainly didn't involve helping him if he got his ass in trouble. But you're the one who told him where the hostages were. He's only in the basement lounge because of you.

With Price and Gaz in the way, and with Ghost seeking a higher vantage point, sniper in hand, your teammates don’t know how much trouble they’re in, either.

Goddamn him. Why can’t he just rat you out? Why can’t he just be as heartless as you are?

You turn and retrace your trek back to the mansion. You don't know what you're going to do to avoid the confrontation at hand and make a clean escape, but maybe you'll come up with something on the way.

...

You slip into the lounge behind your teammates. Soap is on his knees, hands ziptied behind his back with the barrel of Horangi's rifle to his head.

Every last one of your squadmates is here. With you, that's a dozen mercenaries. You check the upper corners, the catwalks—Ghost is nowhere to be found. Of course. There'd be no way for Ghost alone to snipe enough of your teammates in one go to pull Johnny out of this mess. Nor is there any alarm you can pull, no authority you can leverage to get your soulmate out of the position you put him in.

You switch your radio frequency back to 141's secure channel. "Ghost, don't shoot. I can talk them down."

But it's Price's voice that echoes back. "Stay put, love. We'll get it sorted."

"Listen to me--"

"You in position, Ghost?" Price asks calmly.

"Affirmative, sir."

"Good. Gaz and I will be there shortly. When I signal, you take out as many as you can. We'll clean up the rest. Until then, stay hidden. We don't need a body count of our own."

You ease your finger off the comm, hands shaking. A fucking bloodbath? That's Price's plan? You think back to how he stared across the interrogation table at you, his eyes crinkling in amusement at the barbs you threw back at him. He'd have killed anyone else.

No, focus. You pull the earpiece out and rip the radio unit, cords and all, away from you. It clatters to the ground. A few of your squadmates glance over. You push your way through them until Horangi's eyes fall on you. Johnny’s do, too, but you refuse to look at him.

"He's obviously military,” you say, pinning Horangi with as severe a look as you can summon. “You can't just kill him. You know what would happen."

Horangi scoffs and looks back down at Soap. "He could be impersonating a soldier for all I know. Besides, military mutts bark." He presses the muzzle of his rifle harder into Soap's skull. "So bark, or I shoot."

"If you let me up right now," Soap growls, "I won't rip your goddamn hands off. How about that?" 

Horangi tuts. "You're in no position to be making threats, mutt. Answer me or I'll shut you up permanently. Who gave you the intel?”

"He's not the only one," you interrupt again, talking fast. "He's... His team. They're looking for him."

Horangi’s gaze rises to you again, a strange look in his eye. You've said too much. "Where have you been?" he asks you with a hard stare.

"With the protectee."

"And where is he now?"

Silence swells between you and him. You feel your teammates' eyes on you now. This is your last chance to walk away. If you do, the path ahead of you will be free and clear. And whatever blood is spilled here in service of this stupid mission will be on your hands.

Soap sees the look on your face. "No, hen, don't--"

"I'm the rat," you say. "I fed him the information. The protectee is dead."

Soap curses and tries to lunge to his feet. Horangi pushes him down with the heel of his boot between his shoulder blades. Soap grunts in pain.

"How interesting," Horangi says. "And why would you do that?"

"Don't listen to her," Soap growls. "She's lyin'."

He's still fighting the cuffs around his wrists. His shoulders jerk with every tug, trying in vain to break the plastic tie. A horrible feeling clutches at his chest. He knows what you're doing, and everything in him rebels against the idea. He's so close to finally having you, so close to saving you from yourself.

He never wanted you to come here. He wanted you safe, far away. The thought of something happening to you is far worse than any of the pain he might have endured if you hadn’t come back for him.

You risk a glance at Soap. He looks stricken. You almost wish you could explain, but it wouldn't make a difference. He should know better. You do your job. That's who you are. Even if it means there’ll be hell to pay.

You force your eyes back to Horangi's. "The bastard deserved it," you say simply.

Horangi scoffs. "Obviously. And we deserve our paychecks.” He watches Soap struggle under his boot. "You know him?"

You glance down at Soap, taken off guard. "He's..."

Soap meets your gaze, his eyes still burning with fire despite the situation. “Hen,” he says. “You are makin’ a mistake.”

Horangi leans onto Soap’s shoulder, pinning him flatter. Soap grunts.

Horangi smirks. “He seems to know you. You know, if it were me, I'd just keep my mouth shut and let him take the blame. That's what he wants, isn't it?” He jabs the barrel of his rifle against Soap’s spine.

Soap’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.

"In fact," Horangi muses, "I might be more inclined to believe him than you. Not to mention our employer would be very disappointed to know someone on payroll sabotaged a very well-paying job. I don’t think you’d do that unless you had a good reason.”

You hear your teammates murmur behind you. Horangi is giving you an out. Your teammates will know what you did, but KorTac won't. Plausible deniability brings back the possibility of escape. You're shocked Horangi would offer at all, knowing now what you did.

But you steel yourself. You know what you have to do. "Check his left arm," you tell him.

Horangi examines you, but there's no skepticism in his eyes—only intrigue. He gestures to a few of the mercs behind you. Two push past you. They hold Soap down, and Horangi grabs Soap's cuffed wrists and pushes his sleeve up his arm. It's there plain as day—the soulmark bearing your name.

Soap grits his teeth. You're giving yourself up for him. You're going to take the fall in exchange for his freedom. Why can't you just do one goddamn thing he wants you to do? It should be him protecting you.

He tries to catch your eye again, but you look away from his furious glare. Deep down, a part of him understands you. That infuriates him even more. You're doing this out of some sick sense of duty. Just like everything else.

Horangi is impassive. "Ah. Guess that explains it."

A hand comes down hard on your shoulder, and you're pulled back hard as two of your teammates take you by the arms and ziptie you. You don't struggle. One of them kicks out the back of your knee and forces you to kneel. 

Soap snarls as he tries to shake the mercenaries pinning him down. "Get your hands off her!"

Horangi smirks down at Soap. "You really do like each other, eh? Cute."

Soap's blood burns through him. All his systems are haywire. He's angry at you, but he's more furious than he's ever been in his life at the men holding him down. He jerks again, taking one of the mercs by surprise. He manages to get to one knee before they're on him again, joined by two more of your comrades who stream in to help.

They force him to the ground once more. Horangi digs his knee into Soap's back and jabs him with the butt of his rifle. Another merc kicks a boot into his gut. But Soap doesn't stop. He's not going down without a fight. He won't sit there quietly and let anyone walk away with his woman.

Horangi looks down his rifle at Soap and rests his hand on the trigger, his smirk gone. "Careful," he says, voice low. "I still might just shoot you."

"Then you'd better kill me in one shot, because when I get my hands around your fuckin' neck--"

"Johnny, stop," you interject.

"Why?" he growls. "You think I'm just gonna sit here and watch you give yourself up?"

"You don't have a choice."

"The hell I don't."

Horangi pushes his rifle harder against Soap's skull. "Listen to her, mutt."

"Hey," you snap at him. One of your comrades behind you pulls your arms back, and you realize you're unconsciously fighting to get close. "Let him go."

When Soap sees you straining against your binds, trying to reach him, his heart clenches. He lets out a stream of expletives and throws his body weight against the mercs trying to hold him down.

"You care for him that much? Then again, I guess you don't have a choice."

"Horangi—"

“Yes, yes. Relax,” Horangi says to you, keeping his rifle trained on Soap. “I don’t plan to kill him. But we're not uncuffing him. Because we're not fucking idiots," he mutters. He steps off Soap and nods toward the back of the lounge where the bar and kitchen are. "Put him in the walk-in."

The mercs pull him roughly to his feet, jerking his arms behind his back. His gaze flicks to you, and he opens his mouth to say something, but you won't meet his eyes. It's like you're trying to shut him out completely, closing yourself into some emotional void. Just like in that interrogation room. He can’t fucking stand it.

Soap growls in frustration as he's hauled backward. He's torn between anger and desperation, wanting to make you understand how much he needs you. But you're so stubbornly set on building your stupid walls and keeping him out.

"This never would've happened if you'd just let me handle it," he snaps at you. "But you had to go runnin' off by yourself instead of listenin’ to me."

You stare at him in disbelief. He's still arguing this? How headstrong is he? "You're the one who refused to rat me out!” you retort, unable to stop yourself. “I was out the fucking window when you went all heroic and forced me to come back and save your ass!"

Soap's temper flares hotter. "Oh, I'm the one who went all heroic?" He yanks his arm against his captors' grip, but it hardly slows them down. “You’re the bloody martyr, aren’t you? Couldn't just let me handle it. Had to go sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

"You with a fucking gun to your head? That was you handling it?"

"I've been in worse situations," Soap shoots back, bristling. "I didn't need your help. And I damn sure don’t want you throwin’ yourself into danger like you've got a death wish."

You swallow. You were right to step in and take the fall for what you did, you realize. As rough-tempered as your soulmate is, he's just trying to protect you. He deserves better than you.

"This is... it's what I deserve," you say finally.

Soap's eyes widen in disbelief, his expression going from anger to shock to cold fury. "What you deserve?" he hisses, his voice low and enraged. "What you deserve is a good smack upside the head. You think you deserved to throw your life away for my sake? That's how little you think of yourself?"

"I betrayed my teammates and ruined our contract. I have to pay for that."

He's so fucking over it. You’re letting yourself be ripped away from him because of—what, a mistake you made? Loyalty to your team? Some misguided sense of penance and responsibility? Empty excuses. None of that should matter. You’re meant to be his.

"I don't give a damn what you think you deserve,” he says. “You're not the one who gets to decide that."

"And you are?"

You're looking at him like you don't believe him. It makes something in him snap loose.

"You still think you're expendable," he says, his voice hard. "As long as everyone else is safe. As long as you've done your bloody duty." He jerks his shoulders, angry and desperate to have you in his sight for a few more seconds. "Whatever you tell yourself, you’d best remember you made your goddamn choice to take what Iwanted most away from me. I swear to you, darlin’, when I get out of these cuffs, I will find you and make sure you never leave my sight again. That’s what I deserve.”

You say nothing. Your heart is in your feet as they wrestle him away.

You’re not worth this. You can't be. You've shown him—all but told him you were ready to abandon him mere minutes ago. He just doesn't care. Regardless of what you think, he keeps deciding you're worth the fucking trouble.

You're just trying to do one thing right by him. One thing. But he has to go and tear your heart in two about it anyway. Bastard.

"Let go of me!" Soap barks, voice echoing behind you as they drag him out of sight.

The sound of the large, industrial steel walk-in freezer banging open echoes through the basement, followed by clattering and Horangi barking orders. Then it slams closed.

That's it, then. The last time you'll see him.

You believe him when he says he'll never stop looking for you. You might be stubborn and set in your ways—he happens to be worse. But you know your employer, and you know what happens to traitors who kill the charges they're paid to protect. Regardless of what seemed right at the time.

You know there are prisons with which the CIA won’t interfere.

You're going to live the rest of your life in a cell. Because of your own damn sense of responsibility for some twisted form of penance for your past.

The moment you hear the lock on the walk-in click, whatever solemn self-assurance you felt turns to ash in your mouth. Penance bears a strong resemblance to empty self-righteousness and self-hatred. Worse—it feels a hell of a lot like you're condemning your stubborn bull of a soulmate to a lifetime of searching for a woman who refuses out of spite to be found.

Horangi and the others return, and the two mercenaries at your sides haul you away. You stumble along with them, numb. They drag you out of the building and push you toward the back of a bulletproof KorTac panel van.

What have you done?

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / [part 10] / part 11 / part 12

more Soap / masterlist

[softquietsteadylove]

Hi can I request 2 parts for Spy/Special Force AU?

I have been craving for some angst and drama, so I am really sorry for this.

So for the 1st part. We always see Gil in dangerous situation but now...what about Thena was caught. Gil didn't know that it was Thena not until they presented her to him. He had to watch her getting interrogated and tortured and he can't do anything about it because he's undercover. He tried to negotiate with them without getting suspicious, but it didn't work.

"So, what do ya think, new guy?"

"Ask about the arms deal happening at the end of the week."

Gil took the instructions coming through his earpiece silently. "Not a bad place, but do you guys really have the stuff necessary to secure all this square footage?"

He got a couple of looks and tried to remain calm; using 'secure' like that would definitely get him suspected of being an undercover Agent.

"I know a guy with both hands under the table, I mean," Gil shrugged, keeping his arms folded and tight to his sides. He didn't manage to sneak anything in with him weapons wise. His fists were weapon enough.

"Don't worry about it," one of the ones who had been showing him around for the last week shrugged. "We've got more incoming."

Gil nodded. It was as much of a confirmation on the weapons trade off as he was going to get, and he wouldn't risk asking about it further. His brows furrowed as they reached their destination: a control room in the basement with the window smashed out. "We catch something?"

"You could say that." His grin gave Gil a bad feeling.

They turned on the singular light bulb that lit the decrepit little space. There was a small figure in a chair, ziptied to the armrests and legs by the wrists and ankles. They were visibly too tight, drawing blood no matter how still they tried to remain.

Gil's heart stopped.

He tried to stay still. He would know that figure anywhere, as much as he tried not to. The slight frame, the slope of the shoulders and the prominence of the clavicle under the buttoned work shirt. The stockings were torn, probably from getting dragged to and fro. Shoes were probably the first thing taken from them.

He knew it was Thena before they pulled the burlap off her head.

As soon as it was off they punched her square in the jaw, whipping her head around and making the chair screech on the concrete floor. It was just heavy enough not to topple over with her in it.

Gil kept his face as neutral as he could--their lives depended on it. They were watching him, checking to see if they had found the weakness they thought. If they had found their mole. "Where'd you find her?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," the worker bees around him snickered as they watched the show.

Gil kept his fists clenched under his armpits, digging his short nails as deep into his skin as he could. His teeth were clenched so tight he could barely see straight.

Thena didn't utter a word as they laid into her, taking every slap and punch with little more than a grunt or a burst of air. She kept her eyes shut as they hauled her head up by her hair, still pulled back into a ponytail.

They hadn't gotten her at home, she was still dressed for work, whether they got her coming in or going home. Gil felt sickened to wonder how long they'd had her captive.

"We got a tip that there was a real pretty blonde hangin' around," the one doing the beating said to Gil, giving Thena's head a shake by her hair. He turned his face into hers, inhaling against her cheek. "Had to go and find 'er for myself."

"Don't move a muscle, Agent. Stay on target."

Those fuckers. The brass knew Thena had been captured and were still ordering him not to move? How far were they planning on letting this go? How long had they been listening to Thena get hurt?

Eyes were still on Gil in the room, monitoring how far they could push him. He still hadn't let a crack show, yet. "Y'know, someone let us know that she was with the Fed."

Of course someone had tipped them off. How else would they have been able to get the drop on the Goddess of War?

"Y'know what they say, big guy," another one slapped him on the shoulder before strolling into the semi-connected interrogation room. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?"

Gil wiggled his fingers against his palm, feeling the blood he'd drawn. He was nearing his limit. Thena pried her least swollen eye open and looked at him, managing just a little twitch of her lips. No one else would be able to recognise it as a smile--they'd sooner assume it was a flinch.

But Gil could always tell.

Thena shut her eyes again as they wrenched her head back, exposing the length of her neck.

"She is a pretty thing, huh?" the new one looked back at Gil, trailing a finger along her throat.

"Agent, do not move. I repeat: stand. Down."

Gil watched the hand trail down her neck to her collarbone, just barely peeking out from her blouse. He pulled out a knife, cutting off one button, then another.

The two in the room grinned at each other as the third button popped off, exposing just the hint of a white bra with floral lace. "Should we see how pretty?"

If the window weren't shattered before, it certainly would be now. Gil grabbed the head of the first one, slamming it down on the table so hard it only took the one hit to incapacitate him.

The other one reached into the back of his jeans, "fuckin' mole-!"

Gil turned his shoulder out to him, ramming him against the wall with his shoulder driven directly into his solar plexus. The wind left him and he slumped down the wall. For good measure, Gil kicked his teeth in.

"Hey, what the fuck-"

Gilgamesh was by far the strongest on the special forces team--probably one of the strongest agents in the field, if not the strongest. He grabbed the creepy one by the hand, twisting it all the way around to pop it off the wrist.

The creep screamed and howled in pain.

The one who had been doing the beating held up his hands, backing away from Thena on the chair, who was swaying faintly in her attempt to remain conscious.

"Agent! Stand down, this is a direct order!"

Gil tore the earpiece and its connected mic out of his ear and crushed it under his foot. He kept his eyes on the man with Thena's blood on his knuckles.

"H-Hey, big guy," the idiot was at least smart enough to try and barter his way to safety. "Look, we both know you're not gonna kill me-"

"Says who?"

The smaller of the two men shrank a little. Maybe his life wasn't as insured as he thought it was. "O-Okay!--okay, look, I'm sorry! I-I'm sorry, man! You want info?! I'll tell you--I'll tell you everything! Who tipped us off, how we scoped out your headquarters--everything!"

Gil grasped the bastard by his shirt, slamming him up against the wall, black in the eyes. "You've got a lot of nerve bartering with me after what you did to her-"

"Gil."

The beater hit the floor like a sack of bricks.

Gil moved in front of Thena, lifting her chin as gently as he could. She'd have one hell of a black eye, and her naturally sharp cheekbones were split and swollen. "Hey."

Thena blinked her good eye, lifting her head shakily as Gil cut open the zipties slicing her wrists and ankles incrementally.

"Backup better be on the fucking way," Gil growled as he get her freed. Her body naturally folded in on itself in its injured and vulnerable state. Gil shirked off his jacket, pulling it around her and even zipping it up over her exposed chest. "Or those old fucks are next."

The beater was trying to crawl to safety.

Gil slammed his heel down on his back.

The beater threw up anything that was in his stomach.

Gil leaned down, pulling his head up by the hair, as he had done with Thena mere minutes ago. "You're gonna tell us everything."

He nodded.

"You're gonna cooperate with every agent you see."

He nodded again, more vigorously.

Gil dropped him. If they did get some valuable information out of him it would be the only thing saving his job after this stunt. He turned, catching the creep trying to struggle to his feet. "And you."

Thena didn't even blink as Gil grabbed his shoulder, then his jaw, and twisted. She watched as the man's lifeless body fell to the ground. She looked up at Gil, "I'm going to pretend I didn't see that."

Gil said nothing. He had no remorse for someone like that. He nudged his body out of the way, picking Thena up and sitting down in the chair for himself with her in his arms.

The sounds of their fellow agents storming the building started at the top of the building and travelled through its open, gutted remains. They would be with them soon enough.

Gil sat and waited. He would be lucky to be suspended and on probation. Much more likely, they would have internal affairs investigate him for his disobedience. Worst case scenario, they could find him in breach of protocol and fire him.

Thena shuddered in his arms.

He would accept any punishment they gave him--gladly. He turned his head, pressing his lips to her temple in the slim window of being alone with her.

[stripesofbrooklyn]

(Polaris AU where Saburo is one of Magneto's children alongside Wanda and Pietro, sharing his father's talents for magnetism manipulation. Wants to become the next saviour of the mutants and willingly commits terrorist acts against groups or companies who aid in mutant oppression.)

Did these pathetic idiots really think they could contain him? In this... plastic cell? With everyone out there, Raven and the others... They wouldn't let him rot. His black hair dye ran out two showers ago, his emerald-green hair, the natural colour after he awoke to his mutation on full display as he lay on his bed, in ziptie cuffs. No metal could be allowed near him, lest he use it to escape and resume his campaign of mutant supremacy. Hearing footsteps, he turned over and looked at the approaching figure, sitting up.

"Did someone get lost? It's rare to get visitors here, you know. They considered the Raft, but putting me in a big metal tin can... Well, you can imagine." He offered, laughing.

"Well...I think we can work something out so you can be free if you are willing to work with us." He said shifting his hands into his pockets and shaking his head. "I don't want to hold you hostage anymore than you want to be one."