#pike protection squad

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding (Part 1 of 2)

Pairing: Serial Killer Marcus Pike x f!Reader (Reader is a police officer with the nickname “Cricket”)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: This is a Spoooooooky fic for Halloween season. Please heed the warnings; this is not darkfic, per se, but it explores dark themes and contains elements of suspense and horror. The following subjects are mentioned in the context of cases that the reader deals with. I do not go into explicit detail about any of these themes and any violence is implied rather than seen, but please heed the warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drunk driving, implied sexual assault, suicide, drug use, drug overdoses. Whew. Okay, for the story itself, please be warned that there is: derogatory language (someone calls reader a “bitch”), murders, body horror (corpses!), Marcus Pike being a bit unsettling, Very Enthusiastic Pussy Eating, unprotected PIV sex (this is fiction! use protection and also maybe don't fuck a serial killer!)

Summary: When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

A/N: This story is about Marcus Pike if he were a serial killer. If this concept gives you The Ick, please do not read this and then come to me telling me that you think it’s icky. You have been warned. Dead dove don’t eat, etc. I *have* taken pains to ensure that Marcus is not a bad man. He’s a murderer, yes, but he only kills the worst that humanity has to offer. He’s a serial killer AND he’s my perfect, unhinged baby. Cool? Cool. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for encouraging this nonsense, letting me scream about it on Discord from day one, and reading through it and helping me with the police procedural bits!

Masterlist

When the call comes to your desk at 8:30am on a Monday morning, you can’t deny that your initial response is excitement. 

Who could blame you? Not much happens here in Hannibal. 

The waver in the elderly museum docent’s voice reminds you to temper your eagerness. With a steady, even voice, you patiently repeat the information she gives you. You don’t bother pointing out that she really should have called 911, rather than the police station directly; she’s one of many older residents in this town who prefer to skip the middle-man, so to speak, and you don’t really mind being the first voice people hear after a crisis.

“Window broken… alarm power cut… five Norman Rockwells,” you murmur to yourself as you scribble down the details on a post-it. “CCTV nonfunctional… broken… cameras for show only… Yes ma’am. Yep, I know the place. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“What was that?” Your CO asks from his office, not bothering to get up from his chair and come out into the bullpen. If you could even call it that. You’re the only regular inhabitant. 

“Mrs. Ingram from the Mark Twain Museum. Someone broke in last night and cut five paintings from their frames.”

CO Hubbard squints, taking off his reading glasses and perching them on top of his head and staring at you like you’ve grown an extra head. 

“Someone stole from the Mark Twain Museum?”

“Crazy, right? I’m heading there now.”

The older man grunts and nods, placing his bifocals back on his nose and returning his gaze to the Hannibal Courier-Post’s crossword. 

You don’t bother turning on the lights on your squad car. The streets are damn-near empty on a Monday morning. Most of the residents’ shifts began hours ago at the factories downriver, leaving the small town to appear almost abandoned. For being the famed birthplace of one Samuel Clemens, it sure doesn’t bring much tourist traffic to Hannibal, Missouri. 

Julia Ingram has been the Museum’s curator, docent, and gift shop operator since before you can remember. Despite her age, it seems as though she’s hardly changed from the time you visited the museum with your school group as a child. She greets you over thick wire frames kept in place with a whimsical beaded chain. Like most residents of Hannibal, she calls you ‘Cricket’–the nickname that’s stuck with you since your youth on account of your habit of sneaking out at night to stargaze. It’s hard to have much authority with the older citizens when they all remember you as a knobby-kneed preteen with a wild streak and a wilder imagination. 

You let her lead you to the gallery of Norman Rockwell art on the second floor of the old building. You walk past old editions of Tom Sawyer, a collection of Mark Twain’s childhood possessions, and a life-sized raft similar to what Huck and Jim might have used on their Mississippi River journey. 

The Norman Rockwell collection consists of fifteen paintings done for special editions of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Today, though, there are only ten. Five frames are empty; broken shards litter the floor where the thief bashed through the glass to retrieve the priceless papers within.

“Why did they have to go and break them?” Mrs. Ingram asks in a tearful voice as you snap pictures on your little point-and-shoot camera you take with you for cases.

“Takes up less space,” you shrug. “Framed art is conspicuous. The perp probably rolled the illustrations up for ease of keeping them hidden.”

Mrs. Ingram shudders at the mention of rolling up Norman Rockwell illustrations, and you give her a sympathetic look.

“I’m going to call in a forensics team from the St. Louis office,” you tell the elderly woman. “They’ll be able to dust for fingerprints. In the meantime, the museum stays closed. No visitors. And don’t go around touching anything, okay? I should be able to get a security guard to watch the crime scene until forensics is able to come in. If you need anything, you call me,” you tell her, handing her a business card with your cell number. 

You rush back to the precinct with the intent of calling an old schoolmate in St. Louis to try and expedite the forensics team, but Sergeant Hubbard is out in the bullpen for once, and seemingly waiting for you. 

“I promised Mrs. Ingram that I’d get a forensics team down there ASAP,” you say, trying to sidestep the man and get to your desk. 

“This won’t take long,” the Sergeant promises. “And actually, you won’t be needing to send a team. I’ve got that covered.”

“You do?” you ask, frowning skeptically.

“This case is of National interest,” Hubbard explains. “The FBI has a dedicated team of Agents that specialize in art crimes, and the State has all but ordered that we go through them.”

“You’re going to involve the FBI?” You try to keep your voice calm and even, but you can hear the volume begin to rise in indignation. For once you’ve got a case that’s different, interesting even, and it’s slipping through your fingers after barely an hour of being under your purview. 

“If we do this by-the-book–” 

“I can handle this myself,” you can’t help but interject. “And since when do you give a shit about ‘by-the-book?’”

“No one is questioning your capabilities–”

“Oh yeah? Is that why I’m always being stuck with every domestic violence case that comes through the precinct while you always handle the bigger shit?”

“You need to watch how you speak to a commanding officer,” Hubbard growls.

“Like it or not, I’m the one with a personal connection to both Mrs. Ingram and the head of Forensics in St. Louis. The FBI is going to come here with all the subtlety of a jackhammer, and–”

“It doesn’t really matter what you think, because I’ve already contacted the head of the Art Crimes Department in Washington, D.C., and someone should be here tomorrow morning to take the case.”

Your mouth is a thin line, your jaw tensed, and your eyes dark. “Anything else, Sir?”

“The precinct is behind state quotas for speeding tickets,” Sergeant Hubbard says. “I want you to try and catch people coming from Illinois on I-72.”

“Understood,” you bite out through clenched teeth. 

Armed with a coffee and bagel from Java Jive, you settle in one of your “favorite” hiding places along the interstate. After putting the driver’s seat as far back as it will go so you can stretch your legs, you take a long sip of your latte. You flip on your radar, but rather than watch for speeders, you instead scroll aimlessly through the news on your phone. 

Everyone’s gonna be going the speed limit today, you’ve already decided it. 

The Waterhole isn’t exactly a reputable establishment, but as the only bar in Hannibal, the options for getting a cold beer aren’t exactly pouring in. Every patron looks warily in your direction when you enter–it’s tough on your social life, being one of three cops in town–but you’re hardly in the mood for conversation. Everything about you says “Fuck off”: from your mud-covered work boots to the flannel you use mainly to take out the garbage in the winter. You can’t remember the last time you threw it in the washer, but there’s a chill to the air tonight, and everything else was either dirty or far too heavy for the weather. Your dour expression probably does most of the work, though. You scowl at the floor as you plod heavily toward the end of the bar and sit yourself on a rickety stool. The footrest is predictably sticky, and the bartop never looks clean no matter how many times the long-time bartender, Palmer, runs a wet cloth over top of it. 

You hold up two fingers in greeting to Palmer, who nods cordially and hands you your usual. 

The first sip is always the best–and dammit, you intend to enjoy it. You close your eyes, letting the liquid wash over your tongue before swallowing. It’s just cheap lite beer, sure, but this is the first moment you’ve allowed yourself to truly relax all day, and you can already feel your shoulders begin to relax and your jaw unclench. 

Casting your eyes around the establishment (a habit you can’t ever seem to get rid of), you take inventory of the patrons. Just about everyone you’ve known since childhood. There’s Ellis and Danielle Hewitt, high school sweethearts from the graduating class just above you, in the corner sharing a plate of sad-looking nachos and twin Miller Lites. Tommy Blevins, the high school quarterback who, if you were a betting woman, was probably in the middle of telling his Tinder date about that big game back in ‘02 that cemented his reputation as a Hannibal ‘celebrity.’ Most of the men playing pool were fresh off a day shift from the oil plant in the next town over. 

Yep, all of the usual suspects. 

Plus one anomaly. 

Once you see him, you aren’t sure how he evaded your notice from the moment you entered the bar. For one thing, he’s the only patron wearing a suit; everyone here only ever wears jeans. For another, he’s got that look of an outsider about him. You can always tell who’s from out of town: they have that subtle hint of insecurity with their surroundings that comes from being in a new place. His dark eyes look over the bar scene with a fresh, discerning gaze–seeing it for the first time, rather than for the three hundredth. 

Like you, the man seems to instinctively people-watch. He’s not obvious about it, or anything, but you can see his pupils flitting from the Rams game to scan the crowd as if he’s looking for something. 

Or maybe waiting for something.

Given this behavior, it shouldn’t surprise you when your eyes eventually meet. Embarrassed at being caught-out, you give him a crooked not-really-a-smile. He smiles back–a genuine one, that exposes a set of perfectly straight, white teeth and a small dimple on his right cheek. 

Your manners are hard to come by this evening, but you manage a friendly, albeit stiff nod, raising your beer bottle in a silent toast.

The man’s smile widens. 

A commotion from over at the pool tables draws both of your gazes to the group of men–now seemingly arguing about the score. The main agitator is, predictably, Bobby Pearson. You drain your bottle with a sigh, shoulders tensing automatically as you anticipate the inevitable way that this ends. 

You can see the glassy sheen to Bobby’s eyes from where you are, the way he’s swaying slightly as he gesticulates wildly with the hand holding the pool cue. You don’t need a breathalyzer to know that Bobby is way over the legal limit. Hell, all you have to do is spend more than a week in this town to know that this behavior is the norm, rather than the exception. 

You feel bad for the man, really. It’s no secret that he came from an abusive home. You remember the horrifying stories you'd heard about his father when you were his classmate in middle school. He was a nice enough kid-you remember him well–but when he grew up and got married, he wasn't ever able to escape the demons of his past. His erratic behavior was enough for his wife to leave with their two children. Last you heard, they lived in Maine. Probably about as far away as you can get from Hannibal without actually leaving the continental US. What he needs is therapy, but those types of resources are damn-near impossible to get out here. Everyone in Hannibal looks the other way as he drinks himself into a stupor every night. 

Occasionally, though, there will be an incident, and Bobby has to spend the night in the holding cells. You have a feeling you’re about to witness one of those incidents right now. 

The waving of the pool cue becomes more violent; he switches his grip, wielding the stick like a weapon as he continues to yell, spittle landing on his cheeks and his shirt as he slurs another insult. 

Getting up from your stool, you carefully approach the scene. 

“That’s enough, Bobby,” you state calmly. “I think it’s time to head home, how about you?”

“I think it’s time for you to mind your own fucking business, Cricket,” Bobby slurs back.

“Good one, Bob. Got anything else you wanna say to the off-duty cop?” You shouldn’t be taking the bait–you know it even as you say it, but you’ve had a shit day, and sometimes we all say things we regret, right? 

“Yeah. I wanna say… maybe you wouldn’t be such a fuckin' bitch if you had a good dicking.”

Several of Bobby’s pool buddies back away, eyes wide as dinner plates. 

“That’s enough. Go home. I don’t want to have to place you under arrest,” you say, trying to regain control over the situation.

“I could give it to you," Bobby sneers. "Give the uptight police lady a nice, hard, fu–"

With a heavy sigh, you retrieve your cuffs from the back pocket of your Wranglers and maneuver Bobby onto the nearest pool table. He's so drunk that he falls on his stomach without much effort on your part. 

"Aw, fuck I was only jokin’," he mumbles into the green fabric. 

"And it was real funny, Bobby. Hilarious even," you deadpan as you click the handcuffs into place. "Come sleep it off at the precinct, and you can apologize in the morning."

"M'shorry," Bobby groans as you manage to wrench him upright and guide him to the exit. 

It's only then that you notice the newcomer at the periphery of the scene–standing back, not intervening, but making it clear that he's on guard should things go south.

"Are you okay?" the stranger. "Need help?"

His nosiness annoys you. "Got it handled, thanks," you snap with a little more hostility than you mean to.

It's been a shit day.

You wrestle Bobby into the car and slam the door. On the way back to the precinct, you glower at the road in front of you while the man in the backseat begins an ear-splitting rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. On tonight of all nights, you grumble to yourself. 

He's asleep before he even hits the threadbare pillow in the holding cell. You nod to your nighttime counterpart, Evan, who gives you a sympathetic smile.

"What was it this time?" 

"Some argument over pool at the Waterhole. Get him something substantial to eat when he wakes up, okay?"

"Always do," Evan replies. "You all right? He give you trouble or somethin'?"

"Just a shit day."

"Go get a drink and relax."

"'S'what I was trying to do," you gripe. "In fact–shit–I skipped out on my tab. I'm gonna go back and settle, and try again in the comfort of my own home. Dunno why I even go out."

“Beer’s cheaper at home, anyways,” Evan comments with a wry grin. 

“Another excellent point,” you throw over your shoulder, giving him a crooked grin as you walk back out of the building.

Palmer is waiting for you with his hands on his hips when you return to the Waterhole.

“Not sure what you’re giving me that look for, Palm, you know I always settle my tab.”

“Better late than never,” he grouses.

You bark out a laugh. “You say that like it’s been a day, and not–” you check your watch, “–an hour.” You slide your debit card across the stained counter. 

“Not gonna have another?”

“Nah, I’ve got better shit at home than the swill you serve here.”

You and Palmer stare each other down for a few moments. You aren’t sure who breaks first, but it’s almost always Palmer. The bartender chuckles and sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Shit, Cricket, you know you can’t stay away from the finest establishment in Hannibal.”

“It’s a good thing you’re the only establishment in Hannibal.”

“And it’s a good thing you’re a good tipper, or I would have banned you years ago.”

“Doesn’t seem smart to ban any of your customer base, considering the local population. It’s shocking you haven’t gone under.”

“Beer is always in demand,” Palmer says with a wink. “No matter what the economy’s doin’.”

“You’ve got me there.”

You glance around the bar. The crowd has thinned out quite a bit; day shifts start early, so the nightlife is pretty limited past eight pm. A few stragglers remain, including… him. The stranger. 

The newcomer in the suit is watching your conversation with the bartender with an amused smile. When he notices you looking at him, he raises his glass in salutation and gets up from his stool to approach you. 

“Buy you another?” he asks with a smile.

“I just settled,” you say evasively. 

“On me,” the man insists. 

“Surprised you’re still here,” you comment lightly. “Shouldn’t you be back on your way to St. Louis, or something?”

The man lets out a surprised, pleased laugh. “You’re observant.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re not from around here.”

He gives you another one of those wide, toothy smiles as he raises two fingers to Palmer, who nods. 

“Well, you’re partly right. I’m not from around here, but I’m not from St. Louis.”

“Where are you from?”

“Let’s save that little nugget for later,” he suggests, sticking out his hand. “Marcus.”

You shake his hand, still feeling a little wary of the newcomer. If Marcus is bothered that you don’t offer your name right away, he doesn’t show it. 

“...Cricket, right?”

You laugh in surprise. “That’s what everyone calls me ‘round here.”

“What can I call you?”

“Officer.”

Palmer sets two bottles of beer down on the counter in front of you, and you shrug and take one of them. Marcus gently taps his own against yours and takes a sip.

“To new horizons,” he says with a smile.

“To doing the same shit every damn day,” you respond with a wry grin. 

“Do you do that every single day?” Marcus asks, jerking his head in the direction of the pool tables, referencing Bobby’s arrest.

You let out a huff of laughter and take another swig. “More than I’d care to, I’ll say that much.”

“He have a history of drunk and disorderly conduct?” Marcus asks.

“He’s got a history of that, and a whole helluva lot else,” you say with a sigh. “He’s mostly harmless, though. Doesn’t do much else but drink and cause trouble nowadays.”

“He did worse in the past?”

You shrug and wave Marcus off. “It’s a tale as old as time,” you say. “Grew up in an abusive household and then turned around and perpetuated it himself when he grew up. Pushed away his family, his wife, his kids, everyone really. But now the only one he ever hurts is himself.”

“He said some pretty awful things to you earlier,” he points out.

“If words had any effect on me, I wouldn’t have made it a week in the force,” you say. “Takes a lot more than that to rile me up.”

“Can’t really imagine you all riled up,” Marcus says, his eyes twinkling with playfulness.

He’s flirting with you. 

“I save it for special occasions.”

“So what, you just arrest this guy over and over again, letting him sober up in the holding cells until he does it again?”

Your smile fades. Tipping your bottle back and draining it in three large gulps, you set it down heavily on the table and give the man across from you a stony look.

“I don’t know what big city you’re from, Marcus, but this town is different. We take care of our own, no matter how difficult they’re being. We’ve done everything we can–tried to get him into rehab, into therapy programs, support groups… it never sticks. At this point, he’s spinning out, and the most I can try to do is to treat him with kindness and make sure he gets a decent meal while he’s sleeping it off in the drunk tank. Enjoy your night.” 

You get up, spin on your heel, and you don’t look back at the man again. 

You don’t know how you didn’t put two and two together until this moment–the minute you walk into the precinct at eight am sharp to meet the FBI Agent assigned to this case–your case.

The suit. The discerning, assessing gaze. The bravado. The big-city attitude.

Marcus is the FBI Agent.

His eyebrows raise for a moment when you walk into the bullpen, but other than that, he doesn’t appear surprised. He introduces himself as Agent Pike, sticking his hand out for you to shake as if it’s the first time he’s done so. You give him your last name–and only your last name–and grip his hand a little more forcefully than usual. 

It only causes his smile to widen. 

You exchange a quick conversation with Evan, who fills you in on the rest of the night (uneventful) and lets you know that Bobby is already out of the drunk tank and back at home. 

“Did he say anything?” you ask.

“Like what?”

“Like an apology.”

“Should he have?” Evan asks. “Did he do something last night?”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s fine. He probably doesn’t even remember, anyway,” Turning to look at Marcus, you add, “Ready to head to the museum?”

He takes up all the space in the passenger seat of your squad car and then some. You do your best to ignore him as you drive, but your eyes keep returning to his dark, slightly mussed hair and the way his broad shoulders fill out that suit of his. It’s hard not to notice how attractive he is.

"So. Washington."

"Huh?" Marcus looks at you, questioning.

"That little 'nugget' of information you said you'd save for later. You knew, didn't you. You knew I was the cop on this case."

"Well, it wasn't hard to guess when I had a copy of the Hannibal city directory and there was only one female officer on staff."

"Guess you've got us all figured out, huh," you mutter irritably, and the car returns to silence.

“Mark Twain Lighthouse,” Marcus reads from a road sign, breaking the quiet. “Mark Twain Memorial Library, Mark Twain Museum.”

“Bet you can guess what this town is famous for,” you quip.

“How many guesses do I get?” 

“I mean, I’d hope you already knew about our claim to fame, if you read even one sentence of the case file we sent you.”

“You mean the case about the five missing original illustrations by Norman Rockwell from Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn from the Mark Twain Museum?” Marcus says wryly. 

You scowl at his nonchalance. You knew it; you knew the FBI would send some big city asshole who didn't give two shits about the town's heritage.

"I'm sorry," Marcus says, suddenly looking concerned. "Did I say something wrong?"

"This was my case, you know," you mutter, keeping your eyes on the road. "Finally, something besides domestic disputes handed to 'Officer Cricket,' and I have it for less than twenty-four hours before some Washington bigwig comes and takes it off my hands."

"Wha–hey, hang on a second. That's not what this is," Marcus insists. 

"Isn't it?"

"No. No, it's not like that. I'm here in a consulting role. You still get credit for being the lead officer on the case, but it'll be our forensics team and our analysts providing support. That's it."

You look sidelong at Marcus. His expression is open and unguarded, and you can't detect any dishonesty in his body language.

"That's it?" you repeat cautiously.

"Is that what all the animosity was about?" Marcus asks, without any malice in his tone. 

You mumble something about having a chip on your shoulder, and Marcus chuckles beside you.

"I wasn't always from Washington, you know," he says. 

"No?"

"Little town called Bastrop."

"Bastrop?" you laugh. "Never heard of it."

"Little place just east of Austin," Marcus says, letting a little bit of southern drawl slip into his voice.

"You're from Texas," you say, surprised. 

"Yes ma'am," he answers playfully. “I worked out of the FBI field office in Austin for almost ten years before getting promoted to HQ.”

“Congrats.” You give him a small smile as you pull into the museum parking lot. “This is it.”

Marcus charms Mrs. Ingram immediately, which doesn’t really surprise you at this point. The man seems to be made up of mostly charm, with a side of goofy jokes. The FBI’s forensics team won’t be at the museum for another hour, so Marcus takes inventory of the crime scene, snapping a few photos while you chat with Phil, the security guard. 

When Marcus’s team arrives, the scene is a flurry of activity. Evidence is bagged, frames are dusted, and more pictures are taken. True to his word, Marcus defers to you, letting you run the scene despite clearly having a relationship with most of the team. 

The day is a busy one–after spending the entire morning at the museum, you head back to the precinct to complete all the paperwork. Marcus buys the precinct lunch, and as you eat, he ends up launching into an informal, unintended lecture about art preservation, restoration, and how important it is to properly care for stolen art that his team has recovered. It makes you see him in a new light–not simply a representative of a faceless, uncaring organization that’s coming in to take over your case, but the leader of a team who cares deeply about every item they’re tasked with recovering. The man himself is painfully competent, every sentence out of his mouth demonstrating his level of experience and his love for the field.

Despite not knowing much about art yourself, you find his enthusiasm addictive. You can’t help but engage with him–asking about past cases he’s been on and listening intently to his stories, which range from the mundane to the incredibly dangerous. 

“...so a couple of us ended up going undercover and smuggling our own recovered artifacts back across the border,” Marcus is explaining, waving the remains of his sandwich in the air as he smiles fondly over what sounds to you like a harrowing escape from a Mexican cartel. 

You know you’re hanging off of every word, although you try very hard not to look like you’re hanging off of his every word. Still, the lunch break runs long, and suddenly you remember you were supposed to be back on patrol an hour ago.

“Shit,” you hiss, checking the time, making Marcus wince sympathetically.

“Listen to me, rambling on and keeping you from doing your job,” he says self-deprecatingly. “Seriously, tell me to shut up next time.” 

He stands when you do, offering his hand for you to shake. 

“Here,” you say, handing him your card instead, which has your work cell on it. “Just in case there’s any issues.”

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, looking into your eyes. “Thanks for entrusting this case to us–I know there’s always a level of territoriality that comes with involving the FBI, but I’m here to promise that the whole point is to work with you–not to come in and take over.”

You nod, and finally accept his hand, shaking it firmly. “We got off on the wrong foot, but I’m glad you’re here. You’re obviously more than knowledgeable about the field–more so than any of us–and I know I can speak for all of us when I say we appreciate the extra support.”

Marcus’s hand is warm against yours. The handshake might be firm, but it still feels as though he’s cradling your hand gently–as if he’s holding something delicate and precious in his palm. His eyes are endless; you feel as though you could read every emotion within them if you looked long enough. As you look, the corner of his mouth pulls up in an adorable, crooked grin.

“It was good to work with you today,” he says with finality. “See you bright and early tomorrow.”

You aren’t expecting the call that comes in the next morning–before you can even show up at the precinct to work with Marcus on the art theft case.

Bobby Pearson’s landlady, barely understandable through her hiccuping tears, explaining that she usually lets herself in to give him his mail, found the man hanging from the ceiling fan in his living room.

Your heart hammers dully in your chest as you notify the coroner and drive–lights on, this time–to Bobby’s place, with Sergeant Hubbard in tow.

“Cricket,” his landlady sobs as you get out of the squad car.

“I know,” you say soothingly, putting a hand on her shoulder to provide what little comfort you could.

“It’s awful. Oh, God, he’s just hanging there, and–” 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it. Why don’t you stay out here and wait for the Coroner while we go in, ‘kay?”

You take a deep breath to center yourself, then open the door to Bobby’s little duplex apartment.

“Jesus,” Hubbard mutters behind you. 

You swallow hard at the sight of the man suspended from the ceiling fan. The inherent wrongness of witnessing a dead body never ceases to unsettle you. You think you could do this job for five hundred years and still never become desensitized to death. It’s the stillness that disturbs you the most; no one realizes how much bodies move until they aren’t doing it. 

You glance around the room, taking in the toppled chair a few feet away. Fuck. You knew Bobby was spiraling, but you had no idea it was this bad. You think back to the other night–were there signs that you missed? Something that could have alerted you to the fact that he was in crisis? 

The flash of a camera lights up the dim room, and you flinch.

“Sorry,” Hubbard mumbles. His face is grim as he snaps a few more pictures–the rope, the chair, Bobby’s puffy, swollen face–

Feeling nauseous, you look down at your shoes. 

Somewhere in the apartment, something beeps.

“Fuck was that?” Hubbard wonders.

“Sounded like it was coming from the kitchen.” You move further into the house to investigate. In the kitchen, nothing immediately stands out to you, until you realize the microwave timer is blinking the word “END” in perpetuity, alerting an occupant who can no longer hear that his food is ready.  

Frowning, you open it, taking in the reheated frozen dinner sitting–cold, but unfrozen–on the turntable.

“That’s weird,” you mumble.

“What’s weird?” Hubbard asks behind you.

“He made dinner, but didn’t eat it. If he was planning on killing himself, why make dinner? Why leave it in the microwave without eating it?”

Hubbard shrugs. “Forgot, I guess.”

Your frown deepens as you stare at the colorless potatoes and rubbery salisbury steak. Awareness tingles at the base of your spine–a little nagging voice whispering This isn’t right. 

The sound of the front door opening again makes you jump. 

“Hoooo, boy…” the Coroner breathes upon entering. “Dammit, Bobby.”

In your years as a cop, you’ve already learned that dealing with a body is an all-day affair. The day seems to pass you by as you deal with the fallout–phone calls, paperwork, and of course, the solemn affair of cutting Bobby down from the fan in the most respectful way possible. You don’t even remember to look at your phone until just before your shift ends–so the text message from Marcus that reads, “Time to jump on a quick call re: forensics?” is hours-old by the time you see it.

You tap out “Sorry, had a work thing come up that occupied the whole day. Connect tomorrow am?”

The reply is almost instantaneous. “Buy you a drink after a rough day?”

Your thumbs pause over the keypad. On the one hand, going out for drinks with Marcus makes you feel uneasy. There’s a mutual attraction there, you can tell that much, and you don’t trust yourself not to indulge in a little stress relief if Marcus tries to initiate it. 

And you have a feeling he might. Try, that is.

On the other hand, coming home to an empty house with nothing to keep you company but the image of Bobby Pearson’s oddly dangling feet that’s branded on your eyelids makes you physically recoil. 

“I’d ask where, but I think we both already know the answer.”

“I’ll be there around seven,” comes Marcus’s response.

At home, you turn the knobs in the shower until the temperature causes steam to fill the entire bathroom. The water burns your skin, but the pain is welcome, and you aren’t sure how long you remain unmoving under the stream until the hot water abruptly runs out. Yelping in shock, you hastily squirt some body wash onto a rag and frantically rub it up and down your body, then spin around under the stream three times as fast as you can to remove the suds before turning off the faucet. 

Shivering and dripping wet, you suddenly start to laugh. 

Marcus is already seated at the bar of the Waterhole when you arrive. The suit coat is gone, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he nurses a whiskey. You’re suddenly conscious of the fact that you’re dressed quite a bit nicer than you were on the night you met him–you even wore the non-muddy boots… and the jeans that you know make your ass look good.

“Hey,” you say by way of greeting, sliding onto the barstool next to him. 

Marcus slides an identical cocktail glass over to you. “Thought you might need something a little stronger than beer,” he comments.

You snort. “How did you know?”

He shrugs, a faint glimmer in his eye as he watches you take a sip and wince at the burn in your throat. 

“Had a hunch,” he offers.

“Well, it was right,” you sigh. “Might need a few more of these tonight.”

“Must have been one for the record books.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “Not really. Just another fucking day.” You take another sip, and the burn is more welcome this time. “I think the fact that it’s so common is what so fucking depressing.”

Marcus doesn’t ask you what you mean, and for that, you’re grateful. 

“I don’t know what’s worse,” you grumble to yourself. “Suicides, or Fentanyl overdoses.”

Your companion is quiet for a long time. You aren’t in any shape to try and steer the conversation, so you take a few more sips of whiskey and stare into the middle distance.

“What made you want to become a cop?”

You snort again, even more unattractively this time. “Ten years ago I would have told you it was to help people and keep the community I grew up in safe.”

“What about now?”

Only one more sip remains in your cocktail glass, so you throw your head back and drain it, setting it down heavily on the counter. Palmer glances in your direction, a question in his eyes, and you nod. 

“I don’t fucking know,” you sigh. “Ask me tomorrow, maybe I’ll have a better answer then.”

Palmer brings over the bottle of Crown and pours another finger into your glass. 

“What about you,” you ask, only because it seems like the correct way to continue the conversation. “What made you join the FBI?”

Marcus grins, showing those perfectly straight teeth of his. At this distance, it seems less friendly and almost… predatory. You blink rapidly, shaking your head to dispel the thought. 

He tips his glass against yours, then drains it himself. “To make the world a better place, of course.” His smile is wry as he signals Palmer for another.

“How’s that going for you?” you ask. The question is tinged with sarcasm.

“Depends on the day, I suppose.”

“Ha. Fair.” You take another sip. “Guess it’s the same for me. Some days it feels like I’m making a difference. Other days it feels like I’m filling speeding ticket quotas so that the town gets enough fucking tax revenue for the year.”

“Hey now, getting the funds to fix potholes is a noble and worthy cause.”

“I dunno where it fucking goes, but judging by the state of 36, it ain’t going there,” you chuckle. 

“I happen to think you’re making a huge difference,” Marcus says soberly. “You get to do real, concrete things to help real people. One of the things I had to get used to in DC was that I didn’t feel like I was helping individuals anymore. It’s so much more high-level, sometimes I feel like all I do is send emails and have meetings. That’s why I like consulting,” he says, grinning at you. “I get to go to towns like this and actually talk to people.”

You pause with your glass halfway to your lips. “I… I guess I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

“You do good work,” Marcus tells you softly. His voice is full of sincerity; his eyes are deep, endless pools, and it feels as though they’re drawing you in. Licking your lips, you can feel the effect of the whiskey already by the way the skin of your tongue tingles slightly. 

“Thanks,” you say quietly. You aren’t sure what else to say. 

Your second glass is emptier than you thought. Had you really drunk it that fast? You huff a small laugh out of your nose, and swallow the last mouthful of whiskey. It barely even burns anymore. 

“‘Nother?” you ask, blinking hopefully at your companion. 

“If you like,” Marcus replies, giving Palmer a polite wave. 

“Ain’t nothing at the bottom of the bottle,” the bartender teases, refilling both of your glasses. “You two seem to be convinced otherwise, though.”

You ignore him and quickly take another sip, making Marcus laugh. 

“They say there’s only two kinds of people,” he says. “Those who drink to remember, and those who drink to forget.”

“If you’re about to ask me which kind I am, then you haven’t been paying attention to the conversation we’ve been having,” you tell him. 

“You drink to forget,” Marcus supplies. “You’re right, I don’t need to ask to know that.”

“Then what was the point of… of the thing you said?” you ask, frowning in confusion. 

“I drink to remember,” Marcus says quietly, staring soberly at his glass. 

“Remember what?”

“People. Old loves, old friends.” He takes a small sip. “The living, and the dead.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth.

“What else do you want to forget?” Marcus asks gently. 

“So I dunno if you are aware,” you say, swaying slightly in your seat as you gesticulate, “but female ossifers–officers–uh, they’re often handed sexual assault cases, domestic abuse, fuckin’... fuckin’ child neglect, that kind of shit. And I’ve had… I’ve–��� you break off with a shudder.

“Had your fair share of those, huh?” he says, covering your hand in his.

“Mmm, ’s'warm,” you remark, closing your eyes and basking in the feeling. “It’s… it’s the ones that weren’t brought to justice that keeps me up at night,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “Sympathetic judges who give rapists light sentences. Wives whose request for a restraining order went ignored. Kids who–” you let out a tiny sob, “–kids who are spending their childhood in foster care because both of their parents overdosed in front of them. I… I fucking tried. I fought hard for them, and in the end, does it matter? Does it matter, when they’ll be fucked up for life anyway?”

“It matters,” Marcus says, his voice suddenly firm. “It fucking matters, Cricket.”

“Every time they walk free, it eats at me,” you continue, emptying your third glass. 

“Tell me,” he demands softly as Palmer automatically pours you another. “You’ve been carrying their names with you for years, maybe this is how you let it go.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal

[senorabond]

Rumor Has It: Chapter 7 Peña x f!reader x Pike

Pairings: Javier Peña x f!reader; Marcus Pike x f!reader; future Peña x f!reader x Pike

Chapter 7 Summary: The case is progressing more quickly than expected, presenting the first opportunity to set the bait for the narcos. When plans for the undercover operation go awry, you have to think and act fast. Meanwhile, whatever is going on between you and Javi gets kicked into high gear.

Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI), Explicit sexual content, additional warnings may be added for future chapters

Chapter Warnings: no use of y/n, previous relationship (Marcus x f!Reader), boss!Marcus, slowburn, workplace romance, ohh the yearning, fake relationship, protective!Javi, Dom/sub dynamic, precisely (1) spank, almost caught, please just fuck already

Reader/Character notes: Reader is fem!afab; No mention of Reader’s body size, shape, composition, or skin color.

Words: 8k

Author’s Note:  I am SO happy to finally post this! I’ve been sick with back-to-back viruses ever since November, so I’ve been slowly chipping away at this chapter. It’s super plotty and a lil smutty, but I had to kick Javi and Reader in the ass to move this shit along somehow. I have so many thots and ideas for these two, especially when we get to see more of Marcus. As always, a HUGE thank you to my dear, sweet, lovely beta @kilamonster, who lets me torture her endlessly with all the dirty things that come to mind and for correcting my atrocious Spanish. 💋💜

Masterlist || Previous Chapter

The Next Morning   Washington, D.C.

There’s a knock at Marcus’ office door and a grinning man pokes his head inside. He’s got a slight build, and sandy hair that falls across his forehead in natural waves. You had always told Marcus this agent reminded you of that weaselly guy in Dirty Dancing, Neil, and he can certainly see it now. Though the resemblance was probably more down to personality than looks.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?" The man asks, waiting for permission to enter. 

"Yeah, Wilkins, come in – and shut the door.” Wilkins has to halt midway to turn around and close the door and is looking a bit less confident now as he sits down in the chair across from Pike.

Pike fixes the smaller man with a neutral expression. He'll give Wilkins a chance to be honest and forthright, but he’s not going to beat around the bush. 

"Did you receive a call from a DEA agent about helping them with a potential art money laundering case?" 

Wilkins' eyes grow wide for a second, and he stumbles a bit over his next words. "Uh, I'm not sure, maybe?"

"Maybe?" The fewer words Marcus gives Wilkins to work with, the more he'll have to come up with himself, and the less he’ll be able to turn Marcus’ words back around on him – a common interrogation technique.

"I remember a call from somebody at the DEA, but I don't think I recall the specifics." Wilkins fidgets with his tie.

Marcus keeps his face neutral, but laces his fingers together on his desk and leans forward, closing the space between them. "What do you recall?" 

"He might have mentioned some drug dealers." Wilkins, a man with an ego the size of Nationals Park, has already been reduced to a little boy getting in trouble at school. 

"Being that he's DEA, that would make sense." Pike says blandly, waiting for Wilkins to continue. 

"Yeah. And... there might have been some talk about art." Wilkins’ voice is small, tentative. He knows he’s been caught out, and it’s no small matter.

"That's interesting. And why do you think this DEA agent called us – the FBI art squad – about art?" 

Wilkins doesn't say anything in response. He knows there's nothing else he could say in his defense at this point. 

"Do you know who that DEA agent was, Wilkins?" 

Wilkins juts his chin out defiantly. "No, Sir."

"You might, if you'd bothered to get his name." Wilkins has grown sullen, already tired of the tongue lashing. 

Pike has no patience for this guy’s attitude. Normally, Marcus wouldn’t draw out disciplinary issues like this, on the rare occasions he has them with his crew. But this guy has pissed him off too many times. 

"That was Special Agent Javier Peña. You might have heard of him, made the news awhile back." Marcus leans back in his chair, watches Wilkins’ petulant shrug.

"He put away Pablo Escobar and the Cali Cartel, remember them?" Wilkins doesn’t respond, but there’s recognition in his eyes. "So when Javier fucking Peña calls to ask for help, that's probably when you should tell your superior.” 

Marcus pauses, waiting for Wilkins to say something, anything, but he just sits there.

“Do you agree?" Marcus prompts, each word punctuated.

"Yes, Sir." The man replies, his tone clipped. 

"Glad to hear it." 

"Is that all?" Wilkins stands, and Marcus fights the urge to stand as well. But there’s power in showing you’re confident enough to not rely on being physically overbearing. 

"No, I'll tell you when that's all. There have been some rumors floating around the office for a while now.” Finally, what Marcus has wanted to confront Wilkins about for months. 

“I tried to ignore them, thinking it was just some office gossip, but then one of our best liaisons at Customs fast-tracked a transfer.” Marcus has to take a breath, the lead ball in his stomach growing heavy. “Some of that office gossip was about her. Know anything about that, Wilkins?"

"No, Sir." Wilkins shifts from foot to foot, glancing around the office nervously. Marcus lets him squirm for a bit longer. 

"That's good. Because if you did know something about who was spreading those harmful rumors – rumors that affect the lives and careers of federal agents who outperform you on any given day – we’d be having a very different conversation." 

Wilkins stands rigid, eyes wide.

"That's all." Marcus turns back to his computer and without giving Wilkins another glance. 

______________________________________________________________

That Afternoon Texas

The briefing went off without a hitch. You could feel Javier's smile on you from the other side of the briefing room while you talked through each of the slides. Your stomach was in your throat, but Javier's presence gave you the bit of confidence you needed every time you glanced his way. 

The other agents ask questions you and Javi had anticipated and discussed thoroughly the day before, and even a few you didn’t prepare for. Once you answer their questions flawlessly, Javier dismisses the group to their respective assignments. Several of them shake your hand on their way out. 

Javi stands back and watches the crowd file out, then saunters over to you. You’re beaming a smile at him and fight the urge to throw your arms around him in a grateful embrace. 

“That was…” You shake your head in disbelief, eyes as wide as your smile.

“‘Amazing.’ You can say it.” He’s smiling in return and leans a slim hip against the table, crossing his arms. 

“It was amazing! God, that felt good.” Adrenaline pumps through your limbs in a rush.

“You did a great job today.” 

“Thanks, I had a lot of help.” You start to gather the briefing materials and Javi jumps in, working his way around the opposite side of the table. You meet on the other side, where he adds the stack from your hands to his own.

“Not as much as you think.” Javier tucks the stack of briefings under his arm and gives you a friendly wink. Friendly, yet it still manages to set those butterflies flitting again. You haven’t felt this moony over a guy in…well, awhile. 

The rest of the day goes by like a blur. Javier introduces you to the two agents he’s assigning to report directly to you for the duration of the case – Diaz and Tran – and the three of you get to work immediately. The first thing you do is get in touch with the closest ports of entry to see what high-priced artwork may have crossed in or out of the country within the past few months.  

You lose yourself in piles of customs reports, flagging anything that catches your eye, and before you know it, Javier appears at your desk, knocking on the wall of your cubicle. Blinking, you’re surprised to see that the office has emptied out. 

“Hey,” he says softly. 

Your eyes widen when you see that it’s past seven o’clock on your computer screen. “Jesus, no wonder I was starting to go cross-eyed.”

You start putting the reports away in your bag, intending to look at them some more at home. The excitement and buzz of the day is fading, and the fatigue finally starts setting in. 

"Want to grab a drink?" Javier has his jacket over his arm, a hand casually in his pocket. 

"Can I take a rain check?" You feel bad saying no, because you actually would like to have a drink with Javi. 

“Are you going to keep working at home?”

“That was the plan,” you admit sheepishly.

“Then, no.”

“‘No,’ what?” 

“No rain check. Let’s go – there will be plenty more to do tomorrow. I had to learn that the hard way.” Javier reaches over and takes your bag. 

You let out a long-suffering sigh for dramatic effect and shut down your computer. As you join Javier, he splays a broad hand between your shoulder blades, guiding you to the elevator. You barely have a chance to register the warmth of his hand before it drops, leaving pleasant tingles in its wake. 

The silence between you is born from that day’s weariness, yet it feels comfortable. Javi takes you to the same bar as before, and you grab the same table in the back while he orders you each a beer. A server brings a couple of glasses of water over as well, which you find a sensible choice, given how tired you feel already. 

Javier settles back in his chair with a groan and starts taking off his tie. As he stretches his long neck, you try not to stare, but those freckles and prominent veins hold your gaze. He takes a long pull from his bottle of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

Tearing your eyes away, you focus on the rings of condensation your beer bottles have left on the table and try to think of anything to talk about. Before you can think of something, Javier speaks up. 

“I got a call today.” He’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle, peeling it back. His knee bounces under the table, jiggling close enough that you can feel the edge of his pant leg against yours.

When he doesn’t continue, you prompt him with a soft, “Oh?” and take a swig of your beer. 

“It was the FBI art squad getting back to me.” 

You pause before swallowing, determined to play this cool. “About time.” 

“Yeah, the guy was really apologetic. He said they could assign a couple of people to help us with whatever we need.” Javier finishes pulling the label off his bottle, all in one piece. 

“That’s great!” You hope Javi can hear the genuine enthusiasm you feel in your voice. “My contact said they’d help, but wasn’t sure what they could do.”

“I spoke to the agent in charge, Pike. Do you know him?” He keeps his large, brown eyes on you as he takes another sip of beer. 

Schooling your features, you dare yourself to meet his gaze. “I do, yeah.”

“Have you worked with him before?” Javier tilts his head a fraction, watching you.

“That case I finished before transferring, he and I worked on that together.”

“Closely?”

“What are you trying to get at?” You counter, putting your beer down harder than you intended, your hackles starting to rise.

“Nothing.” Javier shakes his head and looks down at his beer, but you can see a hint of a smirk appearing under his mustache.

Huffing, you slouch and take a sip of your beer, then cross your arms, feeling a little like a child. “Yes.”

“Hmm?” Javi looks up at you through his lashes. Those damned eyes of his. He could bring entire cartels to their knees with those eyes. 

“Yes, he’s the person I had a… thing with.” You cross one leg over the other, bouncing it peevishly.

“Sounds complicated,” Javier remarks, not unkindly. 

You shrug, as though to say it was nothing. As though the time you spent with Marcus didn’t mean anything to you, and wasn’t the healthiest relationship you’d ever been in, even if it didn’t have the label society demanded. You’re embarrassed to feel the sting of tears in your eyes and turn your face away from Javi before he can see.

“I understand complicated,” Javi says, his soft words a balm to soothe your injured heart. 

The beers are finished in contemplative silence. Both of you take plaintive sips of water, mindful of the drives ahead and the weariness you’re each already fighting. 

Neither of you seem to mind that the space between you is shrinking, or that your legs rest gently against each other’s under the table. Neither of you flinch or pull away when the backs of your hands wrapped around your water glasses touch. When Javi’s thumb grazes your knuckles, you only look at him, but his face stays turned down determinedly. 

You move your thumb against his in a soothing repetition. Slowly, but without hesitation, Javi takes your hand in his, linking your fingers, and you give a gentle squeeze. Your breath slows, the noise of the bar fades, and the tension in your muscles unwinds as you inhale and exhale in time with Javi. 

Without a word, without a glance, Javi pulls you to your feet and begins to lead you out of the bar. 

It’s completely dark now, but the goosebumps erupting across your arms aren’t from any chill in the air. Holding tight to Javi’s hand, you follow swiftly behind him. He lengthens his stride, shoulders back and jaw set. 

About half a block from your office building, Javier pulls you around a corner and onto a darkened side street. You let him lead you without thinking, completely trusting him. But before you can blink, he’s got you pressed up against the wall of a building, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other around your waist. Instinctively, your hands grip onto the lapels of his jacket to not lose your balance. 

Everything Javier does is purposeful, focused, intentional – he is not a man to lose complete control of himself, especially when he feels out of control. With his face mere inches from yours, and the faint scent of beer on his breath, he speaks. 

“Tell me to stop.” 

Javi’s tongue pokes out and licks his plump bottom lip. The cool stone of the building at your back is a welcome relief from the heat pooling in your lower belly. 

“W-what?” A glance at his eyes, black from the shadows around you, makes your knees shake. 

“If you don’t want this, tell me now.” The hand on the back of your head gently eases down to cup your face, and Javi caresses your cheek with his thumb.

“Please,” he pleads in a whisper, his lips a hair’s breadth from your own. “Before I do something I’ll regret.” 

“Don’t…” Your breath shakes. 

A sigh from Javi’s lips is warm on your face. Almost imperceptibly, Javi nods and begins pulling away. You tighten your grip on his jacket, holding him in place. 

“I mean - don’t stop.” 

Javi’s smile changes his entire face, and the tension in his shoulders eases. 

“Cariño,” he murmurs, resting your foreheads together and nudging your nose with the tip of his. 

Before Javi can do more than brush his lips against yours, a small group of people pass by on the sidewalk a few feet away. This close to the office, it’s very possible they work in the same building – might have even come from the same bar. Fortunately, Javier reacts quickly. He shifts your bodies and tucks your head into his chest, blocking the light from the nearby street lamp – and their view of you – entirely.

Their chattering ceases abruptly as they spot your forms in the shadows, one letting out a quiet, “Whoops,” under his breath. Another sniggers, and they continue on their way. You think you hear one of them whisper Peña a bit too loudly and get shushed by their companions.

Javier holds you there a few more moments, your bodies molded to one another in the dark. Stilling your pounding heart, you breathe in his scent and run your hands around his back, underneath his suit jacket. The muscles of his back are firm under your hands. He presses his face to the top of your head and wraps his arms around you in return. For a while, you stay there together, breathing in sync and savoring this stolen moment.

Eventually, Javier starts to pull away, and you reluctantly let go. He leans in, and tenderly places a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and your ear. Softly, he says, “Come on, cariño, I’ll walk you back to your car.” 

Holding hands again, your pace is much slower this time. There seems to be an understanding that what you just experienced was too close a call. Still, neither of you are in any hurry for this to end, whatever it is. 

At your car, Javier stands back with his hands in his pockets while you open the door and toss your bag inside. 

“Get home safe, cariño.” 

“You too, Javi.” 

In your mirror, you see him give a small wave as you drive away.

~*~*~*~

It was stupid to ask you to grab a drink after work. Javier doesn't really understand what motivated him to ask you in the first place. 

That’s a lie – he knows exactly why he asked you, why he asked you about Pike, why he dragged you out of that bar. You're on his mind all the time now, to the point of distraction. Javier sees you when he closes his eyes, pictures you lying next to him when he’s going to sleep, tries to imagine the feel of your skin, soft on his fingertips. The only relief he feels is when he's with you in the flesh. 

It’s selfish of him, he realizes, to want these things from you. You haven’t said much about what happened in D.C., but it was enough for him to understand that he can’t put you in that position again. People are cruel, especially to women. 

With a heaving sigh, Javier rolls over in bed. Even if he can’t allow himself to act on his desires, he can let go a little in his mind. For a moment, he lets himself indulge in the fantasy of having you, fueled by the memories of your fingers laced with his, the heat from your back where he placed a gently guiding hand, the scent of your shampoo when he kissed your face. 

Javier imagines what it would feel like, being able to touch and feel you in those natural ways people together do: your arms wrapped around his chest and kissing the back of his neck and shoulders, the weight of you seated on his lap, caressing all of your lines and curves. All the things he could do with you, just because you’re his. 

______________________________________________________________

Five Days Later Texas

You’ve never seen a case get off the ground and progress so quickly. In the last few days, the DEA managed to bring in the art gallery couple suspected of planning a money laundering deal with the narcos under investigation. Not only did the couple admit to their plan, but they agreed to cooperate with the investigation in exchange for immunity. 

The gallery was hosting a special exhibit opening that night, and the narcos – Castano and Lopez – were confirmed guests. The timing was perfect to introduce Peña and another agent, Bateman, who would be posing undercover as business partners in competition with the art gallery owners. But that meant their task force had to act fast to get everything organized and ready in time.

Surveillance had been placed on Castano and Lopez, and the agents tailing them were sending in frequent reports on the men’s movements. They had already arranged transportation to get them to the gallery event after dining at an expensive restaurant nearby. Their dirty money certainly didn’t stop them from enjoying a lavish lifestyle. 

You check over the information on the tablet in your hands. Posing as an event coordinator gave you access to all areas of the gallery, service entrances, back rooms, the whole shebang. It also gave you the ability to watch a live video feed of all the cameras placed around the gallery, right from your tablet, and listen in on the audio through the wires Peña and Bateman would be wearing. 

A few other agents were staged as caterers, wait staff, and private security detail for the special event, but this evening would only have one mission: get the narcos interested in finding out what Peña and his “business partner” could offer. He and Bateman were already out on the gallery floor, mingling with the crowd, and looking at the art. 

Javi was wearing a dark blue suit, fitting snugly to his broad shoulders and tapering in at his slim waist. He’d obviously taken extra time grooming himself that evening, because he had some kind of pomade in his hair that added a sleek wave, and his mustache was neatly trimmed. It was criminal how fucking good he looked.

Surveillance checks in to report an ETA of approximately 10 minutes. Letting out a deep breath, you tap out a message on your tablet with the ETA and send it to Javi’s phone. Through your earpiece, you hear Javi’s phone ding, a pause, and then his voice mutters, “Copy.” 

Things between you and Javier that week had been a bit tense, to say the least. The two of you orbited each other, coming close yet never touching before being slingshot back out in opposite directions. 

The memory of his arms around you and his lips ghosting across your mouth kept you warm each night. You continuously waffled back and forth between reprimanding yourself for even thinking about indulging in another workplace fling, and craving him like a drug. It was maddening. 

Diaz’s voice in your ear says, “Targets have arrived, entering now.” You message Javi, and he confirms he has eyes on them. He and Bateman continue circulating a bit, keeping an eye on Castano and Lopez, but blending with the crowd for now. Things are right on track. 

Closing your eyes for a moment, you take a deep breath and lean against a wall in the back corridor. The coolness of the wall reminds you of the cool stone against your skin in that alleyway. You let the radio chatter in your earpiece fade as you remember the heat from Javi’s hands, the strength of his arms and chest, the smile on his lips when you told him ‘don’t stop.’ Heat pools in your lower belly, imagining what could have happened if you hadn’t been interrupted.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” You hear Javi’s voice in your ear and your eyes fly open. A few taps on your tablet and you’re watching video from a nearby camera. Bateman is gripping his abdomen and grimacing in pain. 

“Yeah, just this stomach ache. I’ve had it for days.” Bateman gestures to his lower right side. Something tells you that’s no mere stomach ache.

Quickly, yet calmly, you bustle over to their location and assume your best event coordinator voice. “Sir, is everything alright? Can I get you some water?” 

Bateman tries to wave you off, but is interrupted as another wave of pain hits him and he doubles over. Javi watches his partner and concern knits his brow. 

“Boss, the targets are headed in your direction, I think they’re trying to check out what’s going on,” Tran’s falsetto says over the radio. 

You lay a hand on Bateman’s shoulder, lowering your voice to say, “We need to get him out of here.”

You put your arm around Bateman’s hunched shoulders and say loudly enough for some of the looky-loos to hear you, “Everything’s alright, Sir. Please come with me.” You give a meaningful look to Javi and gesture for him to come with you.

The gallery owners have a small office in the back that’s part of a larger storage area with a loading dock for larger works of art. You take Bateman and Javi back to the office, passing through the swarm of catering staff, who have been using the storage room as their staging area. Pulling out one of the office chairs, you guide Bateman to sit. Diaz bursts into the small room, dressed in the typical black attire of private security, worry etched across his face. 

“Nick? Talk to me – what’s happening?” Diaz’s voice is a bit tremulous, but he takes charge and gets on the radio to report an agent down. You’ve seen how close Diaz and Bateman are at the office and wonder if there’s something more between them than friendship.

Javi catches your eye and nods his head to the side, indicating for you to both exit the office. Following him a bit down the hallway, you step close to his side to escape the bustle of caterers with trays of hors d'oeuvres. 

“What’s happening?” Javi wipes a hand over his mustache and flicks a finger at your tablet. 

He leans over to look at your screen and you swipe through several views until you spot Castano sipping on champagne and Lopez looking bored. The latter was the one, if memory serves, who made the comment about modern art being just a bunch of splattered paint. 

The scent of Javi’s cologne and his closeness make your hands tremble. You haven’t been this close to him since he almost kissed you. In fact, his face was near enough to your own that you could easily turn your head and place your lips to the side of his neck or shoulder. Your head swims at the thought.

Hazarding a glance up, you see out of the corner of your eye that Javi isn’t looking at your tablet anymore either. His chest rises and falls, brushing your arm with every inhale. Those dark chocolate eyes are nearly black, his pupils wide and intense. Seconds tick by that could be minutes, both of your bodies frozen in place. 

Movement on the screen in your hands catches your attention and breaks the reverie. You can’t let yourself be distracted by whatever is happening between you and Javi. Not now, on this big of a case – your first opportunity to really prove that you’re capable on your own, and not someone who fucks their way up the ranks. 

Javi takes half a step back, and you clamp your teeth down on your lower lip to stifle a sigh at your loss. How the hell are you supposed to focus with all of these feelings and urges flying through your body? 

Clearing his throat, Javi rasps, “I better get back out there.”

You nod your head in agreement. “Yeah. That’s good, I’ll - uh, check on Bateman.” Javi moves to leave but pauses. 

“You’re doing great,” he whispers next to your ear, his touch on your lower back light as a feather before slipping off back into the crowded gallery. You fight the urge to run after him and shift your focus back to Bateman. Stepping back into the office, Diaz is already on the radio, arranging transportation for the two of them to the hospital. 

“I think it’s his appendix,” Diaz says to you quietly when you walk over. 

You grimace. Shit.

Bateman was chosen to be Javi’s partner in this operation because he could carry a conversation about art and make it convincing. Javi – to use his own words again – doesn’t know shit about art. 

Looking down at your tablet, you tap through the various video feeds and see that the narcos are in the same section of the gallery as Javier. Switching the channel on your earpiece, you listen in on the audio feed coming from his wire. 

You’re not sure if Javi is genuinely distressed over Bateman’s condition, or if he’s acting it up to try and draw the attention of the narcos, but you can hear his labored breathing from his wire. Could he be nervous? You select the video feed with the best vantage and see Javi rubbing the back of his neck and fiddling with his tie. 

With Javi’s breathing in your ear, you make up your mind. You can’t let him finish this alone. 

“Diaz, you got this?” 

“Yes, ma’am. Transport will be here in less than five minutes.” 

You’re already setting down your tablet and removing the curlicue wire from behind your ear. 

“Good. Report in once you get him seen to.” Diaz nods, but watches you curiously. 

Next goes your blazer and the clip holding your hair back. You grab your purse and find the red lipstick, quickly applying a fresh coat to your lips.

“Well, how do I look? Can I pass as a shady art dealer’s girlfriend?” You step back and smooth down the dress you were wearing under the blazer. 

You don’t have many occasions to wear the black cocktail dress, but for tonight you needed something more stylish than your regular work clothes. Its V-neckline is relatively modest, but the smooth material clings to your curves in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. 

Diaz gives you a once over and says, “With all due respect, Boss…you look hot.” 

“Thanks,” you fluff your hair a bit, using your reflection in the office’s window. “Bateman, take it easy. We’ve got this.” Bateman groans in response and you rush out the door. 

You’re flying blind now – no eyes or ears on anything but what’s in front of you. Tran spots you and cocks her head quizzically, but otherwise doesn’t break her cover as she approaches you with a tray of champagne flutes. 

Grabbing a glass, you mutter, “Bateman is down, I had to do something.” She nods and quirks an amused lip. 

“I like your dress,” she mutters back. You toss back the rest of the champagne in your glass for courage, and Tran hands you another to take its place. 

“Thanks, so does Diaz.” Tran snorts and pivots to offer champagne to a cluster of guests nearby. 

The three of you gelled almost immediately, and you felt immensely grateful. Their support on the case made you feel at ease with being in charge of a team. You wonder if Javi assigned Diaz and Tran on purpose, thinking you’d all suit one another.

Javier, Castano, and Lopez are still in the same gallery space, admiring adjacent pieces. Well, Lopez is digging a finger into his ear, but at least Castano seems genuinely interested. 

Seemingly more relaxed now, Javi stands with his back slightly to you, leaving his body language open to the targets. But you already know him better than the casual observer. The veins in Javi’s neck are more prominent, and you tamp down the urge to lick them. He’s practically vibrating like a plucked wire, but his shoulders are relaxed, one hand casually in his pocket. Fuck, he looks good in that suit. 

Taking a deep breath, you decide you’ll just have to go for it. It’s just for tonight, after all. 

“Babe!” A few people turn their heads to look at you, including the three men you needed to take notice. 

You shuffle over on your tiptoes to not break an ankle in your heels, and Javi – to his credit – doesn’t react beyond a shift in his eyes and a twitch of his jaw.

“Oh, my god! I’ve been looking for you everywhere, babe.” You practically throw yourself at Javi and cling to his side. He wraps an arm around your waist, the other hand coming out of his pocket to lightly grasp your bare arm.

“I saw poor Nicky – he didn’t look so good,” you say, placing your free hand on Javi’s chest and adding a touch of real concern to your voice. 

Javier’s entire demeanor shifts with you in his arms, his body relaxes, immediately falling into lockstep with you. You’re impressed at how quickly he responds to this curveball. Neither of you could have prepared for something like this.

“Yeah, he decided to head home, probably just ate something bad.” Javi took everything in stride. “You’re feeling okay, right?” He pulls back a bit to take you in, like he’s checking you over for bumps and bruises.

“Yeah, baby, I’m okay. But…” you drop your voice to a stage whisper, aware that at least Lopez is paying attention to this little charade. “What about the you-know-what?”

Javi glances around like he’s worried somebody might hear you. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out. He wasn’t moving it until next week anyway.” Javi kisses your temple. You nod, seemingly pacified, and offer your glass to him. 

He smirks, and instead of taking it from your hand, he leans down and places his lips to the rim. You let out a little giggle and tilt the glass for him. A little dribbles over the side of his mouth, dripping off his mustache. Letting out a mock tutting sound, you wipe it away with your thumb and lick the remnants from your skin. 

Your eyes meet, and you melt a bit, seeing that Javi’s pupils are completely blown.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” you tease, managing to regain composure. 

“I know exactly where you can take me,” he fires back, and – to your utter shock and private enjoyment – squeezes your ass. 

“Babe!” You gasp, and hit him playfully on the arm. Looking around nervously, you notice Lopez staring lasciviously at this public display, and you still, clearing your throat. Javi notices, and follows your gaze to Lopez, who is now adjusting his pants by his gaudy belt buckle.

“Hey - qué pasa contigo?” Javi’s face morphs into something serious and intimidating.

The two men exchange some words in rapid Spanish, and Castano gets involved. You’re genuinely flummoxed, not understanding what the men are saying, but it’s clear Castano is trying to apologize for Lopez’s rudeness and making amends. 

You tug at Javi’s arm to pull him back to you, running a soothing hand over his chest. “Come on, baby. It’s fine.” 

“I want an apology,” Javi says, stubbornly. 

“Lo siento, Señor,” Lopez mutters, and Javi shakes his head. 

“An apology to her,” he clarifies, his eyes boring holes into Lopez’s forehead. 

Lopez repeats himself, but can’t meet your eyes. Castano steps forward and reaches out a hand. Without thinking, you place your hand in his, and he holds it between his own. You know what this man before you is capable of, what he’s suspected and guilty of, and you fight the urge to shudder. 

“Miss, I am so sorry for my associate’s bad manners,” Castano begins in lightly accented English. “When a woman as beautiful as you is nearby, any man would take notice.” 

Pretending to be flattered and appeased, you dip your head. Castano – a slim man of equal height – bends at the waist formally and brushes dry lips to your knuckles. You turn a disgusted curl of your lip into a demure smile. 

“Thank you,” you simper. 

Javi says something to Castano in Spanish, and the two begin to converse, their tone much more pleasant now with formalities out of the way. He drops his arm from your waist and joins Castano at the painting he’d been admiring.

You catch Lopez’s eye and let the corner of your mouth tilt up as you take a sip of your champagne, now warm and flat. The man – squat, with a thick unibrow under a greasy forehead – is the kind of fish you want to keep on the hook for a while. It lets them think they’re winning. 

“Cariño,” Javi says and beckons you to join the men. 

Sauntering over, you let the high heels do their job and smile sweetly up at him. The conforming dress rises up your thighs a bit higher than you’d be comfortable with in real life, but you decide to leave the hem where it rests when you see Javi’s eyes rake over your exposed skin. The hair on your arms stands up, and the heat in your core begins to rise. 

“Señor Castano has a question about this piece, and I told him you were the brains between us,” he winks, and your breath hitches. 

Over the next ten minutes, you speak knowledgeably about the art on exhibit in the gallery. You’d never felt more grateful for the times Marcus would get excited about a case or piece of evidence and animatedly answer your questions while sharing takeout from one of your regular haunts. There’s a sudden pang in your chest. 

Just as suddenly, Javi is right behind you, stroking the backs of his fingers up and down a bare arm. His left hand is on your hip, caressing his thumb over the thin fabric of your dress. You relax into his touch, melting back into him until you feel the swell of your ass meet the front of his pants. 

Javi sucks in a sharp breath, and his fingers on your hip tighten their grip. You’re trying to focus on Castano’s words, but you feel Javi’s breath shudder a bit as he makes the smallest of movements with his hips, pressing himself into your ass. 

“...and that’s why we’re here tonight, drinking champagne, admiring the works of art on display… and speaking with beautiful women,” Castano finishes. The smile on his face would be genuinely charming if you didn’t already know what a deplorable human being he is. 

“Mi amor loves talking about art, I only wish I knew more. She and my partner could talk all night about our latest deals–” Javi stops himself short, pretending that he’s let something slip.

Castano’s eyes go sharp, but his smile barely changes. Showing a bit of intelligence, even Lopez perks up at this false faux pas. You’re surprised he was even listening, he’s been so busy shoveling canapes into his mouth and ogling the other women nearby.

“Ah, so you are art dealers then!” Castano exclaims. “Little wonder Señorita is so knowledgeable.”

You move your left hand to caress Javi’s on your hip. Not sure if Castano thinks you and Javi are married, or he’s just being polite, you’d rather play it safe and leave your ring fingers out of his sight until you and Javi can speak privately. 

“My partner is really the art dealer, it’s a shame you couldn’t meet him tonight. I’m just another man of business.” 

“And what line of business are you in, Señor?” Castano asks.

“Please, call me Javi,” he says with a casual wave of his free hand. “And I’m in whatever line of business is good – I’ve done a bit of this, a bit of that. Here, have my card.”

Javi fishes out the prop business card from the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I represent my client’s business interests, whatever they may be.” 

Castano takes the card and glances it over, then hands it to Lopez to hold. “And your clients are interested in art?”

“Some are. That’s how I met mi alma. She was working at the private gallery my new partner owns.” Javi stands next to you, keeping his fingers locked with yours on your hip, and smiles down at you. 

You have to remind yourself that none of this is real, it’s all for the cover – and a last-minute cover, at that. None of this was supposed to happen. But standing there, basking in the warmth of Javi’s affection, your heart races a bit and you give him a genuine smile in return.

“And the rest is history,” you finish with a small shrug of your shoulder, then rest your head on Javi’s shoulder for a second. Lopez’s phone rings and he turns away to answer it quietly, then taps Castano on the shoulder deferentially.

“Well, Javi, Señorita,” Castano nods at each of you in turn. “I would love to treat you to dinner soon. I have a new case of vintage bordeaux and a new painting I’m looking for any excuse to show off. I’ll have my associate call to make the arrangements. Please, bring your business partner.” 

Javi nods and shakes Castano’s hand. The two men leave, and you see Lopez stuff a napkin full of food into his suit pocket. Castano rolls his eyes in exasperation and glides away to the front exit. 

Javi gives your waist a squeeze, and you turn to face him, smiles on both of your faces. You hover for a minute, just in case the men return, but then Tran comes by with another tray of champagne. 

“May I take your glass, ma’am?” Javi takes the glass from your hand and sets it gently on the tray. He busies himself by taking another so Tran can murmur, “They’re off the premises, tracking in place.” 

Javi nods and sips the champagne. Tran moves away once more. A couple beats pass, and Javi sets the champagne down on a nearby cocktail table, grips your hand tightly, and starts pulling you in the direction of the back office. 

This time you struggle more to keep up with him, not in your usual office attire. Javi is pulling at his tie and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. In the back storage area, Javi drops your hand and makes a beeline into the small office. 

You slow almost to a stop, a bit winded from practically jogging in heels. Javi turns and meets your eye. Seeing the intensity in his face, you pause before the threshold and worry flits across your mind. 

Maybe Javi’s actually upset with you for going rogue, for jumping in and messing with the plan. Maybe he’s just really good undercover, and you projected your own desires onto his smiles and touches. He silently crooks two fingers, bidding you to join him in the office. 

Steeling your spine, preparing for a fight, you pull your shoulders back and strut into the office. Closing the door behind you, you take a breath, ready to go toe-to-toe with Javi if that’s what it takes to prove you were in the right. 

You made an executive decision in what could have been a crisis, and you’ll stand by that judgment call. You did what a good leader is supposed to do when plans go south. Everything worked out with the narcos, and even if they don’t take the bait and call, you still have tracking and surveillance on them.

Javi remains silent, finishes unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his freckled skin underneath. He removes the wire taped to his chest, then sets it down on the desk and switches off the receiver. You open your mouth, prepared to state your defense.

In two strides, Javi closes the distance between you and takes your mouth in a crushing kiss. You throw your arms around his neck and his hands grip the backs of your bare thighs, lifting you effortlessly and setting you onto the desk. 

Deepening the kiss, Javi’s tongue plunders your mouth and he lets out a strangled grunt when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him flush against your panty-clad pussy. Groaning, you feel his cock quickly getting hard and you soon realize you were already wet before he even started kissing you. 

Javi kisses a searing trail across your jaw, the hairs of his mustache tickling the tender flesh under your ear as he nips at the lobe. You gasp and rut against the front of his pants. 

“You are – fucking – incredible,” Javi growls in your ear, grinding his straining cock against the damp spot on your panties for emphasis. Your breathing is shallow, and you cling to his broad back as he continues his way down your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he adds, then gently sinks his teeth into the flesh between your neck and shoulder, eliciting a small whimper from your lips. 

Letting your head loll to the side, willing him to take whatever he desires, you whisper, “Javi, please…” 

You can feel his mustache turn up as he smiles, his path across your clavicle interrupted. 

“‘Please’, what, cariño?” His wide hands roam up the expanse of your back, then down to massage the meat of your hips and ass. You rock yourself against his cock again, but he holds your hips still and pulls back to look into your wrecked face, lifting an eyebrow in question. 

“Fuck, Javi–” You rebel against the grip of his hands, trying to feel that pressure from his hard cock again, but he stops you. He mimics your tut-tut from earlier out in the gallery, and pulls his hips away from yours. You lock your ankles behind him, trying in vain to keep him in place. 

Javi smacks a hand against the flesh of your ass that’s still covered by your dress, which luckily muffles the sound. Your mouth pops open in surprise, and you look at him. The intensity in his face has returned, but there’s no malice in his eyes, just hunger. Without a word exchanged, you unhook your ankles from behind his waist and let your legs spread open. 

Javi lets out a satisfied moan from deep in his chest. “Mm, somebody trained you well, cariño.” 

You let out a shuddering breath and Javi leans in to capture your bottom lip between his, sucking it between his teeth before letting it go with a soft pop. You nod, just barely, and wait for him to continue. 

“I bet I can guess who it was,” he teases, then his tone changes. “Stand up and turn around. Palms on the desk.” 

Javi pulls away and walks the two steps to the door, never looking away as he watches you follow his command. Your dress is now hitched up onto your hips, your ass presented to him. 

Before he can lock the door, a tentative knock on the other side makes both of you jump. You immediately straighten up and pull your dress down, while Javi checks through the blinds in the door’s window. 

“Tran,” he mouths. 

You try to smooth your hair down and Javi opens the door and quickly turns away, busying himself with the wire and receiver on the desk, as though he’d just turned it off. 

Clearing her throat, Tran stands in the doorway, not meeting your eye and says, “Boss, Diaz just reported in. Bateman is getting an emergency appendectomy, but he should be fine. They got him to the ER before it got too bad.” 

Both you and Javi let out sighs of relief. “Thanks, Tran. We’ll debrief in the morning.” 

Tran glances between you and Javi, and gives you a sly smile. “Sure thing, Boss. Have a good night.” She winks and closes the office door behind her. You’ll have to deal with that later.

“Fuck me,” you sigh and sink down in the office chair. All the adrenaline of the evening was starting to make your legs shaky. Javi sits a hip on the corner of the desk in a way that reminds you of Pike. 

“That’s kind of what I was trying to do,” he tosses his head at the door. “Before we got interrupted.” 

“It was very rude,” you agree, both of you sharing a smirk before going quiet. 

“Listen,” Javi swipes a thumb at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know if this is a good idea–” You put a hand on his knee to stop him.

“But it’s what I want. And you obviously want it too,” you look pointedly at his crotch, where his aroused state is still quite evident, despite the interruption. 

“Fuck yeah, I do,” he states emphatically. “It’s just…” He sighs and places his hand over yours. “I recognize what a huge deal this case is for you, for professional and personal reasons.” 

Javi pulls you to stand and cups your face. “I couldn’t live with myself if I fucked that up for you.” 

You sigh, and think for a moment. 

“Javi, no offense, but that’s bullshit.” 

“What?” He pulls back in surprise.

“First, you’re giving yourself way too much credit,” you chuckle to break the tension, then grow serious. “Secondly, I’m a grown ass woman who can make her own choices. If anything gets fucked up, it’s because I made a decision, so I’ll deal with the consequences.” 

Javi takes a deep breath, evaluating your words. You can see that he doesn’t like the idea of what those consequences may be, nor the thought of you being the one to deal with them. 

He swears under his breath in Spanish, looking to the heavens for help, then leans in and kisses you. Gently at first, then more persistently, holding your face until you’re both breathing heavily through your noses. He breaks the kiss and you both take a deep breath.

“Okay, ‘grown ass woman,’” he says, and you let out a small laugh. “I’ve got a choice for you to make.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?” 

“Your place or mine?”

Chapter 8 - Coming Soon!

Additional Author’s Note: Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all the lovely comments and reblogs! I can’t tell you how much they mean to me. As always, I would love-love-love to know what you think. I really want to become a better writer, so any and all feedback is welcome! Thank you for reading! 💜

#senorabond writes #rumor has it fic #javi x reader x pike #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña #javier pena smut #javier pena narcos #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike

[blackkatmagic]

Catch me making unhinged noises as I read the new Feemor fic. The sheer juxtaposition between what Feemor can feel from the clones' minds during Order 66, and the worry and protectiveness from Dominoes' Squad on Rishi. Also, I love the little detail of Hevy wanting to remove Feemor's mask, but not touching it out of respect. And the very much vibe of 'it's free jedi.' Their jedi now.

:)

Disbelieving, he slides a hand up, splays it across his strangely undamaged uniform. It’s there, unmistakable after all the years Feemor has spent guarding it—

“Hey, you're awake,” a voice says, close, and Feemor's eyes snap open as panic surges. He knows that voice, and he knows the plain white armor as a clone trooper rises above him, looming, reaching—

Gold burns to brilliant life, the pike igniting in one snapping hiss, and Feemor rolls, twists. He sweeps the clone trooper’s feet out from beneath him, slams him down onto metal and shattered duracrete, hears a shout. In a blur, he throws himself sideways before a fist can hit him, whirls up with his lightsaber up to block the shot, but there's no blaster bolt incoming, no burn of blue light aimed to kill.

For half an instant confusion flickers, and Feemor almost hesitates.

#kat answers #out of night (out of nothing)

[voidendron]

Leave It All Behind

Whumptober 2023 Day 8: "I've got a soul, but I'm not a soldier." Overcrowded ER | Outnumbered | "It's all for nothing." Star Wars: The Old Republic | V'ehsz Legacy Next Gen Warnings: None Characters: Cadera'tten "Atten" (Outlander's Heir/Co-Commander, he/they, Chiss/Human), Deca Iresso (Head of Security, she/they/ze, Mirialan/Human), Cadera'raa "Araa" (Outlander's Heir/Co-Commander, any, Chiss/Human) (( thanks for the civil war idea for Zakuul, Raven!! ))

A thorn in the Empire’s side one too many times. A nuisance to the Republic just long enough that it didn’t lift a finger to help even when it knew what was about to happen. Zakuul, dealing with its own issues and unable to aid its ally in its time of need. It was only Inferno Squad’s espionage that had clued them in that the attack was about to happen, and even with that prior warning they… Well, needless to say they weren’t ready when the Imperial battleships came out of hyperspace just beyond Odessen’s atmosphere.

To say all hell broke loose would be an understatement.

Drive-by bombings from overhead, angry Sith, well-trained troopers and snipers and grenadiers. They all struck so fast that the Alliance was left scrambling for a foothold.

Atten’s breaths heaved in his chest and fogged the visor of his helmet; Araa to his left wasn’t doing much better. She’d tossed aside her assault cannon when it ran out of power, clumsily catching one of Atten’s blasters when he threw it her way.

Then there was Deca. Fire in her eyes, saber pike wielded with practiced ease, as she protected the exhausted Commanders with the ferocity of a wild dog.

It still wasn’t enough.

“Deca, fall back,” Atten ordered with wide eyes as he watched the next troop transport land. A new wave, even as their numbers were driven farther and farther into the trees. She didn’t hear. “Deca!”

“Dammit!” She ducked under a swinging lightsaber, shoved the Sith wielding it to send him sprawling, and bolted back to the pair’s side. “What the hell are we going to do?!”

“We need to regroup.”

And because he knew exactly how she could be, Atten grabbed her around the waist, activated his jetpack, and took off—all while she cursed him out and elbowed him halfheartedly in the ribs. He didn’t look back, but he knew his sibling wouldn’t be far behind.

It was only when they landed far away from the fight that he let her go—and she immediately turned around and punched him in the (fully armored) shoulder. “We can’t just let them overrun our planet!” she growled.

With that, Atten and Araa glanced at each other; he was chewing his lip, and though they both wore helmets to hide their faces, he was pretty sure she probably was, too. They had a lot of the same habits, after all.

“What?” Deca’s hands still gripped her deactivated saber pike so tightly her knuckles were pale.

Then her grip loosened. “...Did the scout ships come back?”

“One.” Atten took a long breath. “We… We have a good candidate.”

Her shoulders slumped as he said it, and it broke his heart. “This is our home, Attie.” Where all three of them had been born, and raised, and trained all their lives to protect.

“Not if they destroy everything, kill everyone.” He grimaced at how bluntly Araa put it, but… She was right.

Deca slumped back against the nearest tree as she dragged a hand over her face. “So… Was all of this for nothing?” When her voice cracked, Atten had to bite back his own tears. “Everything our parents did, what they built, what we’ve done now that we’re leading all this. We’re just…going to leave Odessen?”

When Atten pulled off his helmet, it revealed hair that stuck to his sweat-slicked face where it had come loose from its low-hanging tail.

And when he cupped a hand behind Deca’s head to gently bump their foreheads together, she didn’t pull away. “The Empire will destroy all we have, the Republic doesn’t care, the Hutts will take advantage the moment they know we’re weakened, and Zakuul—they’re dealing with civil war, you think they’re worried about us right now? If we want to survive, we need to leave Odessen.”

From the helmet now tucked under his arm, he could hear Araa—who’d stepped away at some point to give the pair some space—giving out the order that made his heart clench. “Odessen, retreat to the bunker. The Sith have us outnumbered.”

“What are we going to do?” Deca’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and in her eyes he swore—for just a moment—that he saw tears brimming before she blinked them away.

“We find a new home and try to build something new for ourselves… Far away from the warring of this galaxy.”

#whumptober2023 #no.8 #swtor #bounty hunter #jedi knight #(only by technicality bc of in-game classes) #chiss #mirialan #chiss/human #mirialan/human #tales from the void #voids ocs #oc: cadera'tten #oc: deca iresso #oc: cadera'raa #v'ehsz next gen

[gcldfanged]

@unforestalledreturn

Quiet.

Nothing to dullen your thoughts.

Your response time is even better than before, and yet you can't stop thinking about what went wrong. Of how you need to make it right- Your comrade's life depends on it.

This is a highly dangerous extraction mission. Chances of survival, yours or Rhapsodos', are but a slim margin. But from where Jae is standing, it doesn't feel all that different.

It's the same warm, wet, absolutely foul smelling jungle. Hell, even the wildlife and plants had about as much chance of killing him as the Wutai insurgents do.

His PHS is ignored, put on silent for the remainder of the mission- at least until he finds Genesis. And there's smoke coming in thin, trailing wisps from an area he thought was impassable. Too hard to traverse.

"Comrade"? Are you really that important?

They have him underground. Of course they do. It was the smartest choice given the Red General's innate abilities and magical affinities. In some cold and dark cave dripping with water. There was probably a large source nearby as well that they'd be able to draw from.

Quick and silent, the two guards at the mouth of the cave don't even see him coming. He's not even using his trademark weapon, not this time- just a wicked looking combat knife. There's a rustle of brush and the wind whistles around the shell of his ear as the blade cuts through trachea and larynx.

He's seen so much death. In all it's forms, of all ages. And yet he's somehow not prepared for the sight of tools that should be intimately familiar to him. The stench of old blood, stagnant water, and otherwise.

Just what is it you're even thinking? That if you're nice to it, keep it safe, and don't scare it off, you might actually get to keep this one?

Genesis, or what's left of him anyway, is restrained by some metal devices that could have been ripped straight from the Development labs. Gaining access to such technology was a major breach of their security and while Yoon smelled a rat in the supply boat, he didn't have to time to dwell on it now.

Time doesn't even feel right anymore. It's slowed down, sounds drag out like damaged film footage. But Jae finds he's never had more clarity than in this singular moment.

You know there's something off, inside. There's something, maybe everything wrong. It doesn't even matter if you're real anymore. You're so afraid of being human, you'd rather be anything else- A monster. The apex predator. You have to be hated because you need to be stronger.

Avoiding damage is better than mitigating, but he's not stupid enough to skimp on protective spells and debuffs. Wounds bleed longer and harder, poison slows his targets' movements and creates more chaos out of what should have been a regimented squad who know how to cover each other's blindsides.

Rolling just out of the reach of a heavy bladed lance, the Turk lands in a crouching position astride another Wutai rebel. The first attack connecting is enough to shock, opening up the opportunity to just... keep going. The knife slides in and out like it's stabbing into a slab of thick butter, the foreign soldier staring down at his mangled leg as it gives out beneath him.

Power. If you can't have all of it, why bother having it at all? Why bother even being alive? But you're so sick of just 'being alive'.

Using a fallen body as a shield, he narrowly avoids being blasted by those weird pike-guns their enemy manufactured. He's not even sure how they work, but hey- A gun is a gun is a gun, right?

The length of the polearm feels unwieldy between his grip, but he raises the lance and fires off some rounds- Kneecap, dominant/weapon hand, headshot. Hurls the lance like a javelin at the last target running for the entrance.

His movements are a unsteady and jerky as the adrenaline begins to take a nosedive, Yoon scanning the area for anything of use. There's a basin of cold, bloody water positioned near the chair Genesis is strapped down to, long lengths of plastic tubing, some widemouthed funnels.

The nearby boxes serving as a table have a map and some documents laid out. Rations. Extra uniforms.

None of this is important right now, though.

You want to belong somewhere, but not anywhere. You want to be held, but not by anyone. It's always been you, you want to be treated like something rare and precious- that should never, ever be broken.

He's breathing. Sounds like he may have gotten sick- from the torture or the water, the beatings- Jae of all people knows how serious deep tissue and muscle damage are and that treatment is vital to keep the body from plain giving up from ongoing infection.

"Genesis-"

Pain shoots up and down his left arm stemming from the shoulder as a bullet rips through it. Pivoting just in time to keep from being pistol-whipped, the Turk grapples against a straggler- His opponent's already in bad shape but desperation is fueling his body right now, that and possibly spite and bloodlust for killing his entire squad.

Toppling, they fall to the ground and from an outsider's perspective it probably looks pathetic- Two grown men pushing and grabbing each each other wildly, like two bullies fighting on a playground.

Thick hands wrap around his throat and clamp down on his windpipe, Jae's mouth gasping open like a dying fish as he bucks and twists and kicks up more dirt and rocks.

But you already are.

Groping for his attacker's face, he steels his grip and it hurts and he just shoves his thumbs into the man's eyes until he's screaming. And keeps pushing. He overstrains his neck and arms trying to stab fingers straight through that motherfucker's skull, until he hits brain even.

The stranglehold around his neck finally loosens and Jae clumsily rolls them both over, picking up a rock about as large as a brick to smash the other man's face in.

Because despite everything, he's still fucking alive, twitching and groaning and it looks like pus and blood and runny eggs are leaking down his face in thick, unctuous rivers.

It doesn't matter. It's pointless. He likes seeing it. Watching what the weight of the rock and the force of his arm does to him, caving his nose and teeth in until it's just... meat, meat and blood and little pieces of bone and gristle that he's hammering into the damp earth.

You always were.

#unforestalledreturn #◈ rp threads #oh my god this should have just been a fic #I AM SO SORRY THAT THIS IS LIKE A FUCKING BIBLE PASSAGE LONG #depersonalization or something? #I'm so sorry lmao all this just for some hurt/comfort damn #water curing tw #gore tw #violence tw #blood tw #eye injury tw

[getitfrenchship]

Pikes can I get uhhhh Bleach lore?

BLEACH LORE YOU SAY

So a TL;DR is that the afterlife's like a ghost samurai bureaucracy. And for more stuff underneath the cut!

When someone dies, they're still attached to the world via a chain coming from their spiritual body still connected to their physical one. If a ghost samurai bureaucrat (known as a Shinigami/Soul Reaper) blesses them, they can go to Soul Society to live a new life in the afterlife. If the chain disappears before that blessing, though, then the spirit loses attachment to its physical body and a hole is formed where the chain was. White armor surrounds them and they lose their hearts and minds, which makes them Hollows. The samurai bureaucrats then have to "mercifully" kill said Hollows before they eat people for power.

Usually you can tell how strong someone is by their spiritual energy. If a human has really strong spiritual energy, like the protagonist Ichigo, they can see and even touch the ghost samurai bureaucrats along with Hollows.

Also some of the different classes of fighters include:

-Humans. Self explanatory. They usually get strong spiritual energy coming from Ichigo

-Soul Reaper/Shinigami. Ghost samurai bureaucrats. They're Souls (what we'll call the dead) that govern and protect Soul Society along with its hidden ruler, the Soul King (who becomes extremely relevant in the Thousand Year Blood War arc). They wield swords known as Zanpakutos that can have 2 stronger forms: shikai (cool designs are shown and usually have gimmicks like reflecting attacks or ice manipulation) and bankai (the ultimate attack). They maintain balance between the living and the dead so that there's a continuous flow/ability to change. Within Soul Society, you can either be part of the 13 squads to fight Hollows or Central 46 to really be a bureaucrat and make dumb decisions. Captains of the 13 squads are under command of the Captain Commander, the leader of Squad 1. (There's also a Squad 0 for guarding the Soul King).

Here's what confuses me a bit but it might be good to explain: Soul Society's not like heaven where it's the end all place to go to where you die, as you can once again die within Soul Society, become Hollow due to some wacky shenanigans, or even be born into it as a Soul rather than a Human. And it's not like there's reincarnation in this world so it's all just ???? to me

-Hollow. Dead humans that weren't blessed before their chains of fate dissolved so they became monsters. Some remember their lives before they died, some don't. Depends on the plot. The stronger they are, the more human-like they are. Usually they transform from their monstrous forms into more human-like ones by consuming other Hollows, or they're just lucky. They live in a sort of purgatory but actually Hollow afterlife realm known as Hueco Mundo. If they want, they can teleport to the human world for snacks. The human-like Hollows, known as Arrancar, have Zanpakutos too but get cool transformations called Resurreccions to coincide with their cool swords/lack of Bankai. Takes a lot of inspiration from Spanish language. ALSO! If they committed god awful crimes in their human life, they're taken to Hell. A completely different realm which! Fun fact! When a Shinigami Captain dies, they have to become guardians of Hell because their spiritual energy's way too strong. So they're babysitting dead Hollows pretty much forever. Sucks.

-Quincy. Humans that can use spiritual energy to make weapons of their own (usually bows & arrows). Absolutely DESPISE Hollows and actually fully kill them along with Shinigami. Take a lot of inspiration from German language. The Shinigami took most of them out ages ago, which is the main point of contention in the final arc that's gonna be animated, but a few survived. The main leader absolutely hates how the Soul King allows death in the first place.

-Fullbringer. Humans whose mothers survived Hollow attacks so now for some reason they get powers based on an emotion and a physical object they hold dear like hairpins from a deceased brother.

Let's see, what else... Souls can enter physical bodies known as Gigai to interact with the human world, but then have substitute spirits take over those bodies when they need to hunt for Hollows (or have those substitutes in plushies for comedic effect). What physically separates Soul Society from Hueco Mundo & the human world is a tunnel guarded by a giant cleaner train worm thing that disposes of any stragglers. Shinigami can use butterflies to transport instantly to avoid this. The good ghosts that still have their chains connected are called Pluses/Wholes.

Oh and some of the Squads are known for certain things such as: Squad 2 is the Stealth squad, Squad 4 is the medical squad (that gets mocked by others for not being fighters), apparently Squad 10 researches the human world, and Squad 12 is the science & research department. There are like, attitudes/vibes in the other squads (squad 3 being artsy, 7 being manly), but it doesn't really seem like the other squads have specific functions.

I'll most likely add more if I remember stuff/I wiki stuff I feel like I need to add

#long post

[xtruss]

As Russia Celebrates Veteran's Day, Here's How the Country Fought in Different Periods of Its Thousand Year History

How Military Service in the World's Largest Country has evolved, from Tsars to Bolsheviks to the Modern State

Servicemen take part in a dress rehearsal of a military parade marking the 77th anniversary of the victory over Nazi Germany in World War II, in Moscow, Russia. © Sputnik/Evgeny Biyatov

For over 100 years, Russia has celebrated Defender of the Fatherland Day on February 23. The holiday, which originally glorified the Red Army, took on wider meaning after the fall of the USSR. Presently, the holiday sees Russians celebrating all those who served in the military in defense of their country.

It is roughly equivalent to the American Veteran's Day or the British Armed Forces Day.

The military has always been respected in Russia. But over the country’s thousand-year history, the system has undergone major changes.

Varangians: Strangers From The North

At the dawn of the existence of Rus, the Slavic tribes that populated the land that would become Russia had no army of their own. Whenever conflicts became violent, they resembled 'wall on wall' fist fights. These confrontations continued in this manner until the Slavs learned the art of war from their northern neighbors and colonizers – the Varangians.

The Varangian guard, which took control of the trade route that passed through central Rus to the Greek civilizations, called themselves 'rowers', since they used row boats in their military campaigns. It is thought that the ancient Scandinavian word “rōþr” at some point evolved into the similar sounding 'rus'. It’s highly likely that the future name of Russia thus sprang from the self-designated name of the Varangian warriors.

The people of Rus wore simple shirts and helmets. They were mainly armed with spears and axes, while a sword marked a warrior’s superior status. They fought on foot, moving along rivers on boats called drakkars, which were rolled over rapids. The Varangians engaged in the great Viking tradition of trade and raids – pretty much the same as in Western Europe at the time.

One of the most famous Varangians and first rulers of Rus was Grand Prince Svyatoslav, who fought Bulgaria, the Byzantine Empire, and the Khazar khaganate. Some sources mention large raids as far away from the center of Rus as the southern Caspian lands.

Svyatoslav Igorevich (according to the description of Leo the Deacon). © Wikipedia

Boyars-Vigilantes: The First Warriors in Rus

As the ancient Russian principalities were established, grew more powerful, and formed a settled economy, the Varangian-Rus people increasingly assimilated. In their turn, the Slavs adopted Varangian methods of warfare. This process, along with the need to protect the territories under their control, resulted in the formation of a new kind of military organization – the princely vigilante squad.

These were boyar warriors from among the prince’s loyal inner circle. They equipped themselves with war horses, armor, pikes, and swords at their own expense. In military campaigns, the unit was accompanied by a foot detachment of 200-300 spearmen. These combat groups were quite mobile and were able to quickly respond to the raids of the Polovtsians and Pechenegs. Unfortunately, by the time of the Mongol invasion, these detachments had not sufficiently evolved – still small in number and dispersed, they could not effectively fight the horde from the East.

'Morning on Kulikovo field' by Alexander Bubnov

Streltsy: The First Permanent Army

Despite the defeat by the Mongols, the vigilantes and local militias continued fighting during the internecine wars of the 14th and 15th centuries, until a single state was formed under Ivan the Terrible.

It was then that the first unified regular army appeared in Russia, called the Streltsy. This reform occurred in 1550 and a special order (ministry) was created. This first army wasn’t large – it consisted of no more than 3,000 soldiers. However, the Streltsy were paid and were not obliged to work the land, which greatly facilitated social mobility in those days. The privileges, allowance, and a rather free lifestyle made the new profession extremely popular, and within 50 years, there were over 20,000 Streltsy in Moscow and the regions.

The Streltsy wore a kaftan and gloves and had uniform weapons. They were armed with a “bardishe” (poleaxe with a long shaft), a “pischal” (the Russian equivalent of an arquebus or long gun), and a saber. To achieve greater firing accuracy during important battles, the shaft of a bardishe was used to support the pischal. The Streltsy also often carried low-power powder grenades.

In addition to military duties, the Streltsy had civic duties, acting as policemen and firemen, They also often interacted with the local cavalry. In battle the Streltsy were directly responsible for the capture of Kazan (1552) and Astrakhan (1556), and most importantly, the retention of these territories.

Sagittarians. Fragment of the painting by Sergei Ivanov 'Tsar. XVI century.'

Russia Learns From The West

After the fall of the Rurik dynasty and the onset of the Smuta (The Time of Troubles), Russia was forced to adapt and change its military system because of the prolonged war with Poland and the occupation of Russia’s northern territories by Sweden. To fight the occupation, “foreign formation regiments” were organized. These military units were made up of servicemen, “willing” free people, foreigners, Cossacks, and other mercenaries.

The new regiments did not replace the Streltsy but used more modern tactics to fight. This included the placement of pikemen in front of the musketeers, which increased the tactical manoeuvrability of combat detachments.

By the 1630s, the foreign formation regiments had evolved into the first Hussar and Reiter companies. These were in fact knights with long pistols. They wore cuirasses and helmets, but when attacking, they fired dozens of heavy bullets at the enemy and then either retreated to reload or finished the enemy off with daggers and these meter-long pistols.

Uniforms II. Russian troops. 1. A soldier of a foreign regiment before Alexei Mikhailovich. 2. The era of Peter the Great. The bombardier. 3. The era of Peter the Great. An officer of the Grenadier regiment. © Wikipedia

Peter The Great’s Reforms – The First Conscription Army in Russia

Although the Hussar and Reiter regiments were quite effective, they still weren’t large enough. The Streltsy, who took on the role of a mass army, unfortunately engaged in a dispute with the young Tsar Peter I. The conflict prefaced large-scale military reform. In 1705, the future emperor and founder of the Russian Empire issued a decree “On the recruitment of soldiers from free people”. It was then that the term “recruit” was legally endorsed. Peter I “copied” this innovation from Sweden, which had a strong regular army.

The decree stated that from each village, town, community, and household, one person (except for the head of the family and the breadwinner) must be sent to the army for a lifetime of service and must become a soldier. This person was to be chosen by lot. In the early years of the law, all classes were subject to conscription. All nobles were obliged to serve in the army, and communities were required to regularly provide a certain number of recruits between the ages of 20-35.

In addition to the professional army, Peter I also established the Russian navy, military industry, and military academies.

By the end of Peter the Great’s reign, the regular army numbered 200,000 to 300,000 in all military service branches. This was an impressive number for a country with a population of 13 million. The duration of military service also became shorter over time. Lifetime military service was dispensed with, and soldiers went into “reserve”, being called to the army only in case of war. However, for many decades the duration of military service didn’t drop below 20 years.

'Battle of Poltava' by Pierre-Denis Martin

The Army of The Empire

The next major reform of the Russian army took place in the 19th century. Any defeat brings with it necessary lessons, and such was the case with the Crimean War, which resulted in Milyutin's sweeping reforms. The main innovation was the transition from Peter the Great’s recruitment system to universal military service – a standard practice in European armies. From that time on, all men between the ages of 21 and 40 were required to be on active military duty. In the ground forces, the duration of service was 15 years: six years of active service and nine years in reserve. After that, men were enlisted in the State Militia (the reserve of the armed forces, convened only in case of war) until they turned 40.

Additionally, instead of permanent armies and corps, Milyutin formed military districts with stationed units. This meant that soldiers and officers no longer had to permanently live in tents.

The second half of the 19th century was also marked by qualitative changes. Particular attention was paid to the army’s technical equipment. The end of the century saw the development of aeronautical and railway units. In 1885, a team of military aeronauts was formed (using hot air balloons or airships), with the East Siberian Field Aeronautical Battalion taking part in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-1905. In 1911, the first aviation detachment appeared in Russia, and by the beginning of the First World War, there were 39 such groups. The famous “Ilya Muromets” heavy bombers also appeared at that time.

In those years, state-owned factories and logistics expanded, all combat units were equipped with machine guns, and telephone lines were installed between the various units.

Fundamental changes also concerned military service admission. The term of active service in the infantry and foot artillery was three years, in other branches of the ground forces it was four years, and in the Navy, it was five. Some categories of citizens were given privileges. Men who were unable to carry weapons for health reasons and some clergy were exempt from military service.

Russian Infantry © Wikipedia

The Soviet Army

In the first months after the October Revolution of 1917, the Soviet government sought to create an army based on the militia system. This supposed that during peacetime, military units would consist only of the accounting apparatus and limited command staff, drawing upon locally registered fighters in times of need.

In the first months following the revolution, the army was composed of volunteers with the number of troops reaching just below 200 thousand. In order to create a regular army, the resolution "On the organization of the Red Army" was adopted on July 10, 1918. Men from 18 to 40 years old were subject to conscription and by November 1921, the Red Army numbered 5.5 million.

Parade on Red Square, Moscow, 1922. © Wikipedia

Nazi Germany’s invasion of the Soviet Union became a real test for the army, and the Soviet military system was not ready for it. Victory in the war cost the USSR the lives of tens of millions of people.

The conflict completely transformed Russia’s military system. In 1946, the Workers' and Peasants' Red Army was replaced by the Soviet Army. In the 1950s, the Armed Forces of the USSR were equipped with nuclear missiles and other advanced military equipment. The Soviet Armed Forces consisted of Ground Forces, Strategic Missile Forces, Air Defense Forces, the Navy, and the Air Force. This has all been inherited by the Russian Federation.

Solemn march of Soviet Army tanks at the parade in honor of the anniversary of the October Revolution, November 7, 1983. © Wikipedia

Present Times

In Russia’s recent history, the army was at its largest in December 1991, when it numbered about 3.8 million servicemen. In 1992, Boris Yeltsin reduced the number of servicemen to 2.1 million in 1994 and by 1996, to 1.7 million.

At the end of August 2022, Vladimir Putin signed a decree increasing the personnel of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation from 1.9 million to 2.04 million. This came into effect on January 1, 2023.

The Ukraine conflict has impacted Russian military service. Partial mobilization was announced for the first time in the history of the Russian Federation, and 300,000 people who had previously served in the army were called up. Moreover, private military companies became more prominent in light of the conflict.

Among these, the most widely known organization is PMC Wagner Group – currently one of the most effective units of the Russian military.

A serviceman of Russian private military company Wagner Group is seen during the execution of a combat mission in the course of Russia's military operation in Ukraine, in the Lugansk People's Republic, Russia. © Sputnik/Viktor Antonyuk

— By Anatoliy Brusnikin, Russian Historian and Journalist | February 23rd, 2023

#Russia 🇷🇺 #Veteran’s Day #Military Service #World’s Largest Country #Bolsheviks #Modern State #Varangians #Boyars-Vigilantes #Streltsy #Conscription Army #The Soviet Army

[ratsoh-writes]

New AU concept

theme: forest/steampunk blend

possible names: wandertale? druidtale? botanytale? planttale lol?

concept:

instead of being locked underground, monsters are trapped in an expanding forest forced to wander forever. Only a determined soul can break the curse and lead them out.

monsters have weaker magic than average. in order to supplement, they make tools powered by life force of plants. Tools resemble steam punk attire but primarily wooden. stone tools are rare, metal is rarer

no established cities, instead wandering tribe lead by the last royals. very small population, maybe an eighth of the other aus

instead of magical attacks, magical crafts and weapons are passed down by families. they cannot access their magic other than ecto without the help of crafted tools.

more focus on gathering and animal handling than farming. each monster picks a personal pant species to work with

characters:

toriel: queen of forest monsters. happily bonded to asgore. fierce and protective personality. strict, little sense of humor. balanced out by husband. Is the primary healer of the underground, crafted items are vials that slowly refill with healing potion over time. alternate items: possible boiling water attack, shields? pant of choice: tea tree

magic color: pale yellow, sightly green

possible names: dryad, fey, fay,

asgore: king of forest monsters. happily bonded to toriel. cautious and nurturing personality. strict but fair, not easily offended. balanced out by wife. leader of the monsters and creator of their communication system. crafted items are braided pouches that can exchange letters and goods between pouches of choice. alternate items: dandelion seeds that point towards safe routes/ lost monsters? fast growing roots attack? plant of choice: dandelion

magic color: deep olive

possible names: lion, founder, chief

frisk: lost they/boy, mexican, lost from boy scouts group, crossed the curse. curious, determined, empathetic personality. attacks: has bear mace and bug spray. very handy, clever usage of magical tools. will eventually lead king and queen out breaking the curse. no plant of choice, uses all

possible names: gizmo

undyne: leader of the hunting squad (wolf pack). courting alphys, not official. patient, determined temperamental. prefers stones over plants. crafted item: pond weed whip stuns target. alternate items: river stone spear? pond weed net? plant of choice: seaweed/pond weed

magic color: peacock green leaning on blue end

possible names: river, whirlpool, lotus, dragonfly, koi, pike

alphys: queens assistant, royal bookkeeper. is being courted by undyne. scared to commit. soft sweet and eager to please personality. crafted items: leather bound book with leaf pages. pages eternally refilling but book staying the same size. alternate items: feather pen with refiling ink? berry bombs? plant of choice: bamboo

magic color: slightly tan mustard yellow.

possible names: sunny, trinket, script, lisp,

sans: scout team with papyrus. looking for paths out. inventor on the side. curious, bashful, lazy, coward personality. crafted items: small pebbles that he can change locations with when tossed. mimics shortcuts. alternate items: paralyzing spores, mimics grabbing soul. plant of choice: mushrooms

magic color: umber

possible names: gears, funguy, munk, gopher, gadget, fox

papyrus: scout team with sans. creates maps locating useful plants and food sources on the side. curious, playful, fierce, brave personality. crafted items: wooden shield, pushes back enemies with a blast, mimics gaster blasters. alternate items: small wooden flute, plays animal sounds, sounds loud and scary. plant of choice: redwood tree

magic color: burgundy red/brown

possible names: piper, satyr, compass, stag, shield

gaster: alive. royal craftsman. good father. very elderly and brittle. calm, hopeful curious and elegant personality. crafted item: clay and vine oven that infuses plants and magic together. alternate items: vines that cover body and form golem like armor. plant of choice: ivy

magic color: chocolate brown

possible names: elder, aspen, trill, copper, potter, motar

side details:

royal dog guard becomes the wolf pack. hunters led by undyne

grillby in charge of food distribution. muffet is treaserer

blooky and mettaton stay ghosts

travel with packs, packs unfold to make tents

forest has larger and denser trees than normal

monsters hunted by forest animals when they leave the group

magical power traded for magical sensitivity. monsters very observant, hard to sneak up on

they will enter society same time as all the other aus in the crash. majority of forest monsters dwell with the farmtale monsters. become farmers or construction workers/carpenters

asgore and toriel separate from royal family. care over national park and in charge of ebott water supply instead of politics. keeps ebott safe from pollution

#ratsoh wip #heres all my details for that au i was talking about. #the main thing i need is names #a few backstories and more specific personalities are being worked on

[draftingteacups]

Current Line-Up (Inactive and Active Members)

This list is used for the sake of keeping track of all the Pokémon that are in the fanfiction “The Eternal Blooming Flower”. 

Pokémon that simply live at the dorm for the time being, only mentioned in name, or live on Ramshackle Dorm grounds but are not Soni’s Pokémon, will not be counted towards this list. There’s a special section for honorary members where they are considered a part of the dorm, despite not living there and do not fall under the previously stated terms.

WARNING:  This post will be updated to the newest update for the story, so there may be spoilers for it down below. As of now, this post is updated to Chapter 11! Please be mindful of that as you look. 

Soni's Current Team during the Day at Night Raven Academy:

Nimbus (Altaria; Female); on stand-by due to current circumstances

Gene (Eevee; Male)

Aegis (Aegislash; Male); goes by he/they/it

Dior (Gardevoir; Female)

Mila (Feebas; Female)

Grimbles (the Great Grim)

Known | Updated Moves of the Active Party:

Mila knows Scald, Ice Beam, Surf, and Rain Dance

Nimbus has Cotton Guard, Steel Wing, Safeguard, and Dragon Pulse

Aegis knows Shadow Ball, King's Shield, Iron Head, and Sacred Sword

Dior knows Psychic, Heal Pulse, Teleport, and Moon Blast

Gene knows Tail Whip, Quick Attack, Swift, and one unknown move

Pike knows Dig and three unknown moves

Soni's Active Team at Ramshackle Dorm:

Pike (Gible; Female)

Inactive Members At Ramshackle Dorm:

Primrose (Roselia; Female), Oddie (Gloom; Male), Two Cottonees (Male and Female), Eldegoss (Male) - Berry Team, Growth Team & Fabric Team

Metapod (Male), Two Spewpas (Male and Female), Combee (Female)- Pollinators & String Shot Users (Former Two)

Two Miltanks (Female Only Species), a Skiddo (Female)- Berry Team & Dairy Team

Lukas (Lucario; Male) and George (Golurk)- Protective Services Team

Comfey (Female) and Audino (Female) - Healer Team & (Audino specifically) Egg Protection Services

Poliwag (Male) and Sligoo (Female) - Firefighter Squad & Watering Team

Honorary Members of Ramshackle Dorm:

Happiny (Happiny; Female)- born in Heartslabyul but raised by the Dorm Head of Ramshackle as well as Deuce Spade (assigned father of Happiny)

#eternal blooming flower #list #pokemon list

[caesaryoulater]

" hey, everything's gonna be fine. stay where you are, i'm on my way. " with protective Marcus pike x reader hurt during a home invasion? Fluff at the end?

The Break-In

Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Word count: 1.1k

Rating: 18+ simply because my blog is

Content: Mentions of a break in. Angst

A/N: I hope you like it! Thank you for being patient with this ☺️

From: Prompt list

“Hey sweetheart, what’s up. I should be home soon. Just some last minute paperwork.” He couldn’t wait to be home. Part of him wanted to just take the paperwork with him and call it a night. But he knew it wouldn’t get done once he got home. He just wanted to be snuggled up on the couch with the love of his life

“M-Marcus.” Her voice was hushed and tearful. His heart starts racing immediately hearing her. “Someone is in the house.”

He practically jumps out of his computer chair, knocking it back to the floor. Without hearing anything more, he’s out the door, fumbling for his keys. He’d deal with whatever consequences came his way from not finishing next week. “Where are you?”

“The back sunroom.” Good. Whoever was there likely wouldn’t think to look there. And if they did, she had an out and a way to the back door of the garage.

“Hey, everything's gonna be fine. Stay where you are, I’m on my way. Try and stay quiet and get out of there if needed. I’ll put in a call on my way home.”

He was already in the parking garage. Maybe a bit stupidly, he didn’t pay much attention backing out of his space. There’s honking behind him. He hadn’t hit anyone. It looks as though they came from around the corner. It didn’t matter, he had to get out of there, and he wasn’t driving any worse than anyone else on a Friday evening.

He puts in a call, hoping a squad could get there before he does. The commute usually isn’t much of an issue for him. He got a lot of audiobooks in that he might not otherwise. But the nearly hour-long drive was a nightmare at the present moment.

The drive is spent on autopilot. Luckily he had stayed late and missed the ridiculously heavy traffic. He spent the drive in silence. Unable to focus on his current book. Not wanting music. Wanting to be able to hear his phone if it went off. He checks it again, he lost count at this point how many times he’s checked; afraid he’d miss something.

Finally he pulls into the driveway. There’s a cop car parked on the street, the officer waiting on the front porch with her. She’s wrapped in a blanket, nodding at whatever he’s saying. The neighbor and her dog are with them. She spots him and she runs toward him full speed, launching herself at him. He wraps her up, squeezing her, not wanting to let her go. So happy nothing happened to her.

He holds her at arms length, cradling her face in his hands. “What happened?”

“I heard a noise and then some voices. I was getting dinner ready.” Her eyes go wide. “I forgot I had left it in the oven. One of the officers turned it off. The pan is totally ruined.”

He pulls her back to him, squeezing again, chin resting on the top of her head. “Shhh sweetheart it’s okay. We can always get new pans.”

“I think Davies scared them off. Patty let him out and he ran over barking.” She was referring to the neighbor and her German shepherd. He was the biggest sweetheart, but could easily scare someone with his size and intense protective nature.

Patty and the office join them. “He was barking over at the house. I figured he just wanted outside. He broke off the chain. I ran out as fast as I could when I heard it, but just saw the car speeding away and Davies running after it.” Luckily she had spent a lot of money on good training. Otherwise she might not have been able to get him to back down and stay.

“The inside is trashed, most likely stole a few things. We can go over all of that after you’ve had a chance to look around. You can call me next week.” The officer hands him a business card. Marcus stuffs it in his pocket. “I think you can handle it from here Mr. Pike.”

He offers his hand for a handshake. “Thank you Office Douglas.” Patty starts tugging gently at Davies toward her yard. “Thank you Patty. I don’t know what we’d do without the both of you.”

She just nods. “If you guys need anything, don’t hesitate.” She waves and makes her way in.

Marcus sighs and rubs small circles on her back, still holding her to him. “How about we get some stuff packed up and go away for the weekend? We’ll deal with everything on Monday.” Truthfully, he didn’t want to stay in the house just in case. He thought too much about the likelihood of them returning if they didn’t get what they were after. She nods and starts pulling away. He leans down to kiss her, still not wanting to fully let go. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”

She huffs a little. “Marcus you’re a federal agent...”

He shrugs and lets go so they can head into the house. The officer wasn’t exaggerating. The downstairs was trashed. Furniture turned over. They had at least gotten the tv. The smell of burnt food hitting his nose almost immediately. He noticed the downstairs study was especially trashed. He wondered if it was in relation to a previous case he had been on. It wasn’t long ago that he had a painting stored here for safe keeping, now back at a museum where it belonged.

He leads her upstairs with him and guides her to the bed to sit. It seems that it was just the downstairs that had gotten hit. Letting her just sit and breathe, he packs some clothes and essentials for the weekend. He’s thinking somewhere in nature. There’s a place that rents cabins nearby, a few hours driving. They could get a hotel in the next town for tonight then try and get in there the next couple nights.

Once he’s positive he has everything the need, he stops and stands in front of her. Hand caressing her cheek. “Hey beautiful, how are you doing.”

She sighs. “Better. I have you. And we don’t have to stay here.” He smiles and holds her hands in his. “I just wish we had longer than the weekend.”

“I’ll take the week off. If you want we can stay somewhere else and just come back to deal with cleanup and reports.”

She nods. “I love you, Marcus.”

He kisses her cheek then her lips. “I love you too. So damn much.” He helps her up.

“Pancakes for dinner?”

He laughs. “You know me so well, sweetheart.”

#marcus pike x you #marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike fic #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #reader insert #my fics #prompts

[ez3z4]

ep 13: when the squad walks into cid’s office and find someone else but immediately draw their weapons and echo and wrecker turn to aim at the guys at the door — my competence kink jumped out; and then when the pike’s threatened omega and all of them drew their guns again. protective dads

#star wars #the bad batch #echo #tech #hunter #wrecker #omega

[thevehszlegacy]

Basics

Full Name: Deca Iresso

Gender: Genderqueer (she/they/ze)

Faction: Eternal Alliance

Rank: Head of Security, Commanders' Personal Guard, Grand Paladin

Aliases: Dee, General

In-Game Class: Jedi Knight - Shadow/Guardian

Primary Role: DPS

Primary Spec(s): Infiltration/Vigilance

Physical + Mental

Species: Human/Mirialan

Height: 5'6" (168cm)

Hair Color: Black

Eye Color: Lavender

Notable Features:

-Hair kept in tight, long braids -Traditional Mirialan tattoos spanning face, neck, and hands -Skintone is more like her father's, though certain lighting makes the green hue to it more visible

Scars: Little scar on cheek. Other, minor scars, scattering body

Personality Type: INFJ ("Advocate")

Strengths:

-Insightful -Wants others to succeed -Physically and emotionally strong -Quick learner -Trustworthy

Weaknesses:

-Closed off/distant -Perfectionist, overworks herself -Martyr -Lingers on the past too much -Obsessive about certain things

Fears: Failure

Disabilities/Disorders: OCD

Relationships

Romantic/Sexual Orientation: Bi

Status: Dating

SO: Atten Cadera

Parents: Felix Iresso & Lina Tophrik-Iresso

Siblings: Only Child

Mentors: Various. Primary being:

-Kidak Hess (primary education while growing up) -Leo Vetiko (lightsaber combat) -Azan Tarnak (hand-to-hand, Sith) -Qizulth Verryn (history) -Avena (Jedi) -Hallie Val (Knight)

Miscellaneous

Usual Attire: Usually seen in one of two outfits: A more casual uniform, and her armor while on-duty for Alliance Security/Commanders' personal guard.

Weapon of Choice: The Force. Lightsaber pike, purple blade; uses her mother's old crystal.

Home: Odessen, later Odessa

Place of Birth: Alliance Base on Odessen

Favorite Color: Turquoise

Pets: None

Brief History

Deca was born on the Alliance planet of Odessen to Felix and Lina Iresso. She was taught alongside the Commander's oldest two children, Atten and Araa, and developed a close bond with the pair as a result. She took interest in military from a fairly young age, and could often be found watching sparring sessions or asking veterans their stories.

Though she respects her mother's ability to heal, it was obvious early on that she was going to take more after her father. Both Felix, and her uncle Varrich (former commander of Havoc Squad), made it clear to her that the life of a soldier wasn't all glory and heroics - both of them suffered greatly for their career choice, after all - but her mind was made up. When she was old enough to begin her training, she took to traveling for a few years to learn from various teachers of differing backgrounds.

She started out learning from the former Battlemaster and Wrath, then branched out to other Sith, Jedi, Voss, and more. Her travels led her to Alliance ally Zakuul for just over two years, where she learned from Knights in their newly restructured Academy. Much of her combat style mirrors the Knights as a result.

When she returned home to Odessen, she spent a lot of her spare time not training with the Force Enclave, helping her mother and the others there develop the Alliance's Force doctrine. They became known as the Paladins, and their primary goal was to protect, preserve, archive, and learn. As one of the founding members, Deca quickly became a Grand Paladin - much like a Master among the Jedi, or Darth for the Sith.

She joined Alliance Security, often trusted as part of Atten and Araa's personal guard, and eventually taking over as its leader after Azan's retirement from the position. She maintained a close bond with the siblings - both becoming some of her closest friends, and eventually pursuing a romantic relationship with Atten.

Though she doesn't have visions like others in the Enclave, Deca can still sense something dark on the horizon for the Alliance.

#swtor #jedi knight #mirialan #mirialan/human #swtor oc #deca iresso

[voidendron]

Routine

Whumptober 2022 Day 10: Poor Unfortunate Souls Taser | Whipping | Waterboarding Alternate Prompt 7: Protective

Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Sy'hen "Hush" Rett (Human, cyborg), Saa'tek "Gunshow" (Cathar/Omwati/Zabrak, cyborg), Jessi "Nexu Bait" Toklar-Sept (Human/Zabrak, cyborg), Kaiba "Red" Felshaad (Human), "Zip" Drakou (Zabrak) Warnings: Violence, Blood

---------------

It was routine. Something they did often, by request of the Commander.

Sure, the squad had started with a focus on humanitarian aid, but it had quickly become one of Commander Terrin’s favored squads for this kind of work. They were good, and she hadn’t wanted to hold them back with rebuilding efforts. The Barsen’thor and his students were more than capable of protecting build and recovery teams, and studying as they did so.

No, Inferno Squad had slowly transformed into scouts, and from scouts into an Alliance Intelligence team. One little thing, after another, gradually adding up until they could see with the quirk of Terrin’s brow that she saw far more potential in them than what she was requesting of them.

So, here they were. Another mission, scouting out suspected spies nosing around where they didn’t belong within Alliance territory.

Zip had a data spike plugged into a seemingly abandoned computer system (they knew it wasn’t, they just weren’t sure when the camp’s occupants would be returning), her eyes scanning walls of code as the rest of the team watched her back. Kaiba and Jessi standing close behind her, Saa’tek posted up high with nose in the air, and Sy’hen stalking the outer edges of the empty camp.

The shadows closed tight and uncomfortably around the former Knight, their eyes scanning their surroundings and one hand remaining at-the-ready to reach for their deactivated saber pike.

Something…

It didn’t feel right.

Their eyes drifted up to Saa’tek, whose tail was flicking and one ear gave a twitch, as he obviously seemed to notice it, too. Then, they looked to the team’s CO; Kaiba’s own gaze had flitted up to Saa’tek, before she tightened her hands on her blaster rifle.

Sy’hen noticed the silence, then. It was unnatural. There should have been the sound of fauna nearby—chirping, or rustling, or anything—but all was still.

They removed their pike from their back, but kept it off as they pulled the shadows tighter around themself, their Force shroud leaving a chill to crawl across their skin. They’d never been particularly fond of using it, but wouldn’t deny that it was an incredibly useful ability. And, as the only Force-sensitive of the squad, they were glad to be able to give the team that advantage, however small it was.

Their head snapped up to rustling; the noise was there, then gone again just as quickly.

Their eye narrowed as they ducked low and began creeping forward. Their hands tightened on their weapon, their steps were impossibly quiet over dead leaves as they used the Force itself to muffle any sound they may have made, and their eyes—

Movement. They weren’t sure they would have caught it unaided, but their prosthetic eye picked up on it and pinned the motion to the back of their mind.

Sy’hen surged forward; they felt as if they were lunging through the shadows themselves, until they were barely a step behind the stranger.

Zakuul Knight armor made their breath hitch, just for a moment. It was long enough for the other to sense them, and Sy’hen only barely managed to ignite their weapon in time to block the Knight’s own pike from taking off their head as they were pulled from their shroud.

A thought was all it took, and the comm built into their ear implant turned on.

“Hush to squad,” they said, voice impossibly soft and level even as they shoved their opponent away with a kick to the chest. “Camp belongs to renegade Knights of Zakuul. Number unknown—have engaged with one.”

They ducked in time to dodge a stone that the Knight lobbed at their head, huffing through their nose as a snarl found their lips.

Kaiba gave a stream of commands to the rest of the squad, calling for Sy’hen to regroup with them, before the line went dead.

They reached out through the Force for one last shove at the Knight—he must have been a Captain, once upon a time if his armor was any indicator—before turning on their heel and bolting back to the main part of the camp.

The sight to greet them was the rest of the squad trying desperately not to get cut in half by half a dozen renegade Knights.

Sy’hen froze where they stood, their own pike gripped tightly between their hands and remaining eye wide even as their prosthetic began running the information straight to their head. Six of them, seven counting the one they’d left behind who would surely be showing up to help his comrades any moment.

They knew Knights. They knew the training Knights went through, rigorous and unforgiving of failure. These may have been renegades, but they were still Knights.

Just like Sy’hen.

They swallowed.

No. Sy’hen had shed their title long ago. They were an Alliance Paladin, now.

But they knew Knights. Real Knights. Zakuul was an ally to the Alliance, and Knights were loyal and trustworthy and noble—at least, now they were, with the royal family no longer on the throne.

These weren’t Knights.

And seeing them wearing that armor, wielding those weapons… It made their blood boil.

Sy’hen was pulled from their thoughts when Saa’tek bolted toward them, grabbed them by the wrist, and dragged them behind cover where Jessi was hunkered down already. They never could get over the fact that their medic carried a giant-ass assault cannon, but she seemed to be tinkering with it as she cursed under her breath.

“Protect ‘Bait—her gun’s jammed,” the engineer said. “Red’s orders. I need to set up some foot traps around the perimeter and try to lure ‘em there.”

Their gaze drifted to Kaiba for a moment, locked in combat with who appeared to be the renegade group’s leader, and nodded stiffly. “Be careful,” they murmured. Saa’tek gave a loose two-finger salute in acknowledgment before he was darting away, using his smaller size to his advantage to keep from behind seen.

So, Sy’hen waited. Their pike was gripped tightly as they kept themself between Jessi and the “Knights,” who were obviously holding their punches as they surveyed the situation. Most of them hadn’t even engaged yet, instead hanging back and raking their gazes across their camp.

Which told Sy’hen they either hadn’t expected to be discovered, or didn’t have a plan in place for when they were. They strained their ears to listen to the Knights’ voices, and noticed they were young. Maybe even younger than Jessi, though it was hard to tell behind their helmets.

When Jessi gave a nod, indicating she’d repaired whatever the issue with her cannon was, Sy’hen lunged away to grapple with a Knight who’d attempted to get Kaiba while her back was exposed.

They weren’t sure whether they, or the renegades, were more angered at seeing each other. The attempted backstabber’s eyes pinned on Sy’hen’s weapon, then their armor that was now painted in the squad’s colors, and they could practically feel the snarl that came to her lips.

Fortunately, the renegades were young. Inexperienced. That, paired with weapons and armor and training that the squad was grateful about having a Mandalorian Commander for, as Terrin accepted only the best for her people, meant that even outnumbered they were a step above the Knights. What strikes of their pikes did meet, bounced off lightsaber-resistant plating; what blaster shots were deflected, simply left burns in the paint of the squad’s armor.

That was, until the leader shoved Kaiba. Though his hand did meet her chest, it was obvious with the momentum that threw her into a tree that he’d used the Force.

Their Captain slumped where she landed and went still.

Jessi, not only their medic, but their XO, took only a moment to swing her heavy weapon against one of the renegade’s heads—Sy’hen could hear a loud crack, could imagine a spray of blood or neck twisted at an unnatural angle as the body slumped to the ground and they realized that Knight had lost their helmet at some point—before she was giving out orders in lieu of their (injured? dead?) CO.

Sy’hen barely registered her words.

Instead, their eyes zeroed in on the renegade leader; his weapon was drawn, he was…

Eye widening, Sy’hen surged forward. The Force pulled uncomfortably at their skin, the shadows around them too close, too tight, too cold, before they were tackling the leader before he could take off Kaiba’s head.

The two rolled when they hit the ground, spitting curses and trying and failing to get enough space between their tangled limbs to get a handhold on one another. Their weapons were dropped somewhere along the way. It was the least of Sy’hen’s concerns.

The Knight was wearing a helmet—the Paladin growled and grappled to pull it off.

The moment it tumbled away, a fist was swinging. Sy’hen spit as the blow split their lip, returned the favor so their glove came back smeared with the blood running from the man’s nose.

He’d tried to kill Kaiba. Kill her. The squad’s CO, Captain Felshaad, who’d hand-picked each of them and gave them all a place where they finally belonged. Kaiba Felshaad, who’d looked to the former Knight—the former Knight, who’d once fought tooth and nail to tear down the Alliance—and stretched out her hand with a smile. Who showed honor and mercy and respect, even to her opponents.

And he’d tried to kill her while she was helpless to defend herself.

Sy’hen growled and shoved the man onto his back, straddled his chest with knees pressed harshly into the sockets of his shoulders.

They pulled a fist back; it cracked loudly against his jaw.

Again.

They didn’t realize they were panting, not until a hand grabbed their arm that was poised for another blow. They didn’t realize blood smeared their hands, or their armor, or the ground under the Knight’s head. He was wheezing; Sy’hen’s nostrils flared as their chest heaved.

Their arm twitched as if to yank away from the grasp on their elbow.

Then it dropped to their side and they swallowed. They allowed themself to be maneuvered off the Knight while Jessi knelt by his head to make sure he wouldn’t die on the way to a cell on Odessen. They…couldn’t bring themself to look him in the face as shame twisted their gut. The feeling only worsened when they noticed Kaiba staring at them where she was still propped against the tree; her brow was knit and mouth parted as if she’d tried to say something but it caught in her throat.

They’d…never lost their temper before.

Not like…that. Not to the point they’d beat a man within inches of his life with nothing but their fists.

Sy’hen swallowed again.

They couldn’t bring themself to look down at their bloody hands.

#swtor #knights of zakuul #tales from the void #voids ocs #oc: sy'hen rett #oc: saa'tek #oc: kaiba felshaad #oc: jessi toklar-sept #oc: zip drakou #whumptober2022 #alt no.7 #violence #blood

[pikemoreno]

if you ever wanna be in love

Chapter II: Coincidences

a/n: the response to what i believe will be the slowest chapter in the whole series was honestly kind of overwhelming? like you guys were into it and it’s only going up from here folks!!

taglist is open if you’d like to be added. sorry if you asked and i missed it or forgot. please just ask again if you aren’t on there and would like to be. :’)

pairing: marcus pike x f!reader

word count: 2.3k

warnings: none, and i don’t expect there to really be any serious ones in upcoming chapters either. this is just fun.

You were really starting to regret your life choices. 

Even the beginnings of autumn in Austin were hot as hell. It was only maybe 90 degrees but there was no breeze and the sun was shining ruthlessly on the asphalt, making it feel about 10 degrees hotter. And all of that was then made complete with just a dash of humidity. Basically: you were dying. You probably should’ve considered that before deciding to walk to Rick’s Diner from Wendy’s apartment, but when the pancakes call, you two must answer. And why risk losing your parking spot in the meager guest parking area when you could just walk? It’s only a couple of streets away.

Famous last words. The Austin sun, though setting, still felt like it was frying you to your bones and the air conditioning of the little diner only brought minor relief as you finally reached the stool-lined counter to ask for your to-go order. They didn’t have it quite ready yet due to the dinner rush, but it was unadulterated bliss to hear that you didn’t have to brave the heat again quite yet. A vaguely familiar voice reached your ears as you moved away from the counter.

“Fancy meeting you here, Jewels.” 

Pike? From the break room yesterday? You spun around to find none other than the very same. Though his work suit was replaced with a more casual look of a casual well-fit grey shirt and jeans, he was still managing to look more put together than you felt in athletic shirts and a t-shirt. Girls night and the weather called for it, but if you knew you were going to be seeing a coworker...

“Art Squad,” you laughed, leaning against the wall next to him. “What brings you here?”

“Best pancakes in the city. What about you? Coffee?” 

“Ha-ha. No, girl’s night with Wendy. Gonna get her mind off of everything with what are absolutely the best pancakes in the city,” you agreed.

“A woman of taste.” His order came up and he took it, taking a moment to talk with the server across the counter. You heard him address him by name.

He must come here a lot.

You couldn’t blame him. It was clean, the service was amazing, the food was great, and it was fun-- with nostalgic decor that didn’t sway towards cheesiness.

Marcus left the counter with his takeout bag, but he didn’t leave with it, as expected. Instead he came back to stand beside you. 

“Maybe I should get some for Adrian too. These pancakes are magical,” he commented, continuing your previous conversation.

“Exactly.”

“I just wish I could do more for him. Coffee and pancakes aren’t exactly a permanent fix.”

“Agreed. I’m on the lookout for a rebound for Wendy. Maybe you should consider it too. Not a permanent fix but-- better.”

It hit you all at once. 

Two single people recently in need of a rebound that work in the same building?

That couldn’t be coincidence. 

But, no, that was a crazy idea. There was nothing that actually connected them. Did they have anything in common other than getting their hearts ripped out and working for the FBI? Doubtful. Was that enough for a stable relationship? God, no. Was that enough to bring them together long enough for a hook-up and getting them over their exes? 

Maybe.

Your name being called interrupted your thoughts and, pancakes in hand, you and Marcus walked back out into the Austin heat. You had no idea how he was managing in jeans, though you guessed it helped that he was probably smart enough to drive with the protection of A/C. 

“Well, see you around,” you nodded to him, ignoring the nagging in the back of your head to tell him about your scheme. It was silly. You turned left to walk towards Wendy’s place. 

“Where are you going?” he calls after you; you turn. “Did you not--?” he gestures to the parking lot on his right.

“Walked here.”

“Do you like causing yourself pain?”

“Sometimes.” He gave you a look. “I’m kidding. It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, right. Let me drive you.” You considered a moment. There wasn’t any harm in accepting the ride, you guessed, though you didn’t actually know him. He could actually be a murderer who’s just trying to get you to a secondary location. You’d seen John Mulaney. You knew what that meant.

But maybe it was worth a try for the pancakes. 

Just for the pancakes-- for their safety.

“Sure, why not.”

This couldn’t be coincidence either. Time to scheme.

“So, about Adrian,” you began. The look he gave you was quizzical. “How old is he?”

“33?”

“Would he be interested in a 32 year old beautiful, badass goddess of an FBI Supervisory Special Agent?” He raises an eyebrow as you get in his car.

“Is that Wendy?” 

“Yes. Turn left up here.” He did. 

“I know what you’re thinking. No, we’re not going to--”

“But think about it!”

“I am. Meddling? That always works.” His tone was drowning in sarcasm.

“Sure it does. Adrian’s work is suffering, right? Driving you crazy? Wendy’s driving me crazy. They belong together.”

“I don’t think that’s a great quality to base a relationship off of.” 

“Oh, this is her building here.” He pulled over and you continued, unbuckling your seatbelt “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Surely we can get them together long enough to at least get them off our backs.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not getting involved in Adrian’s love life.”

“Alright, fine. If you never see me again. Wendy finally killed me.” He rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the ride, Art Squad.”

“See you around, Jewels.”

“Don’t be so sure!” you called back as you walked up to the front of Wendy’s apartment. 

Arriving back to Wendy’s living room had her asking you how you got back so soon as she gratefully took out her takeout container of pancakes. 

“Hitched a ride,” you shrugged in reply, sitting cross-legged on the other end of her couch. 

“Oh? With who?” There were approximately eight extra “O’s” attached at the end of the question.

“A guy from work.”

“From work, hmm?” She wiggled her eyebrows. 

“Not like that.”

“Humor me. Someone from our team?”

“Oh, no. Definitely not. Art Squad.” Wendy widened her eyes, tilting her head at you. “It’s nothing Wendy, honestly.”

“How do you know him?” But the question didn’t come out casually. This was an interrogation. You sighed.

“I don’t, really,” you diverted the conversation digging into your take-out container. “And why are you interrogating me, hmm? I thought we were supposed to be laughing at reality shows and stuffing our faces in pancakes here and forgetting all about this kind of shit.”

“No no no. When my long-time single work friend mentions a secret guy, I ask questions.”

“Hey, I just went on a date two weeks ago! Don’t give me any of that always single crap. I get around.”

“Yeah, you went on one date. And then you came back an hour later saying he was boring and you never contacted him again. And when was the last time before that?”

“Fine, fine. I get it. But this isn’t some ‘secret guy,’” you put down your fork just to give the phrase some emphatic air quotes. “I just ran into him yesterday at the office and then today at Rick’s. That’s it.” 

“For now,” she whispered devilishly. You pointed your fork at her, feigning a threat.

“I do not need a man, Wendy Harrod. I have work and I have you.”

“I know you don’t. I just wanna see you happy.” You crossed your arms.

“I am happy. Hey, this night is supposed to be about you and your man troubles. Turn on 90 Day Fiance. Stop talking about me.”

You were telling the truth. Most of it. You felt alright by yourself. You did have work, though it was a dead-end until you managed to move out of the Austin field office. It had been you and Wendy up for a promotion a couple years ago and she received it. You knew the likelihood of her leaving before retirement was minuscule, which left you stuck in your current position until your own retirement. Unless you left. Not an option. You couldn’t leave Wendy scrambling for someone to replace you. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but you had it. It was yours. And you… Liked it well enough. 

It was fine. What more could you want?

***

Monday mornings were hard on anyone: the start of another week, the stack of work that Friday-you left for Monday-you staring you in the face. For Marcus it brought the wondering if this could be the week that Adrian was back to himself. 

It took all of ten minutes in the office to see that wouldn’t be the case.

Adrian’s pile of work had hardly decreased in height from the last time Marcus saw it on Friday morning. He watched for a moment to see how it was going. Adrian’s pen moved slowly across the page as he followed the words printed on it, occasionally making a mark or circling a section. He was working, but not to his best. It was written on his face and in his body language: hunched over at his desk, his chin resting resting heavily in the hand that wasn’t making lethargic movements over the paper. It just wasn’t the spunky Adrian that loved his job and his co-workers. He was always the hardest worker, and on the rare occasions that Adrian wasn’t working it was because he was too caught up in being a social butterfly. This side of him was frighteningly unprecedented.

“How’re you doing Adrian?” Marcus finally spoke.

Adrian made a noncommittal noise in response, his gaze fixated entirely somewhere above the page, but not quite on him.

“That good, huh?”

Another grunt.

Marcus pulled a rolling chair up to the other side of Adrian’s desk, facing him, studying him. He thought of your proposition from days before. It was kind of a crazy idea. But it might just be crazy enough to work. It wouldn’t be a permanent fix but... Better. Just as you’d said. He was getting about that desperate. Three weeks without Adrian was bad enough for team morale. Another week of this? Maybe more? The very walls of the sixth floor would be turning dull and grey. He still didn’t love the idea, but he hadn’t exactly come up with anything better. Could he bring it up to Adrian? Was it better if they didn’t know they were being set up? He started small.

“Adrian, have you considered maybe, I don’t know, trying to date again soon? Just to get your mind off of… That.”

Adrian shrugged, “Maybe. I’d have to find someone I was interested in. But I just don't think I'll find that anytime soon. I’ll just keep comparing them to Sam.” 

Marcus hummed in thought, watching the defeat on Adrian’s face. “Well, I’ll keep my eye out,” he promised loosely as he rolled the rolling chair back away from the desk.

He had to find you. 

He quickly announced he was taking a long lunch and headed straight to the elevator, thankful no one followed him to see him go up to the seventh floor instead of down to the first. He poked around offices and desks, ignoring the questioning glances, looking for you or any sign of where your workspace might be. He found you in the seventh floor breakroom, starting into what looked like an extremely mediocre lunch. 

He sat directly across from you and watched as you slowly looked up to find the source of the noise, suddenly feeling that he might’ve overstepped and you might not want to disturbed. That was quickly replaced by the odd surge of pride when you looked relieved to see him. You smiled at him and called him Art Squad.

“What brings you to the seventh floor? We still don’t have any coffee,” you huffed.

“I’m in.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m in. Let’s set them up.” Your expression was nothing short of cocky as you leaned back in your chair. 

“Oh? Coming crawling back so soon? Adrian getting the best of you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Rub it in. So what do we do?”

“Well,” you laid down your fork, “The way I see it. We shouldn’t tell them. They’re having a tough time and feeling like they’re only getting a date from their friends’ pity party would make it worse. They need this to feel natural, like it was their idea and they’re recovering. It’ll give them confidence.”

“So we... What?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t think I’d get this far.” He rolled his eyes.

“You don’t even have a plan and you were trying to convince me to help you?”

“Just let me think about it, alright?”

“Alright. Let’s drive and think. Up for a long lunch break?”

“I guess? But I have,” you looked to your sad little lunch in front of you. When you met his eyes again, he simply raised an eyebrow. 

You’re really gonna eat that?

“Rick’s?”

“Rick’s.”

forever taglist: @acomplicatedprofession​ @hdlynn​ @makaela27 @space-floozy @catfishingmorales​ @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​ @princessbatears​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @findhimfives

series taglist: @whiskeyslasso​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @dindjarindiaries​ @absurdthirst​ @roxypeanut​ @fioccodineveautunnale​

#bri writes #iyewbil #marcus pike x reader

[o-wise-corvid]

Chapter 3, incoming. Okay I promised y’all action and here it is. Hope y’all enjoy. Cody’s Kids are about to test their mettle and see if they’re ready for active duty. We shall see. 🤔

Warnings: violence/ broken bones/some blood/nothing fatal/ almost though

People who were wanting more: @captainrexisboo @clonetrooperrights @koskareevesismyqueen @gospelofme @jgvfhl @ct-27-fives @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life

Chapter 3: Combatant Eliminated

“Don’t try to win this by yourself. We’re strongest together. Remember.” Gaia smoothed Shriek’s hair back and helped him pull on his headgear. It wasn’t like wearing a full helmet like Papa’s, but it protected the forehead and back of the skull, cheek guards offering cushions to the face in case of a fall.

“Rend is top heavy,” Rex offered, cracking his neck to the side. “His balance is bad.” He shared a grin with Gaia. They had trained with Rend back during the short time that it had just been the three of them and the memories of the young man’s brutality were hard to forget.

“Wear him out. Make him work for his air.” Soren accepted a hearty backslap from Rex, and the boys laughed.

Rend had broken one of Rex’s ribs on his first day in the training yard and hit Gaia so hard across the face that she’d nearly lost consciousness. It had been Soren who had gotten in behind the muscle wall, looped his lanky arms around Rend’s neck and choked him to his knees. Even Soren had walked away with a bruised spine, a fractured shoulder and a bleeding due to being repeatedly slammed against the wall.

“We can’t use the Force, right?”

Shriek was the reliant on the Force of them all and his strength was unparalleled. He could lift all the others, and Cody, without having to gesture so much as a finger.

“No, we can’t. But we-“ Gaia said confidently as she walked around to each black suit of armor and stamped a bright yellow Imperial Seal on the chest plate- “are Sunshine Squad.”

“Sunshine? That sounds...” Kali made a face that indicated primness.” The others snorted and giggled, eyeing the bright symbol that was so stark against the black.

“Yellow is Cody’s color.”

Everyone fell silent. They each turned to Gaia with shameful expressions, Soren and Rex pressing a hand to their chests. “We should wear it with honor. Don’t you think?”

“Yes sir.”

Gaia blushed fiercely and the seriousness of the moment dissipated in a flash. Rex grabbed her shoulder, pressing his forehead to hers in a gesture Cody often used as one of affection and encouragement.

“You got this, vod.”

Gaia gripped him behind his neck, pressing her forehead harder against his. “We’ve got this.”

“Together.”

“Together.”

They walked out of the prep room together, Rex’s twin shock batons swinging on his hips and Gaia’s stun pike slung easily over her shoulder. Shriek carried one baton and Kali carried two short ones. Soren carried the most unique version of the weapon; he’d grafted retractable batons onto his gauntlets.

Rend and his squad, named after himself, were waiting at the other end of a mock canyon. The expanse of space that spanned the arena was rocky and full of cavernous rock formations. This was widely considered the most difficult setting in the arena and only the most skilled combatants were even allowed access to it. Rend Squad trained on it every week.

“Uneven terrain,” Shriek muttered, checking the grips of his gauntlets one last time. “Easy to lose footing.”

“Rend likes to use power moves, devastating blows with that mallet of his. Be a shame if somebody led him to some loose gravel and he couldn’t get the traction for something like that.” Kali ground her teeth together the further into the statement she went. “No one makes one of us bleed without paying the price,” she finished darkly.

“No heroics on our account,” Soren soothed, touching the Twi’Lek’s shoulder. “Using the Force will disqualify you, vod’ika... we need you out there.”

Kali sighed but nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. She showed her lack of rest, but Gaia knew how even a tired Kali could be lethal. Anger seemed to energize the girl, which Cody tried to frequently discourage, but Kali didn’t always listen.

A harsh bark of laughter echoed across the field. “Look at them! They even named themselves Sunshine Squad! How precious.”

Gaia tightened her grip on the staff, feeling the cold thump of anger in her stomach. She immediately pushed it away. She couldn’t afford to have emotions out on the field right now. She needed a cool head, not just for herself. Four others depended on her to be the logical one. The one who could make a split second decision that could decide the sway of a fight.

“Oh, so stoic! The captain’s got you all whipped. Cant even unleash your tongues else he might not feed you.”

Rex snorted. “The galaxy’s finest actors. Shame we’re waisted on the Empire,” he muttered. The others made soft, amused noises, refusing to raise noise that Rend might be able to perceive.

“When you’re sufficiently able,” a voice chimed from everywhere, Cody’s signature snarl that he used when in mixed company, “begin.”

Rend surged into motion like he’d been stung. The teenager pounded his way through the valley that ate up most of the arena’s center. His team followed, a knot of black against the leeched grayish brown of the sandy soil.

A hum filled the air as the five powered up their stun batons. They sank into crouched, legs braced, weapons brandished. Gaia side-checked Soren and Rex. They would move together, just like they’d rehearsed. “The joints,” she reminded. She heard Soren growl a little under his breath, saw the shine of sweat on his cheek. On the other side, Rex’s gloved squeaked as he adjusted his grip.

And then Rend was upon them.

Gaia took two quick steps forward and swung her staff. Rend blocked it easily, but then went down as Rex and Soren darted by, each scoring a hit to the unprotected backs of his knees. Kali and Shriek followed them, Kali’s hand darting under Rend’s arm to deliver a shock right to his armpit. Shriek kneed him in the face, the sound of breaking cartilage swallowed by Rend’s enraged yell.

Gaia side-stepped a half-blind, flailing swipe from Rend’s mallet, wound up and let fly a swing that caught Rend directly on the jaw. She groaned when he fell forward, unconscious but still gripping his mallet in his hand. “Players” weren’t considered out of the game until they either dropped their weapon or were disarmed. Disarming an unconscious opponent wasn’t allowed.

She turned, thrumming her legs into a churning sprint. The others had reached the rest of Rend’s team and the fight was on. Rend was the muscle of the team but being assaulted by so many combatants proved far too much for his weight-bound fighting style. Alone, he might’ve taken Gaia, but she wasn’t alone.

Soren danced in and out of the reach of a tall, slender human, who looked to be creating her fifteenth year. She twirled and flicked a baton that was almost as long as Gaia’s entire staff, the incredible reach of the thing keeping Soren from getting close enough to stun her. Her control of the thing was remarkable and she wore a fierce, almost animalistic grin.

Gaia stepped into a spin, circled her staff around and brought the stunning “blade” down hard on the woman’s elongated, but thin baton. There was a crackling snap and the low hum that had followed the baton’s motions died.

“Combatant eliminated.”

The voice was artificial, leaning itself to a feminine quality. Sterility aside, Gaia couldn’t contain a low, triumphant laugh. “Bit off a little much there, didn’t you, Kreia?”

“Karking nerf herders,” she snapped back bitterly, arms falling to her sides as Soren and Gaia hurried to help the others.

“I got Shriek,” Soren said, veering away to where the smaller boy was dueling his opponent like a mad man, his baton a purplish blue blur as he blocked, parried and struck.

Gaia glanced at Kali, who slid under the arm of a huge boy easily thrice her size. She drove her knee up into his elbow, breaking the arm, and causing the boy to release his baton.

“Combatant eliminated.”

Gaia heard her give a shout of joy.

Rex was directly ahead of her, scrambling over a small rock outcropping, using the terrain to keep the remaining member of Rend. Gai recognized the youngest member of the squad, Coris, by his double batons and by the constant twirling madness that he he created with them. Rex was easily his match, but one of his arms was slower, possibly he’d been shocked on that side. His good arm was working in a frenzy to block Coris’ blows and Gaia could see the sweat fly off the Zabrak’s face as he tried to trip up his opponent.

She put on speed, building up for a downward power strike that would send Coris to his knees. He turned at exactly the wrong moment. One arm arced backward in a stab, keeping Rex at bay, while the other swept outward, catching Gaia in the shoulder. The blow knocked her sideways, the bone jittering shock of the baton causing her muscles to seize up and clench violently.

Gaia slammed hard into a rocky formation, the air leaving her lungs. She was a powerful warrior, capable of taking down opponents twice her size, but she was still only eleven. She coughed, tasting copper on her tongue where she’d bit her own lip. The weight of her staff in her hand reminded her that she was still in the game and her head snapped up just as Coris bore down on her.

Her arm jerked around, sweeping at his knees, but Coris was not Rend. He jumped the strike and laughed. “Stupid little kid.”

“I know you are,” someone that Gaia couldn’t see all but bellowed, “but what am I?”

Coris’ face twisted into annoyance but then froze in a grimace as a baton-wielding arm looped around his shoulders and touched the tip of the weapon to the underside of Coris’ jaw. The young man’s lithe frame went rigid for a moment, then the arm retracted. Coris swayed, his batons slipped from his fingers and he fell flat on his face.

Rex stood panting, looking as if he might collapse, one arm bent protectively around to cradle the other. His batons hung on his belt. “You okay?”

Gaia nodded, using her staff to help her stand. “You?”

“Might be broken. I dunno.”

Shriek and Soren stood a hundred or so yards away, Kali near them. They were all looking back in the direction they’d come from. Gaia and Rex followed their gaze. Rend was stirring, pulling himself up to his knees.

“We gave him everything we had and he still didn’t go down,” Rex said softly so only Gaia would hear. “What’s the plan?”

Gaia tested her shoulder, rolling the arm. She’d have a bruise but she could still move it. “Get him in the caves. We can’t handle another all out attack like that, you especially. Confuse him. If we can hit him with a bunch of sneak attacks, just beat him down one by one, we can end this. See if we can really mess that nose of his up.”

Rex nodded once and the two set off. The others fell in around them, Soren touching his brother’s good arm worriedly. Kali glanced anxiously at the blood drying on Gaia’s chin, but didn’t say anything. Her anger coiled in the Force, begging to be set free.

“I’m okay,” Gaia assured her almost sternly. “Focus.”

Kali huffed, frowning darkly. “I know,” she snapped but then added more gently, “...I know.”

Rend lurched to his feet and whirled, eyes wild amongst a blood splattered face. He took in the unconscious forms of his teammates with an annoyed snort. Gaia wasn’t sure but she thought she heard him mutter, “Useless.”

“You’ve already lost,” she called to him. “Lay down your hammer and call it a day, Rend. You’ve already made squad. Nothing for you to prove. Gaining another qualified strike team for the Empire helps us all.”

Rend sneered at them. “You don’t make squad until until every one of my team isn’t holding a weapon.”

Soren and Rex sighed together.

“Guess we’ll have to do this the hard way after all.” Shriek cracked his knuckles.

The inhuman noise of rage that ripped out of Rend’s mouth was nothing short of deafening. A wave of energy rolled with the scream, slamming into the five children without warning. Gaia was sent flying, her staff ripped from her fingers. She heard a blaring klaxon sound in the area followed by four overlapping “Combatant eliminated” alerts.

She flipped head over heels and landed on her belly, losing her wind for the second time in five minutes. Someone clipped by her and there was a pained yell as they landed. It sounded like Shriek. Through blurry eyes, Gaia spotted Rend stomping his way toward her, his mallet held firmly in both hands.

He’s going to kill me, whispered in her mind, a tendril of panic curling cold and hard into her gut. She tried to push herself up, but pain, sharp and hot sang through her body; something was broken even behind all that armor.

Rend stopped in front of her, hooked a toe under Gaia’s shoulder and flipped her over. “No kid takes my field,” he said, blood and spit flying from his mouth.

“Drop it Rend.”

Cody’s voice ushered a wave of relief over Gaia that was so strong that she nearly lost consciousness right then. She tilted her head back a little and saw him, all glossy black and yellow, a blaster rifle aimed threateningly at Rend. “You disqualified yourself by using the Force. You lost your own field and handed the children the win.”

Rend turned toward Cody, fist balling up as he moved. Many things happened at once in that moment. Cody suddenly staggered, his armor buckling and contorting as Rend began to slowly squeeze his fist shut. His rifle fired and missed. Kali and Shriek screamed together.

Time seemed to freeze as Gaia’s injured body hurled itself into action, her legs and arms clawing at the ground. She tackled Rend’s middle from behind, feeling Soren and Rex collide one after the other, Soren above and Rex below. Another blaster bolt screamed through the arena and then another. Rend jerked as one made contact, a strangled cry leaving him.

Gaia felt the bigger boy land on top of her, felt Soren and Rex immediately yank him off as the crackling pain in her chest exploded like a silent bomb. She groaned, an arm flying over her chest protectively. Rex was on his knees beside her, a hand covering her forehead, keeping her on her back.

“B-Captain. She’s got a broken rib, maybe a punctured lung.”

Other hands touched her, one on her ankle, another on her shoulder. The pain ebbed and dulled. Cody’s face bobbed into vision over her, well, his helmeted face. It was good he didn’t take it off now she thought in a quick burst of clarity; he might not be able to hide his feelings after all that had just happened.

“We’ve got to get her to Medbay.” Kali squeezed Gaia’s hand.

“I’m going to sedate you, Cadet. Just hold still.” Cody’s fingers trembled a little as he turned her head to the side and injected the sedative, the soft hiss of the depressor promising relief with a gentle whisper.

She felt the prick of the needle in her neck and the pain disappeared. Gaia’s entire body seemed to unwind, growing warm and heavy. It felt good, to just lie there and not have a care in the world. Everyone she loved was there... This was nice. In fact, Gaia felt so good that she thought she just might sleep. Yes. Sleep would be... be nice...

#sunshine squad #star wars #commander cody #my oc’s #star wars fanfiction

[vulpixsinistre]

H.I.V.E. Characters as Dragon Ball Z Characters

To start, you may be thinking, Otto is Goku, yes? Both our heroes. Both get stronger and learn new techniques as their series goes on. Both want to protect their friends and the people from Earth from certain doom and destruction and getting conquered. Goku craves a challenge - dare I say Otto is the same, at certain points?

Yes, Otto is Goku- BUT he is also Cell. He was created, not born. Meant to be more than human: meant to be perfect, all powerful, intelligent and capable of being the one to take over the world. The difference is that Cell wants to do these things; Otto just wants to be a person. Therefore while Otto was meant to be Cell, he chooses his own path and is a Goku.

Wing is Trunks. Here’s a mysterious young boy with incredible strength and loyalty. Who is his father, you ask? Well, they would like to keep that a secret at first. He wants to train, to protect. His mother is a genius scientist. (On second thought, maybe he’s Tien. Disciplined martial artist, loyal friend, has some good moves, still only mortal)

But Cypher is Dr. Gero, brilliant creator of androids. They seem to… decline over the years. We see how they’ve grown progressively more evil as time went on. Cause of much destruction. Will not hesitate to hurt a child. At least Cypher thinks he has good intentions, Gero is just kinda stewing over his defeats.

Pike is Dr. Briefs simply because scientist. Inventor. Often seen with a cat. Old but doesn’t seem to age, is always just old.

Overlord is Freiza, of course!! Our OG Big Bad!! Conqueror and lord of planets, nay, the whole universe!! Also keeps returning. How is he back again?? He doesn’t quit!!

Block and Tackle, our tough duo, would be either Raditz and Nappa, or Zarbon and Dodoria. R&N are basically just thugs, and definitely lower level than the other baddies. Z&D are more ruthless and are definitely henchmen. Block and Tackle are a mix of that “brute force over brains” and “organized order-followers.”

Francisco is Captain Ginyu!! Head of a fearsome squad of fighters that you do NOT want to mess with!! And yet, they are both silly at times. We get laughs out of them while knowing that this guy is strong and means business.

Franz I’m sorry, you’re Yamcha. You’re there and you help and you’re funny, but you’re not quite a main main character, and the rest of them are handling this all pretty well anyways. HOWEVER you are also Yajirobe!! We think you’re a silly side character, but when we really need help, you swoop in with a devastating blow to the bad guy!! Yay!!

Nigel is Chaozu, bald and nervous side character. Sidekick type. They do their best, and would sacrifice themselves for the greater good.

Nathaniel? Master Roshi. Old perv dude. Wise, the main characters need their advice, they’ve been in the game a long time… but yeah ppl immediately think of their gross lines. These two do have a purpose! And perhaps most of their relevance in the storyline was in a flashback/pre-canon sense, but they’re still here, doing their own thing.

Penny is Vegeta, but in reverse. She starts as having a family, surrounded by friends and loved ones and being a “good guy.” Then she ends up in enemy territory, alone.

HIVEmind is our King Kai!! He’s off in the distance. He’s not actually here but he’s helping. Sending out messages and giving advice. And we know he’s strong! But he’s supposed to be a helper, only.

The Contessa as Berry Blue, perhaps? Old. A right hand man in her organization, if you will. “Yeah I’m evil. Yeah I’m going to be mean to everyone, even if they’re on my side.” An evil advisor.

The Furans WISH they were King Cold, Cooler, and Freiza. They WISH they were an awesome terrifying dictator family. What’s that, you say? They are? Well they don’t have half the swag that the Colds do. Plus Elena doesn’t want to be a part of that. (Ok fine. Equal amounts of ruthlessness. Keep coming back after their ‘defeats.’ Will kill anyone. Command a large army of soldiers.)

Ms. Leon is Korin. White cat, very wise, a teacher type. Also maybe Captain Ginyu when he’s trapped in the body of a frog. When consciousness switching goes wrong…

The Bloodline antagonist is Broly, I will not elaborate due to spoilers. Trust me though.

Now the hard part. Laura and Shelby… who is Bulma, who is Chi Chi? Is Laura Bulma because they are both incredibly intelligent and work with computers/machines? Is she Chi Chi because she wants a life outside of fighting and conflicts? Which one is Shelby, they’re both tough and outspoken.

Is Shelby Launch?? Launch has two personalities, sweet/innocent and violent. Does this correspond to Book 1 Shel’s Valley Girl persona vs actual Shelby?

Is Raven actually Trunks, due to sword? They are faced with enemies deemed too hard to beat, and they still manage to take them down. I was originally having Raven as Piccolo: always by the MC’s side, skilled fighter, maybe Natalya/Raven can equal Kami/Piccolo? (They are the same person now. In ways, they didn’t used to be)

Yknow? Maybe Raven is Whis. Bodyguard and employee of a very high ranking authority, and everyone knows they are much much stronger than their boss. Don’t get them going, you can’t win.

#h.i.v.e. #dbz #vulposts