#DEA Fic

[thetormentita]

spes ultima dea

Audaces fortuna iuvat —Virgil

Pairing: Ofc x Lucius Verus

A/n: just an idea that came to my mind while I was taking a shower, don’t blame me 😁

Warnings: each chapter has its own

Chapter 1 (Mature +16)

Chapter 2 (Explicit +18)

[softpascalito]

javier peña x f!dea!reader - we got your back.

Summary: You work as a new DEA agent alongside Peña and Murphy. A not-so-kind colleague reveals more about you than you would like. Protectiveness and fluff ensues.

aka

my friend wrote me some hurt/comfort headcanons and i turned them into a small something :)

Relationships: Javier Peña x FemReader (can be read as romantic or platonic)

WC: ~4200

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mention of Canon-Typical Violence, No beta we die like Colonel Carrillo, Family Issues, They arent specified but reader is implied to be from a dysfunctional family, Steve is here too

AO3 LINK // PART 2 // PART 3 (on tumblr)

Notes:

hello!

there is a mention of the readers dysfunctional family in this story. if you relate to that in any way, please always remember that you are worthy of healthy love. it exists. seek help or advice if you need it. toxic environments arent forever. if you need to talk, my inbox is always open.

i havent written anything in a while and english is not my first language so please be kind and leave a comment if you like it <3 _______________________________

Chapter 1

You had been in Bogotá for less than three months and while the past weeks had been filled with too little sleep, too much coffee and the daily fear of being targeted by a sicario , you had developed somewhat of a routine in the new environment. This was in large parts due to work at the Embassy. With Bogotá traffic being, well, Bogotá traffic, there'd been several days where you'd just bunked down on your office floor instead of going home to your bed which eventually had led to both Javier and Steve and now you always keeping a spare pillow and blanket around the office to make it slightly more comfortable. The most homey part about the Embassy however, were the people. Not just the two agents you were assigned to assist, hell, not even just the DEA department. Everyone helped each other out wherever they could. Being a gringo in Colombia with a drug lord promising a nice sum of money for your head was impossible to bear by yourself. And only almost impossible to bear with a bunch of people who were in the same position as you. You got along with almost everyone at the embassy. Almost everyone . The harsh contrast to your other, kind colleagues was a DEA secretary: Raquel Vázquez. She had been throwing obstacles and hateful glances your way as soon as you had arrived. You weren't even sure why she hated you so much. She was the wife of another agent and as spouses were not allowed to work anywhere but the embassy, she was stuck with her desk job, spending the day signing off letters, faxing intel to Washington and her favorite pass-time: taunt you for whatever she could come up with. “Hey, are you even listening?” Steve is crouched down in front of your desk and waving his hand through your line of sight, trying to grab your attention. Almost immediately there is a dramatic, loud sigh from the other side of the room:” How do you expect her to function on a job like this if she can't even manage to function within her own family?” Raquel snaps before rolling her eyes and pretending to look at the documents in front of her. Your head practically whips around as your brain processes what she just said. How the hell does that bitch know about your family situation? “I- I need to get a refill,” you mumble as you get up abruptly and grab your coffee mug, your old chair screeching as it is pushed back. Suddenly you're feeling a lot smaller as you navigate your way through the desks and flee to the small kitchen down the hall. You almost collide with Javier, who is just getting back from a meeting. You squeeze past him, not even giving him a chance to tease you. If one more person gets on your nerves, you are surely going to cry and you do not need that in front of your colleagues. Least of all in front of Raquel.

“Is everything alright with her?” Javier asks as he walks over to Steve, who is still kneeling in front of your desk and staring at the doorway you just left through. He slowly stands up and turns his attention towards the secretary, casually leaning over your now abandoned desk with crossed arms as his angry gaze bores into Raquel's skull. His eyes not leaving her, he turns towards Javi:” Do you know Y/N's family?” He asks bluntly. Javier seems somewhat taken aback by the question. He ponders for a few moments, his furrowed eyebrows forming a deep line on his forehead as he slowly shakes his head:'' I don't think she's ever mentioned them. Didn't come up. Why?” Steve's gaze is still on the secretary, knowing that she is listening in to every and each of their words:” Raquel mentioned them.” He raises his voice slightly:” How did you put it? Dysfunctional ?” Javi clenches his jaw as he turns to the woman as well. With a few quick strides, he approaches her desk and almost slams his hands down on it.

“Señora Vázquez.” His voice is barely more than an angry, deep grumble. The woman jumps slightly as she looks up at him as he towers over her. Before she can even open her mouth, he continues:” Don't you think the higher ups would be interested in the fact that you prioritize the private life of your coworkers over your actual work?” At the implication of his words, a panicked look appears on Raquel's features:” I don't know what you're talking about.” Giving her a warning look, Javier turns on his heels and follows you, muttering a “gonorrea de fea” under his breath.

You are standing in the small kitchen space, your elbows resting on the counter as you hold your head in your hands. The empty cup that had served as your makeshift alibi is standing next to you, forgotten. You hear the footsteps just in time to scramble back up and clutch the empty mug in your hands as you try and put on a nonchalant face. Judging by the way Javier is looking at you, you're not doing a very good job. He has been leaning against the doorframe and is now slowly stepping towards you:” I didn't mean to startle you.” You notice he has activated what Steve and you always call his “puppy face”. There is a softness in his brown eyes that you know is reserved for those closest to him as he leans against the counter next to you. “I- It's fine I just …” You stumble over your own words, too upset to find a quick excuse for your behavior and lie to him. The truth is, you're not entirely sure you want to lie to him. Not when he is standing so close to you, looking at you with that stupid, heart-melting look in his eyes. “I heard about what happened,” Javi interrupts your rather unsuccessful attempt at explaining yourself. So whatever excuse you have ready, I don't need to hear it.

He gently reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before stepping closer and taking the empty mug out of your hands. He notices that it's empty. He doesn't mention it. Instead, he reaches around you to place it on the counter before gently pulling you into his embrace. Javier isn't really a hugging person. Hell, you aren't either. But he holds you close, gently stroking your back and you feel whatever resolve you had left about allowing him to comfort you evaporating into thin air.

“You know Steve and I always got your back, right?” He mumbles, his voice low. You can feel his lips on your forehead as he ever so gently places a small kiss on it. You know he is expecting an answer but you feel as if opening your mouth will also open the floodgates so you simply nod your head. He sighs softly:” Good, good. I also want you to know that if you need someone, you can come to me anytime. Day, night, fucking lunchbreak, I dont care.”

Leaning back just enough so he can see you, Javi gently lifts your chin up with his hand, forcing you to lock eyes with him to make sure you can see that he actually means his words.

“I'm here for you, cariño and I'm not going anywhere, okay?”

“Yeah,” you manage to breathe out, your heart bursting with love and appreciation for the man in front of you. Smiling, satisfied, Javier presses another small kiss to your temple before letting go of you to pour you a new coffee. He adds a large splash of milk, just as you like it and insists on carrying it back to your desk for you. As you make your way through the hallway, just before you walk through the large door that leads into the DEA office, he stops in his tracks, turning to you with a smirk on his face.

“You also know that I'll put everything into getting Raquel fired if she ever bothers you again, don't you?” A laugh escapes you before you can help it and you gently nudge him to go on:” Im counting on it.”

You could swear it's the biggest grin you've ever seen on his face. _________________________________

thank you for reading, you lovely people. and a huge thank you to my friend hannah who wrote me the headcanons that i made into this small story. she is the true genius behind it and an absolutely amazing person, ily <3 comments or feedback are always very appreciated and truly make my day <3

[spockanalia-archive]

Spockanalia #1: Physiologica Vulcanensis

By Sherna Comerford, Juanita Coulson, and Kay Anderson

Art by Sherna Comerford and DEA

by Sherna Comerford, Juanita Coulson, and Kay Anderson

The planet Vulcan is very different from Earth. By human standards, it is large, hot, and arid. The gravity is high, and the amount of light (and probably of other solar radiation) reaching the surface is extreme. Despite these non-Terran conditions, evolution on Vulcan has produced a sentient species which bears an astonishingly close resemblance to Homo sapiens. However, selective pressure has necessitated at least a minimal number of differences.

Although there is no evidence to confirm this, it is likely that Vulcans have a rather large amount of pigment in their skin. If this pigment were similar to melanin, they would have extremely dark complexions. However, the color of their pigment is actually quite similar to the shade of human caucasian flesh color. Such a light-colored pigment would be useful in protecting the underlying tissues from solar radiation, as melanin does in humans. The light pigment would reflect, rather than absorb, much of this radiation—a decided advantage with a sun as bright as theirs.

The pigment would also mask, wholly or partially, the decided green cast which the unpigmented skin would necessarily have. (Vulcan blood is green. This will be discussed in more detail.) An interesting corollary of a light skin pigment (as opposed to light skin from lack of pigment) is that exposure to sunlight would cause one to become lighter and lighter, in contrast to the human characteristic of sun-tanning.

Another physiological difference dictated by obvious environmental difference is the presence in the eye of a nictitating membrane. This membrane filters the very bright light of the Vulcan sun, but, when withdrawn, allows the eye to be sensitive to dimmer light.

Since their natural environment is comparatively hot, it is likely that Vulcans do not tolerate cold as well as humans do. This may be partially the result of an anatomy which allows comparatively poor circulation to the extremities. In addition, their basal metabolism is probably lower than ours.

Vulcans have a very high pulse rate (well over 200 beats per minute) and a consequently low blood pressure, probably on the order of 30 or 40 mm Hg at systole. Pulse pressure would have to be low to avoid the wear and tear on the arteries that would occur if the blood pressure fell low at diastole, then rose precipitously at systole. With a diastolic pressure of less than 20 mm, the blood would become so stagnant that it would begin either to thrombose or to pool and seep out of the blood vessels.

An organism with this combination of high heart rate and low blood pressure would probably require blood vessels of very large diameter to ensure adequate circulation. The one subject available for observation (upon observation of whom are based all theories contained herein) does show externally prominent patterns of veination. However, such patterns can be found on some humans, and great care must be taken in generalizing from a single subject.

Whether or not Vulcans have larger blood vessels than humans, the extreme rapidity of the heartbeat would require that their pulse be too rapid to be discernible as more than a faint thrill at the pulse point (if it can be felt at all). Doctors should note that this, in combination with the probable low respiration rate, could make it very difficult to determine quickly whether a Vulcan in coma were in fact dead or alive.

It is possible that Vulcans have a double heart, with separate circulation to the lungs, rather than the system found in humans, where the same pump is used for pulmonary and general body circulation. If this second heart beat asynchronously with the first, and if both beats contribute to the pulse, the extreme rapidity of the pulse would be accounted for. Otherwise, it is so high that even when one considers the low blood pressure, it is difficult to believe. With a double heart of this type, the pulse in the extremities might be slow enough to be discernible. (Appended to this article is another proposed model of the Vulcan heart, somewhat different from the one described here.)

It is also interesting to note that observations made of the behaviour of the subject (and of his doctor) imply that the major portion of the Vulcan heart is on the right side of the chest, and displaced, perhaps drastically, from its position in humans. In fact, it seems likely that their gross internal anatomy is quite different in arrangement from that of Homo sapiens.

The higher gravity of Vulcan produced a species which is much stronger than Homo sapiens. Observations of the one subject available shows that he has a slow, very fluid manner of moving in Earth-normal gravity (although the subject has also proven capable of great speed and agility when the need arises.) However, his movements, postures, and style of fighting give rise to the idea that to explain these characteristics, one must look further than a mere difference in gravity.

The interesting theory has arisen that the sentient species of Vulcan has an ancestry which is far more feline than simian. It is, of course, difficult to distinguish between cultural and genetic influences in these matters, but the following points are offered in evidence. Historically, Vulcans are known to have been a very fierce and warlike race, which suggests a carnivorous (or at least omnivorous) ancestry. The subject, Commander Spock, First Officer of the Starship Enterprise, has himself stated that some Vulcans are known to be predators (although at the present time, this is rare). The subject has extremely keen hearing and eyesight. He dislikes being restrained physically. In combat, he moves quietly and rapidly. He avoids direct hand-to-hand fighting, and prefers to sneak and pounce, dispatching his opponents with a very effective nerve grip, rather than a blow of the fist. (This nerve squeeze definitely requires further investigation. The fact that the technique has not been taught to the Captain and the human crew implies that Vulcan strength, or some other peculiarly Vulcan ability, may be required in applying it.)

The subject is clumsy in using his fists, and in making any punching attack-motion with his arms. He swings his arms like flails, rather than employing the jabbing and crossing a skilled human would use in fighting. In one instance, when he attacked in the manner of a fist-fighter, he missed his opponent altogether. With untypical clumsiness, he bashed his hand into the nearby wall. He then opened his hand into a claw, got a handful of his opponent's shirt, and threw him. This is not the only known instance of his throwing opponents about, rather than striking them with closed fists. It is a technique which seems analogous to a cat's batting an object around a room, rather than striking a single, telling blow.

Vulcans have non-feline traits, too. The most obvious, of course, is their rejection of the sensual. This, however, is clearly a cultural matter, and its physiological basis cannot, at present, be determined. It would be a mistake to regard the shape of the Vulcan pinnae as evidence of a feline ancestry. They much more resemble the flat, immobile simian ear.

It is hoped that the problem of Vulcan ancestry may be cleared up in the future, through the laudable efforts of the Eugene Roddenberry Foundation for Vulcan Studies.

The external similarities between Vulcans and humans are an example of convergent evolution. A characteristic of this phenomenon is a greater internal difference than is suggested by outward appearance. Although Vulcans (who, for cultural and/or biochemical reasons, are vegetarians) can eat human food, their chemistry is decidedly different from ours. One amusing proof is their (claimed) inability to derive from alcohol any effect of the type manifested by humans. (One must not, of course, discount the probability that they have their own wide range of stimulants, depressants, hallucinogens, and so forth, whether or not they choose to make use of them).

Vulcan blood salts do not include sodium chloride. This implies a profoundly different system for the transmission of nerve impulses (to name just one necessary consequence). In Terran animals, nerve impulses are transmitted by a wave of depolarization of the membrane of the nerve cell. This depolarization (and subsequent repolarization) involves a shifting of ions across the membrane. In this shifting, an integral part is played by the sodium ion.

The Vulcan blood pigment itself is green. This pigment is not necessarily the oxygen carrier, as it is in Terran species. Haemoglobin, however, could not be present in any meaningful amount, or the blood would appear brownish or olive grey. It is possible that there is a green compound related to haemoglobin, which has the property of being an extremely efficient oxygen carrier. (Vulcan blood is superior to human blood in this respect.) However, it is more likely that an entirely different molecule is used.

The difference in Vulcan blood chemistry leads to an interesting question. The subject under discussion is actually a Vulcan-human hybrid. One wonders how a human female could carry a half-Vulcan foetus (one possessing such non-human chemistry). It seems likely that her own body chemistry would cause her to abort the anomaly quickly—probably even before implantation of the embryo could occur. Although it has not been possible to question the subject on this matter, it seems likely that he was gestated in vitro rather than in vivo, despite a rumor to the contrary.

Far more profound than the question of gestation, or even of fertilization, is the problem of the compatibility of human-Vulcan genetic materials. It is truly incredible that species from two entirely different evolutionary lines should be able, physically or chemically, to produce viable offspring. Since this clearly has happened, one must seek in amazement for the mechanism.

Two possibilities present themselves. One is that somehow the familiar double helix of DNA has evolved on Vulcan, producing an organically and biochemically different animal, and yet having the millions of atomic details necessary for it to combine with the version of DNA found in Homo sapiens. The other possibility is that Vulcan genes (or rather, reproductive units) are very different from ours, but so constituted that they can combine with ours in a way very different from the way that ours normally combine. If this is the case, it is purely fortuitous! Vulcan genes would have to be unable to so combine with other genes in their own evolutionary lines, or speciation would not have taken place, and there would be no multi-cellular Vulcan organisms (assuming that Vulcan life is cellular in nature).

It is very definitely possible that the subject is stronger and healthier than either parent species, although there is no necessary reason for the (non-universal) principle of hybrid vigor to apply here. On the other hand, it is almost certain that the subject exhibits the phenomenon known as hybrid sterility. At this writing, the probability of his fertility seems almost as low as the vanishingly low probability of his genetic existence.

That the subject is sterile, at least to Vulcans, may also be inferred from sociological evidence. The Vulcans have put many generations of effort to the breeding of their species in a carefully chosen direction. The subject's father may have been willing to remove his own genes from the Vulcan genetic pool (although he probably could have contributed to a bank for artificial insemination) but he probably would not have committed the illogical and criminal act of introducing the genes of a physically and (from his point of view) mentally inferior species into the carefully cultivated Vulcan gene pool via a hybrid offspring. First generation hybrids may well be superior to both parent species in some respects, but it seems likely that no Vulcan would plan to produce one unless he knew the greater harm would not occur.

On the subject of Vulcan reproduction, mention must be made of an as yet unsubstantiated rumor. Vulcan men are reputed to have a seven year sexual cycle. They are required to experience sex at least once during the cycle, and the biological penalty for failure is death. If this is true, it would appear to be a result, wholly or in part, of the efforts of the Vulcan Genetic Control Board to prevent lack of emotion from causing the species to die out.

Before the physiological basis for this cycle can be discussed (beyond labelling it a long-term circadian rhythm), many questions must be answered. Is the statement accurate as it stands? If so, can Vulcan men reproduce at any time during the cycle, or only at the seven-year high? (The latter would seem very illogical and anti-survival, but it may act as a control of excess reproduction.) If sex is experienced in the middle of the cycle, does the cycle re-set or must sex occur every seventh year regardless? Do all Vulcan men reach their peak together, producing seventh year waves of children, or, as seems more likely, does the individual cycle set itself at puberty? What are the physiological and behavioral symptoms of the high point of the cycle?

Do Vulcan women have a similar cycle? (If it is culturally necessary in the men, it should also be necessary in the women.) If so, is it also a seven-year cycle, or is it shorter, to take better advantage of the period of greatest physical ability to withstand the strain of child-bearing?

It should be noted here that the presence of this mechanism in the subject in question need have no bearing on his previously discussed fertility, as there is no necessary connection between hormonal state and genetic vigor.

It is unfortunate that so many questions of Vulcan physiology must remain unanswered. The subject is fascinating (indeed, it has kept the ship's chief medical officer extremely busy, since he must minister to the medical needs of two very different species.) Investigation into these problems had been intended. However, the investigator unwisely chose to begin with a subject she found of particular personal interest. When she questioned the subject (the investigation concerned the question: Are Vulcan ticklish?), the subject regarded her interest as "Totally illogical," and claimed that Vulcans had shed such useless reflexes long ago.

In the true spirit of scientific investigation, the experimenter attempted to verify this. She reports that she experienced a sudden loss of consciousness. She awakened "alone, and with a very stiff shoulder," and thus found it necessary to curtail any further inquiries.

Note: With the help and guidance of Open Doors, we digitized the first volume of Spockanalia and imported it to AO3, which you can view here. In order to meet AO3's terms of service, some of the content was edited or removed. The full version of the zine is preserved on this blog. The masterpost is here.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Secure

Summary; Javier Peña x Fe!Reader -> You meet Peña at a coffee shop but after time passes, he finds out your secret.

Disclaimer: fluff, angst, mentions of guns, mentions of death, illusions to smut, swearing (I think, I haven't proof read this - probably spelling mistakes), spanish is in italics.

You had met Javi one late night in the coffee shop. You were getting the place cleaned up for the morning. Isabella, a regular customer, was sat in the corner with her nose burried deep in her research. The old man who’d you come to know as Pops - a name he told everyone to call him by - was finishing his book closer to the counter. It had been a promise he made to his wife. To read a little, at least, while she was gone. That way they’d have something else to talk about when they met again. Jośe, the young boy who’d run through the door every couple of hours in need of a coffee for his mama and a small cookie for himself, had just left, rushing out of the door going ten miles an hour. 

“Good book, pops?” You asked and he looked up and smiled. 

“Excellent.”

“Good.” You smiled. 

Just as you placed the empty cups from different tables by the counter, the bell above the door rang out. “You open?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Yeah. For a couple minutes.”

“Great.”

He rushed over, you moving the dirty cups from the counter. 

“What can I get for you?” You asked in English. 

“Coffee. Decaf.”

“Coming up.”

Then it hit him. “How’d you know I was American?”

“What?” You looked to him as you changed the filter. “Oh, uh, just a guess.”

He nodded and looked around, suddenly being met with Pops. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sweet.”

You smiled and waved to Pops. “Have a good night.”

“Night.”

“Nice Spanish.”

You smiled. “Thanks. I’ve lived here long enough, I should know.”

“I’m Javier, by the way.”

You smiled back and gave him your name which he repeated. It sounded nice. 

“So, how long have you lived in Columbia?”

“A couple years. Yourself?”

“Same.” 

The conversation ended soon enough when his coffee was paid for - he had something important to get back to. 

But the next night, you were closing up again and he came in. In fact, for the following weeks, he came in around the same time every night; just before closing. 

He started conversations with Pops who would tell Javier the meaning behind all his books. He actually started taking a couple of night classes at the local college. His wife always told him he needed to socialise more. 

She was a people person. 

And Javier would sit there and listen. Pops, clearly, was a man who demanded respect with a single look. Something, over the weeks, you realised Peña had, too. 

During the week, you had heard rumours about Javier. About his job. 

But it was never something you asked him about. You knew more than to ask an American in Columbia if he was working for the government. 

But still, he’d come in every day and order a cup of coffee and smoke his cigarette. You’d both talk and eventually, it got to the point where he’d walk you home. 

It wasn’t far; maybe a couple of blocks. 

You’d tell him why you came to Columbia - your sister. She travelled after college and invited you to join her. But something made you stay. 

He ask where you learnt Spanish. You’d tell him school, mostly, but the practice came in while you worked in the coffee shop. 

Some days, he’d come in during the day and just talk to you. He’d order a coffee here and there but it mostly remained untouched which wasn’t like him. 

Steve had asked questions at work about who Javi was going seeing every day - at first he expected it was to see one of his ‘informants’ but after he began to smell less perfume and more coffee around Peña, it raises his suspicions. 

Peña would give a vague answer but when Steve told Connie, she knew instantly. 

It wasn’t that a woman’s intuition was lost of Peña, it was just something about Connie that scared him. She seemed to know what he was thinking about whenever she looked at him. 

Little did he know, she’d seen him a couple times walk into the same coffee shop and leave with a smile on his face. One Connie nor Steve ever saw on the man’s face. 

But surpringly, it took him a while to ask you on a date. 

Javier wasn’t one for dating. After all, his job didn’t exactly allow it - especially in Columbia - but Connie (and Pops) thought he would have at least done it sooner. After all, the man came in every day for weeks just to simply spend time with you. He’d walk you home and always made sure you were safe. And god help any man that approached the counter and started flirting with you. 

It was like Javier had a radar for those who were flirting with you because each time, not two seconds later, Javier would stroll into the shop and make his way to the counter. Most times, it was like you had a radar for him, too. His coffee would be ready for him to pick up and if the guy wasn’t scared away by the look Peña gave them, he’d order a couple more cups for Steve and Connie (she’d usually come by in the afternoons to check in on him when she had the day off). He’d stay until the guy left and most people who looked away from their books noticed. 

And maybe, in truth, you had noticed a little, too. Most guys tended to scarper when Javi walked in. A few of them would even apologise to him and you for thinking differently. 

Eventually, when he asked you on a date, you said yes. 

He was so nervous. Imagine; Javier Peña, nervous around a woman. Even the heavens wouldn’t believe it. 

But he was. 

He’d asked after he dropped you off at your apartment. His palms were sweating, his mind was racing, and you were right in front of him. 

But the moment you smiled, his nerves eased. 

You smiled at him, nodded and said; “I’d love to.”

He smiled back, a little more confident, and before you opened your door, you kissed his cheek. 

“Goodnight, Javi.”

“Night, hermosa.”

As you closed your door, leaning against it, you smiled but you knew. 

You were in deep trouble. 

It didn’t take too long before you were both…intimate with one another. Four dates, in fact. It was longer than either of you had presumed but it kinda made sense. Mostly, the dates went as follows: 

You’d both ask questions which the other would answer, just simply wanting to know more. Then, you’d take turns picking the restaurant or bar. Next, you’d both head back to the coffee shop - the temp waitress had a family to get back to in the late nights - where you’d wrap your apron around your waist and serve the last couple cups of coffee to the night owls. Finally, Javi would either walk or drive you home (usually walk since he could hold your hand or wrap an arm around your waist) and finally would kiss you goodnight. 

It felt different. 

You’d gone on dates before but…they didn’t feel like this. Like…it was the first time but it was also the millionth. 

It felt…natural.

Homely.

A couple more weeks passed and you’d see Javier at least once a day. He always pop into the cafe to either kiss you good morning (when you hadn’t spent the night together - which was a rareity) or to kiss you goodnight which, you weren’t ashamed to admit would always turn into something more. 

One morning, as Javi lay back in bed, the cover draped over his lower half, he watched as you got dressed by the end of the bed. 

But that was when he noticed them. 

How he hadn’t before shocked him. It was like he studied every inch of you - and not only in the night but that morning too - and yet, how did they slip by him. 

“Hermosa?”

You smiled at the nickname before turning to look at him over you shoulder. You just wished you both had the day off. 

“The marks…”

It took you a moment to realise what he was talking about. But then it hit you. 

A memory you wished to forget. 

“They’re just from…” you contemplated telling him. 

He’d understand, right? He never confirmed it fully but you knew he worked as DEA. He’d understand carry a couple extra physical scars from a job, right? 

“They’re nothing, Javi.” 

You heard him shuffle around before you finally felt his hand on your back, tracing them before placing a soft kiss onto a couple, brushing your hair from your shoulders. 

You felt yourself melt into him, his other hand now reaching around your stomach to capture the other side of your waist. 

Slowly, you both lay back but then you remembered. 

You had a job. 

Unfortunately.

Javi groaned. He had one, too. 

You pressed a few kisses to his lips before he moved from on top of you and headed for the bathroom, him leaving you resting on your forearms with a huge blush across your cheeks. 

God, you were falling. 

Hard. 

It would be a while longer until Javier would find out the truth behind those scars; Find out the story that came with them and you. 

And it wasn’t in any way either of you thought it would happen. 

4 months later…

The sun was still burning hot over Columbia. Thankfully, however, the humidity was becoming less close and claustrophobic. 

Yourself and Javi had been going pretty strong. You had met Steve and Connie - albeit a little surprisingly. 

One of your waitresses had cut their hand whilst cutting up some of the breads for lunch later that day. Connie had been passing on the street with Olivia when one of the customers ran out asking for a nurse or doctor. 

Connie came rushing inside. 

After asking for your first aid kit and a space away from the customers, she handed you Olivia who you stood with in the kitchen as Connie cleaned out the wound and did what was necessary. 

“You’re lucky. It doesn’t need stitches. Just keep it wrapped and clean.” 

Your waitress, Elena, looked to you confused. You translated in Spanish and she nodded before thanking Connie. 

You gave Elena the rest of the day and offered Connie a cup of coffee and some food on the house. She thanked you before sitting down at one of the tables and placing Olivia on her lap. 

Yet, by the time you finished up, Javi had come strolling in and was a little shocked to find Connie sat inside. 

And, as suspected, Connie was shocked to find Javi there, too. But then it began to make sense. 

The smell off the coffee shop - it was Javi. 

It was you. 

Later that night, after Connie had insisted, you sat down and had a double date with Connie and Steve at a local place. 

Steve was glad Peña had finally found someone. As much as he himself had enjoyed the single life, there was just something about being married. About having someone to go to when things got too tough. 

And, this was something, if Steve ever said it out loud, Jacier would have to agree with. 

Sometimes it was like you were the only thing keeping him breathing. Keeping his mind awake when all it wanted to do was drown in the crime and the cases he delt with on a daily basis. 

The last six months, from the moment of meeting, it had felt like bliss. 

But sometimes it felt like Javi was waiting for the other shoe to drop. And, although you never voiced it, you did, too. 

And finally, late one night in the coffee shop, it did. 

Javi had worked later than he’d wished to have done. His paperwork had kept him back, making seven typing errors in one sentence. 

Most of the time, he wouldn’t bother. But with Messina…everything had to be up to code. 

And legible. 

But as he walked up the street, he found flashing lights outside your coffee shop, a waitress sat by the ambulance getting patched up and no sign of you. 

His heart dropped. 

“Peña?” 

One of the cops recognised him. “I wasn’t aware we’d called the DEA.”

“You…what happened?”

“Oh, uh, robbery. Or, attempted. Two shooters. One deceased.”

“And the other?”

“Hospital.”

“How?”

“The owner faught. One of them came from the back and sneaked up on her. She said she was fine and needs to go home. We’re gonna bring her in for questioning tomorrow.”

Peña nodded, trying his best to keep a clear mind. So you was okay? Why hadn’t you called him? 

As quickly as he could, he ran to his car and sped down the roads towards your apartment. But the closer he seemed to get, the more he began to panic. 

You had faught? 

It wasn’t that he was surprised but…no, he was surprised. Most people when met with two armed gun men didn’t exactly fight against them. Especially when the only other person in the shop had been knocked clean out and now had a severe concussion. 

But you had faught. You had, what? Killed one gun man and injured the other? 

This seemed more than just a robbery, to Peña. He didn’t exactly know why. Maybe it was the fact that the toll hadn’t even been touched. Maybe it was the fact that they’d knocked out one of the waitresses. Maybe it was the gun they had been using - Peña saw them as they got taken in for evidence. 

This couldn’t have just been a robbery. 

Peña didn’t bother knocking. He knew where you kept the spear key and he knew the code. 

He shouted your name as he entered, shutting the door behind him. “Honey?!” 

Javier had to double back as he passed the enterence to you living room. There you were, sat on the sofa, blood splattered across your body, hair, arms and clothes. You had a first aid kit open in front of you. Javier could see the bloody gauzes in a pile in the table. 

“I’m fine-“

He rushed in, pulling you up and hugging you. God, he thought you might have been dead. That the cop had got it wrong and he’d decided to just hear what he wanted to. 

But he didn’t.

You were here. 

You were alive. 

Are.

“Cariño,” Javi’s voice was soft as he took you in. Any anger he had right now could be saved for later. All that mattered was that you was alive. 

You pulled back from him to sit back down. You needed to clean the wound. 

One of the gun men had got you. Thankfully it wasn’t too bad and since it was night, you got away with telling the cop the stain on your uniform was from the kitchens. 

Peña pushed the first aid beside him as he sat on your coffee table, you knees interlocked with his. 

“It doesn’t hurt?” He asked you after a couple of minutes. He was shocked. Most men he’d met would be at least grunting in pain by now. 

You shook your head.

Something changed in Javi. His back became straighter, his gaze more focused. 

“Those scars. How did you get them?”

“Javi.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“They’re nothing-“

“Bullshit.”

You stared him down. He wouldn’t budge. 

“How did you fight? Those men. One is dead and the other will probably do so in hospital. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Y/N.”

You bursted. You tried your best to look away as Javi questioned you but when he said your name…

“I was a cop, alright!” You hadn’t meant for it to sound so loud. 

Javi just looked at you. You hadn’t told him? Was this how you got the scars?

You sighed as you looked down. Well, it was out in the open now. 

“I was a cop, back in the states. FBI.” You explained, your voice a little quieter now. “I had a partner, a couple years back. We had been working on a case for months. Turns out, all the information, all the insider stuff he’d found - it had come from him. He wanted into their circle. The people I had seen die, everyone’s families and children and friends had all died because he was the mole. He would tell the group where to find the families, he’d tell us he knew where the groups would be that night. Then he’d go back and inform them that we were on our way. It as fucked up.”

Javi waited for you to continue. 

“Look, I felt something was wrong so I tailed him one night. I put a call in and somehow…he found me one night. He caught be by the shipyard. When my agents finally turned up, I was almost dead. When I woke up in hospital, a guy came in. CIA. I had a bag packed, my life covered up and a plane ticket to wherever I wanted to go.”

“So you came to Columbia?”

“My sister stopped over for three days and I stayed. I don’t know what made me but I did. An agent found me a job at a local place since I wasn’t ready to go into the field or anywhere near it. The job stuck and then I decided to buy the place.”

“And the guys?”

“Local gang, I guess. They look into everyone’s background and they must have thought something was up with mine.”

“Did they say anything?”

“Just that I was American and that I had a dirty secret.”

“They know you were a fed?”

You shook your head. “Probably thought I was an informant or some shit.”

Javier nodded. You could see the worry in his eyes. 

“I’m fine, Javi.”

“You could have told me, you know.”

You looked at him. Maybe. Maybe you could have told him earlier. Maybe you should have told him earlier. But what would that have done? Make him worry more? Make him panic when you were left alone?

You’d been in Columbia a good few years before you met Javi. You were one of the best agents the FBI had in the field and - if you ever wanted it - there was a job waiting for you at the FBI in the states, the CIA or, probably now, the DEA. 

You were protected. By your career, by your knowledge, by your skills and by the fact that you entire past had been burried so deep, not even the Pentagon had access to it. 

Your gaze was both soft and serious. 

“I’m telling you now.”

Over the next hour, Javi went to your bathroom and grabbed a fresh face cloth before getting a bowl of warm water. Sitting back in his place on the table, he held your chin softly, Turing your face so he could wipe away the splats of dried blood. 

Once he finished, he placed the cloth down and turned back when he felt your hand grip his. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Javi just nodded, interlocking his knees with yours once more. “I get it. I do. I just wish…”

“I know.”

You both shared a look with one another. It didn’t need to be said out loud. 

Peña leaned in, and pressed a secure kiss to your lips. 

You would be okay. 

You are alive. 

And, over time, more stories would be revealed. What happened on certain jobs, what scars came from where, what they signified…

But in this moment; it didn’t matter. 

All of that could wait until tomorrow. 

For tonight, he wanted to show you what you meant to him. He’d say the words soon enough, but right now, he just needed to show you. 

And you were okay with that. 

After all, you felt the exact same way. 

[seagullcharmer]

don't have the energy for a full post but. thinking abt the mc escher fic again and i am actually quite unwell about kankri. i love dirk's scene where they discover the paradox clones and that technically dirk and bro started off as the same baby, but everyone adores dirk! everyone loves him and cares for him and he is trying so so hard to not be anything like bro. dirk has seen a worse version of himself but his family is there to support him. and then there's kankri. kankri, who grew up with the kindest, most forgiving troll in the universe, and wants to emulate him so desperately. kankri, who learns that he started off as the same grub as his ancestor. kankri, who barely anybody likes or tolerates, even within his weird family, and has to deal with realising he's the worse version. i'm normal about this.

[shadebloopnik]

I just read the newest update of Stolen Moments

Please everyone keep your distance as I attempt to gather my bearings in these trying times

[yuansie]

the way i scour the rafayel x reader tag with hawk eyes, feeling like a starved man, feeling like ive been deprived of water, hoping to find angsty fics (esp non mc ones). only to find... nothing. ONLY SMUT. its everywhere. its a disease. LET IT GOOOOOO. what happened to writing fanfics where the men violently yearn and fall to their knees, begging for a single glance or word from the one they love?? BRING IT BACK NEOWWWWWW

[seatnights]

HEY I NEED HELP🤠

okay now that maybe i’ve got your attention, please help a bestie here.

it’s been hours since i’ve started searching for a fic that i’ve read times ago. it was a steddie x reader fic were the three argued ‘cause steve and eddie were spending to much time with chrissy and reader got mad and took away her stuff from their apartment to go stay with robin&nancy, then eddie and steve realised reader was gone so they worried and called nancy, then there’s more arguing and happy ending.

I CANT FIND THIS FIC ANYMORE PLEASE DOES SOMEONE KNOWS THE NAME LR SMT??? IM BEGGIN Y’ALL

[madomkasak]

final dead heat chapter don't talk to me

[simperator]

Haeresis Dea - Chapter Six {End of Part One}

AO3 Link

For whom does the processional organ toil?

It started with waking up too early.

The sun outside the dormitory window had barely lazily crept over the horizon before an incessant pounding came from your doorway. The sweet embrace of sleep still had a very firm grip on you when your lead-heavy eyelids blinked into blurry reality, your head throbbing in pain already.

“Sister! Sister wake up!” It was a Sibling of Sin on the other side of the door, who absolutely bursting with joy. Any amount of happiness thrust upon you this early should be the damn well best news you ever heard in your life. “Yes, what… what is it?” Your voice was dry and barely masking your annoyance from being awake before you are obliged to. Sunday. It was the day for Papa Nihil’s sermon- but you were normally awoken by the light- today it must have been before 5:00 AM.

“It’s an ordination day! A second one!” Hauling your body upright, all whilst rubbing your eyes trying to calibrate yourself made it hard to process what she had been saying. “What?” you yelled, haphazardly throwing spare robes onto the floor in order to get your tunic and wimple on at the same time. Barely tucking in your hair into your under-veil, you open the door to see a Sister decorated with a gold Grucifix, and steam-pressed robes. She looked you up and down with a small manner of shock. “Oh, you have to look better than that.”

Still stuffing your hair in your underwear to throw the habit on after, you finally began to understand what she had said. “Did you say a second ordination day?” It was almost unprecedented. Ordination days happened once every season if that. Barely more than twice a year, and the church is holding another after a little over a month since the last? The Sister nodded incessantly. “Yes! Isn’t it exciting?! Papa sent out a message saying that there is going to be an ordination within an ordination. Whatever that means! Now come on!”

Just barely getting yourself in proper dress the Sister grabbed your wrist and began dragging you towards the transept of the cathedral. Almost everyone you have ever met in your whole life was on their way in the same direction, all dressed in their most formal garb. Even other Novitiates were buzzing with excitement, even if they didn’t get any different robes.

Novitiates! A second ordination day!

Your mood instantly spiked from sleepy and vexed to elation. Beginning to laugh as the Sister still was pulling you, you had to ask. “Does this mean I’m finally going to be free?!” She stops in her tracks, turning to you to look you in the eyes. Your smile faded slightly at the hesitation coming from her, she then beams at you and throws her arms around your shoulders. “Oh! I’m so happy for you!”

At first, you’re too stunned to react. Then, you’re squeezing the Sister back twice as hard, laughing wildly. You have worked, cried over, and prayed for this day for years. And, as if by fate or other force, there is a second ordination day, and your seniors are telling you to look your best and giving you hugs? There was no doubt in your mind today was the day. Pulling away from the Sister, still squeezing her shoulders and your eyes sparkling wildly, “What are we waiting for?!” And now it was your turn to drag her.

The two of you finally made it to the transept and were so in awe at the service being set up that you almost didn’t notice the fact that almost every pew was filled. Candles were flickering from every direction, there was an anxious chattering in the air. Most notably, Papa Nihil was in all red and gold papal robes, only worn for special sermons and occasions. The whole atmosphere was picture perfect to what you have always dreamed of.

You broke away from the Sister as she was in the middle of a conversation. Scanning either direction in a row of filled pews, you saw Copia, smack at the front. Eagerly skipping towards him, you almost flew down next to him, bouncing in place slightly at all the nerves that were racing through you. Turning to him, you beamed, and he offered a very weak smile in return. Knowing that he must have been up hours before you to prepare, you didn’t think very much of it.

“A second ordination. Wow. Can you believe it?!” “I can. I’ve been up for three hours setting it up.” Offering him a sympathetic smile, you patted his shoulder. Poor thing looked exhausted. However, he wasn’t poor enough of a thing for you not to press about the service. “Who’s getting ordained? Do you know?” Of course what you really wanted to ask if what your cue is to stand up and kneel in front of Nihil for him to say those magic words. Copia bit his lip tentatively. “Eh… yes…” Before you could fathom his expression the processional organ began to play. Fidgeting in all directions, you could barely contain yourself. The sermons were all well and good for the most part, you looked forward to them.

However, the knowledge that you’re going to be a real member of the clergy has you sitting on pins and needles. Time was moving so much faster than usual, before long the organ had died down and a hush fell over the congregation. Past you wandered the small gaggle of children who helped with the Altar, holding high the Unholy cross and tall candles. Behind them, as proud as a lion, Papa Nihil marched behind them in his sparkling papal robes. He offered curt nods to the congregation and small “hello”s, he was obviously very jazzed about today’s sermon. As he approached you and Copia, you smiled excitedly at him. Papa’s smile fades slightly at the sight of you, but for once, not out of contempt.

What was that all about? All smiley and friendly with everyone except you? Not taking your eyes off Papa Nihil as he approached the front of the altar, you leaned over to whisper to Copia. “What was that about?” Copia doesn’t look at you, eyes fixed to the front. “Probably nothing.” Now, what was that about? Your priestly friend was an anxious one, that fact nobody could deny. But for him and Papa to both be treating you so strangely vexed you. Perhaps it was just nerves about the sermon, you tried to repress any other possibility.

Nihil began with the introductory prayer. “In the name of the Fallen, and of the Morning Star, and of the Unholy Spirit.” The congregation echoed its response. “Nema.” Nihil continued as per usual. “The grace of our Lord the Olde One, and the love of the Beast, and the communion of the demons be with you all,” Then follows the same rhythmic chanting. “And with your spirit.”

As Papa Nihil went through the Penitential Act for the mass, your eyes trail towards the front row on the left side, closest to him. Terzo was perched in his usual spot, sporting his all-black cassock, and unusual for him, a frown. There was something else that seemed off about him today like something was missing. It dawned on you slowly as you stared at him, he was not shadowed by the bodies of his brothers next to him. Looking back to Papa Nihil your heart began to beat faster, your palms beginning to moisten. Whatever anxiety came from excitement now warped itself into just more anxiety.

“Copia. Where’s Secondo and Primo?” You whisper-yelled. If there was one thing you were refusing to deal with, it’s the prospect of there being a connection between Papa Nihil’s strange treatment of you and Copia acting even more sheepish than usual. No- not sheepish. Guilty.

A loud swallow escaped his throat as he refused eye contact with you. “Sorella-” His voice was quivering, obviously terrified to continue his sentence. Normally you would do anything to ease your friend but you were so flummoxed by his behaviour you couldn’t muster that same empathy. Glancing down, you notice his fingers twisting into themselves anxiously. “They… will be here…” Eased only by the fact that they were safe, your eyes were fixed on him, as they gazed off passed his nose into nothing. With emotions running high, you tuned out Nihil’s sermon completely. Copia forced a wonky smile on his face as the organ played an unfamiliar tune on an unfamiliar cue. “Here they come now…”

Papa Nihil looked out towards all of you with, for the first time you’ve ever seen him with one, a real, genuine, prideful smile. “To the members of the congregation, it is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure to announce a second round of ordination within the Unholy Satanic Church clergy. In such a short time in their lives, they have proven to walk by the teachings of Satan, gain the respect and faith of their peers, and live their lives entirely by the church’s teachings. Everyone- I give you the privilege of witnessing the coronation of the Unholy Church’s newest cardinals, Primo and Secondo Emeritus!”

Nihil was speaking, but words seemed to be devoid of all meaning as his lips moved with no sound. Ears ringing beyond any comprehensible volume, eyes shot as wide as they can go, and jaw slightly agape with the shock. This all had to be some kind of dream, or perhaps you somehow time-traveled years into the future. The organ’s melody echoed through the cathedral and as if everyone else in the room was in it except you, the congregation turned to look behind them.

Instinctively, you followed. Satan, you wish you hadn’t. Creeping from out of the shadows, the candlelight bouncing off two very clean, very new black cassocks you saw them. Primo and Secondo. Laden in freshly pressed Cardinal robes, backs fixed straight and shoulders rolled back. As the pair walked down the rows, not offering anyone in the congregation a single glance, their eyes were fixed on their father. Primo carried himself as if he were a king surveying his newly gifted kingdom and its subjects. Secondo’s expression, no matter how much you studied it as he grew closer, was entirely unreadable.

Secondo had chosen your row to walk down, whether or not it was on purpose was entirely lost on you. Maybe he was going to lean down into your ear and tell him his grand plan to tell Nihil off in front of the whole clergy, or maybe to loudly proclaim he was leaving this place and taking you with him. Instead of any of that, he looked forward, ignoring the hands Siblings were reaching out for him to shake. As he approached you, yours were the only eyes he could meet. With no regard for decorum, your face read that of pure pain and heartache, and if only for a moment, Secondo’s expression broke into that of guilt.

Before he could continue on his path you impulsively, yet gently, reached for his hand. Copia looked like he was going to faint at your little action. Feeling the familiar leather under your fingertips you looked up at Secondo, who had stopped dead in his tracks. Too much was racing through your mind right now to muster anything more than a single syllable. You looked up to him, eyes welling with tears, pleading. “Why?” It was barely more than a whisper. Secondo looked to you with a restrained glaze over his eyes, as if he wanted- needed to tell you something. Eyebrows furrowing, however, he shook it off and dropped your hand.

The procession organ began to crescendo in your ears to a volume unbearable, a ringing in your ears beginning to melt into the noise. How long have you been trying to build up this relationship with him, confiding in him about feeling alienated from the church, and him actually sympathizing? You feel like a fool, after opening up to him about feeling inferior and him confirming it, striding above and past you to be ordained as your superior indefinitely forever.

“Maybe…” It was Copia’s voice, or, you thought it was. You didn’t hear any sound but the words somehow were processed in your brain. “Maybe you will be ordained!” Swallowing the heavy feeling of heartache, you turn to Copia who was offering you a desperate smile. “...And he wants to be the one to do it!” In what you deem a pathetic turn of events, the sentiment lifts your spirits. The idea that you are letting a random guy you have an infantile crush on sway your mood like this is embarrassing, but if Copia is correct, then all of those infantile fantasies will come true all at once.

Primo and Secondo stared at the congregation. Secondo, straight past them. Primo, beaming as if it was the greatest day of his life. In fairness, it probably was, and who are you to ruin somebody’s greatest day? Primo met your gaze for the first time in either of your lives and he smiled warmly. It was nice how your first interaction was sweet if he would even remember it.

Holding up his hands to the swaths of people excited and expectant, Nihil silently subdued the energy in the mass. As if by instinct, Secondo and Primo turned to their father, his place on the podium towering over his sons emanating a foreboding energy. After a few beats of hesitant silence, Primo stepped forward first. Papa Nihil’s hands lowered to the height of Primo’s forehead, Primo genuflecting before him.

"I, Primo Emeritus, Cardinal of the Unholy Satanic Church, promise and swear to be faithful henceforth and forever, while I live, to Satan and his Gospel, being constantly obedient to the Unholy Satanic Church, to Blessed Lucifer in the person of the Papa Nihil the First, and of his canonically elected Successors; to maintain communion with the Unholy Church always, in word and deed; not to reveal to anyone what is confided to me in secret, nor to divulge what may bring harm or dishonor to Unholy Church; to carry out with great diligence and faithfulness those tasks to which I am called by my service to the Church, in accord with the norms of the law. So help me, Almighty Satan."

Papa Nihil nodded slowly at his words, prideful and sure. Everything about Primo’s recitation was perfect, he has obviously been rehearsing for this day for a very long time. As if to twist the knife in him one last time, Papa Nihil waited a minute before reciting an ordination prayer.

Dies Irae, dies illa

Solvet saeclum in favilla

Teste Satan cum sybilla

Quantus tremor est futurus

Quando Judex est venturus

Cuncta stricte discussurus

Ears pricked, and you carefully studied the words as Papa Nihil spoke them. You have never heard this incantation before, and you have spent many tireless nights studying all the calls and responses that the Satanic mass has in its transcripts. Standing himself back up, Primo met eyes with his father, who in clasps his hands on either of Primo’s shoulders. The two couldn’t help but break into small, giddy laughter. It shocked you to see father and son act… like father and son.

It could only last so long. “Secondo Emeritus, please step forward.” A hush fell over the congregation, the mass came to a halt. You stared expectantly at him, as everyone else was. Secondo looked like he was going to faint. It seemed like hours that he stood, feet planted in place. “Secondo?” Papa Nihil’s voice was soft and riddled with unease. Secondo’s eyes began to dart around the mass, all the nameless faces waiting for him, waiting for him to take his rightful place as their future spiritual leader. His eyes reached yours, and if you didn’t know better you would think they were welled up with tears.

Turning back to Papa Nihil slowly, Secondo genuflected. Lowering his body at an excruciatingly slow pace, as if to punish every muscle in his body for what he was about to say. "I, Secondo Emeritus, Cardinal of the Unholy Satanic Church, promise and swear to be faithful henceforth and…”

He hesitated.

“… forever. While I live, to Satan and his Gospel, being constantly obedient to the Unholy Satanic Church, to Blessed Lucifer in the person of the Papa Nihil the First, and of his canonically elected Successors; to maintain communion with the Unholy Church always, in word and deed; not to reveal to anyone what is confided to me in secret, nor to divulge what may bring harm or dishonor to Unholy Church; to carry out with great diligence and faithfulness those tasks to which I am called by my service to the Church, in accord with the norms of the law.”

In one final act of rebellion, Secondo opened his eyes, head turning up to face his father. Fitting in one last power struggle as Priest and Papa, Secondo’s brows furrowed as the closed his prayer. “So help me, Almighty Satan." Papa Nihil’s features were unreadable, the only discernable emotion being a frown that stretched across his face, his hands lowering to either side of Secondo’s head, parroting the same ordination prayer.

Dies Irae, dies illa

Solvet saeclum in favilla

Teste Satan cum sybilla

Quantus tremor est futurus

Quando Judex est venturus

Cuncta stricte discussurus

One thing you could not help but notice is that Secondo’s eyes were fixed open the entirety of this exchange. As if in his own attempt to diminish its meaning, or to muddy it up in some way. Between him and Papa Nihil, there seemed to be a deep-rooted divine tension. It sent chills through your skin.

Secondo straightened himself up and turned back to the congregation. Not sure if cheering would be appropriate but wanted to offer some form of celebration the organ began plunking out minor-scale notes arranged in some pomp and circumstance. Papa Nihil’s voice boomed over it, as commanding as one of the deities hanging from the ceiling. “From this day forth, Primo and Secondo Emeritus will be regarded as spiritual leaders, guides, and friends.” Terzo rose from where he was sitting, standing before his family at the altar.

“They will ordain members of this very congregation! To establish their role as Cardinals, and to establish their newfound relationship with each and every one of you.” Joy coursed through Papa Nihil’s veins and it burst out of him as he spoke. “Novitiates!” You instantly straightened your back at the word, instinctively responding to it. “Please, rise, and meet with me at the foot of the altar. With Terzo as your guide, you will be divinely ordained as Siblings, true members of our Unholy Church!”

Not reacting physiologically at first, you were stagnant in place. Still. These words rung between your ears only in dreams, but to your knowledge you were awake. Yes, with a touch of Copia’s hand, you knew it, his smile was now no longer sheepish but full of pride. “Go.” He whispered, a childish giddiness about his voice.

You shot up from where you were sitting, skin screaming with anxiety and mind reeling with endorphins. Adrenaline, joy, fear, it was all crashing into you at once, the sound of the organ pulling you across the altar towards Terzo. Fellow Novitiates lined up before and behind you in each direction, all hurriedly chattering and buzzing with excitement. Attempting to maintain an Unholy air, you all walked with the same well-poised grace as you have been taught all your lives.

As you approached Terzo, you gleaned a strange sort of air emanating from him. Disappointed, angry, just… sad. He was helping Novitiates up onto the main altar space, the Siblings of Sin excitedly scampering up to meet Secondo, Primo, and Nihil with childlike energy. As you finally reached Terzo, you smile at him, but eyebrows furrowed sympathetically to see what was wrong with him. It must be so hard to see your father who has given you trouble your whole life be kind to your brothers. Yes, that’s it.

“Sorella.” He whispered. Eyes shot through him, expectantly. You banished any potential of heartbreak for you out of your head. This was your moment, what you’ve worked and waited for all this time. He couldn’t take that away from you, he shouldn’t. Nobody should. “Come…” You were flummoxed. “Terzo, we’re in the middle of service I… I have to go up there.”

Wordlessly, Terzo’s gloved hands grasped yours as he dragged you away from the congregation. He was swift, making looking straight ahead of him. Instinctually, you followed suit, he was trying not to make a scene and who knows what would happen if you tried as well. Briskly, you were dragged out of the transept and into the courtyard. “Terzo-” you were finally out of earshot of people so you finally speak sharply. “What… why did you do this? I have to be up there!”

Terzo didn’t breathe a word. This was fixing to be your last fucking straw. “You knew how long I wanted this, why did you drag me away? I want to be with my friends.” Still nothing. So many thoughts raced through your head as to what he wanted. Was it secretly a prank he was saving you from? Was Terzo about to profess his love to you before you became a Siblign? Did Secondo want to ordain you himself?

The air morphed from sadness to shame. Terzo stood silently in front of you. Pulling at the hair on your scalp you wanted to scream, you wanted to cry, you wanted to hit him. “Why does no one tell me anything?! I should be back there right now, you pull me out here, and now you say nothing! What is it Terzo, what do you want?!”

Your tone was cruel. You didn’t care, part of you wanted it to be. “No, you shouldn’t.” Terzo finally mumbled. Stunned, you began to back away from him. “What, you think I don’t deserve it? Were you all just lying to me? Why shouldn’t I be up there, Terzo? Why don’t I deserve this?!” “They were never going to ordain you!”

Terzo’s shout was not to an inhuman volume, but it echoed so loud between your ears that it deafened out any other thought. Never. That word… that word particularly hit you like a blunt force in every part of your body that carried an inkling that you aren’t enough, that you don’t belong here, that it was all a bunch of lies. Air was constricted from out of your throat, your eyes were wide and fixed on Terzo’s features, which were entirely unreadable. You spoke without realizing it. “What?”

His features began to soften with sympathy and a desperate need to make this better for you. Nothing could make this better for you. You prayed to whoever would hear you that this was one of his mean-spirited pranks, and staring at him you waited for a smirk to crack across his face. You’d hate him forever if this was a prank, it was too raw, too real. But nothing cracked. Terzo looked and looked at you. “They were never going to ordain you…”

Terzo continued, but you had already heard enough. “Sister Imperator found the letters that your mother had sent, about turning back to the Catholics. She shouldn’t have done it, but she did.” He swallowed. “She… she told Primo that…” Hot tears threatened to prick the sides of your eyes, your fingers began to shake. “To cement Primo and Secondo’s ordination, they have to move quickly because we all know it’s bullshit. They have to give them all the power immediately in case people were going to start speaking up against it.”

Your lips trembled but didn’t move for a few beats, your voice quivered with impending sobs. “What did Imperator tell Primo?” Now Terzo looked like the one who was going to cry. His jaw opened and closed, he was obviously hesitating. But he owed this to you, if you weren’t going to get the ordination you were owed you at least deserved an answer. “He was going to excommunicate you.”

It was like a sharp dagger piercing through the already existing blunt pain. The morning light reflected off the leaves on the surrounding trees, dappling the atmosphere. The light caught Terzo’s eyes which looked wet. Too defeated to say anything else, your voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Why?” He licked his lips and broke eye contact with you. “No good reason.” He spoke softly. “It’s just… what we do.”

Finally letting the hot tears fall from your eyes you sort of reveled in the burning sensation as they trailed down your cheeks. “Did Nihil know about this… did Copia?” “Copia? God, no.” he whispered. Temporary relief knowing someone in your life wasn’t plagued with betrayal. “No, nobody knew about this except Sister Imperator, Nihil, Primo, and myself.” You stared at the ground, watching the tears stain and dirt below you. “Did Secondo?”

Terzo looked pained, he approached you for a step then stopped. He wanted to hold you, you didn’t know if you wanted to be held. You didn’t know how or if you could be helped at all. “I…I don’t know, Sorella…” Quiet sobs started to erupt out of you, paying no mind to the embarrassment you would normally feel crying like this. Arms outstretched, Terzo began to approach you. “Sorel-” “No.”

Lightly swatting his arms away, you grasped yourself tightly as you glanced in every direction. The courtyard, the trees, the cathedral, Terzo. This loop went on for a few beats as the feeling of anger, dread, and panic washed over you. “I… I need to leave.” Backing away from Terzo, who looked surprised and scared. “Sorella, wait-” “No, I… I can’t be here.” You turned away from him, finally feeling how the cathedral loomed over you for the first time in your life. “I can’t be here!”

Breaking out into a run, you ran back into the cathedral. You made a point to run straight past the transept, avoiding seeing any of your… you now considered them former… friends. The processional organ and choir echoed through every hall, taunting you as you tore through trying to get back to your dormitory. “Wait! Sorella!” Terzo’s voice was distant but approaching. It was desperate.

Focusing on nothing else, you made it back to the women’s chambers in time, slamming the door to your room so that Terzo could not enter after you. Quiet sobs now turned into loud wails as you pulled at your hair and clothes, gripped yourself, and tried anything in an attempt to soothe yourself. Frantically, you searched your room for any sense of comfort, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. It was cold, claustrophobic, and impersonal like a prison cell. You didn’t belong here, you needed to be free of this place.

Scrambling towards your desk you took the first blank piece of paper you could fine and your usual pen and began scrawling a message for the Unholy Church of Satan for the very last time. Your handwriting was hurried but legible, you paid no mind to what you were saying or how you were saying it. Examining the paper after, it read;

I hereby declare myself disaffiliated from The Unholy Church of Satan. I am an apostate of Satan and all he stands for. Do not come looking for me. I shall never return.

You licked your lips, you were on a weird, panicked high and you wanted to keep going before you came back down and crawling back to the place that hurt you so deeply for so many years. Not bothering to change out of your robes besides ripping off your habit, you began to wrap your belongings in your headscarf as a makeshift pouch. Some jewelry from childhood, some books, and your pen were all you cared for.

Stripping a small piece of tape from the stationery on your desk you tacked it to the paper. Ripping the door of your former dormitory open, you slapped the note on the door as loud as you could muster, stared it at it for a moment, and began your race back to the courtyard and as far away from this place as your feet could take you.

Terzo couldn’t catch you. Copia couldn’t comfort you. Nobody could find you. Whether or not your mother was right all these years didn’t really matter anymore. She was right about one thing at least, that she made a mistake ever letting you stay here. That you don’t belong here. You would be happy to hear her apologies in person, the first time someone would apologize to you in your life.

The dirt road crunched under your feet, and the horizon stretched on but you could make it into town by the time night falls for sure. The morning sun was at it’s highest now. The church organ echoed through the fields.

[yuyusuyu]

after blurred lies and lies ends, i will be publishing my yunho smau from my wips !! reader will be poc (spanish speaking fem reader)! i want to be inclusive as possible, so if anyone has any slang or phrases that they'd like me to include please tell me in my inbox !! i don't want reader to be leaning towards mx spanish (since that's what i know) lel 🫶🏼🫶🏼 (also the smau is going to be more written HAHZAHAH)

[softpascalito]

javier peña x f!dea!reader - we got your back - chapter 2

Summary: You work as a new DEA agent alongside Peña and Murphy. A not-so-kind colleague reveals more about you than you would like. Also, who the hell is still in the office in the middle of the night?

Relationships: Javier Peña x FemReader

WC: ~2800

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow burn, mention of canon-typical violence, no beta we die like Colonel Carrillo, family Issues, they arent specified but reader is implied to be from a dysfunctional family, Steve is here too, literal sleeping together, one bed trope if you squint, tac vest javi

AO3 LINK // PART 1 // PART 3 (on tumblr)

Notes:

helllooo! i am really proud of this chapter and ofc i had to put tac vest javi in because i am a slut <3 comments are very welcome, have a great day!

spanish translations can be found at the end :)

_______________________________

Chapter 2

The rest of the day passes without any hiccups. You can only assume that either Javi or Steve have made good of their promise to make sure that Raquel doesn't bother you again. You can't say you regret it.

Throughout the afternoon, you find both men glancing over at you more frequently, evidently making sure you're okay. Noone mentions the events that took place in the same room mere hours before. Not that anyone other than Steve and Javi really cared. Office gossip existed just as it did anywhere else but so far, you had steered clear from it. The DEA section had more important things to do either way.

You watch the clock go by. You can't really see the sunset from the office. The windows aren't very large to begin with and the curtains are always required to be closed. Safety and all that. As a few wayward rays of the sunshine steal their way into the office, most of your coworkers start packing up. You don't.

When you had arrived in Bogotá after a long flight and a daunting drive to your apartment, you had stood in your new home in shock. The embassy had apartments of all sorts all over the city. It was helpful to use different comunas for safehouses. Most agents lived in the northern part of the city in fancy highrise buildings guarded by fences and security. Some, especially the ones that were doing a lot of undercover work, had apartments in slightly more dangerous places. As did you. It was a tiny bit closer to the embassy than the northern city apartments. The first few nights you had barely slept, scared that someone would break down your door. Judging by the way it hung off the hinges slightly, it wouldn't take a lot of effort. Then there were the gunshots. They weren't uncommon, really, but they still scared the shit out of you. You knew how to handle yourself in combat, you'd successfully completed the grueling weeks of DEA training after all, but gunshots during a raid with a bulletproof vest strapped to your chest were something different from gunshots during your dinner time at the small, wooden table with nothing but your pajamas on. Or worse, when you were sleeping. Or at least trying to. You don't even notice that Steve is leaving until you hear Javier call after him:” Give Connie my best.” He looks after his partner for a moment before his gaze wanders over to you. When your eyes meet, you quickly force yourself to look away. The files in front of you. You're not sure how long this one has been on your desk but you don't seem to be making any progress. Whenever the search bloc finds something that could be of importance, you are given 24 hours to look through it, make copies and find any potential clues. So that is what you're doing. The murky paper in your hands feels like it's going to suffocate you. But between this and another sleepless night at your apartment, you feel like the choice is an obvious one. Javier is still looking at you. You can feel his gaze on you as you try and continue reading the file. Has he noticed you've read the same page about four times? “You should go home too. Get some rest.” His voice rips you out of your thoughts and back into the present. You simply shake your head, muttering something about the time limit and not wanting to piss Carrillo off and to your surprise, Javi actually lets it go.

Or, you think he does. That is until half an hour later when he leans against your desk again. “Hermosa, I appreciate you doing this but you look like you're about to fall off that chair.” He raises his hand and when you follow his movement you can see his car keys dangling from it:” I'll drive you?” He offers and if you weren't so irritated by your lack of sleep and, well, everything else, you would almost think it's cute how much he cares.

You don't feel like arguing so you just stay quiet and focus your attention back onto your paperwork. He groans a little in annoyance but the two of you know each other well enough to know that neither wants to give in. You're just as stubborn as he is. “Look, how about I-”

You never actually learn what he thinks will get you to change your mind because he is cut off by his walkie springing into action. It's the second raid being conducted tonight and someone is asking if the DEA wants to send an agent. You're not sure why they even bother to ask. Javier will happily jump into action at a moment's notice, no matter the time. You watch him as he shoves his cigarette between his lips to unlock his desk drawer with two hands, pulling out his gun and a tac vest. “Be careful,” you say, too late. He is already hurrying down the hall. You're not sure how long he is gone when your head begins to droop, sleep slowly but surely taking over. With a frustrated huff, you get up from your chair, ignoring the creak it gives as you push it aside.

The jacket will do fine, you think, as you sit down against the nearest wall, wrapping it around yourself to give your body some sort of signal that it can relax. In the back of your mind, you remember that someone kept a blanket and pillow around, just in case, but you're not sure where it is and even if you did, you feel like your body might not want to get up again just now.

Sleeping in the office isn't allowed, technically, but you know that Javier and Steve have done it before. Likely, more than once. You set an alarm on your watch to make sure you'll be up before anyone starts to arrive in the morning. You hadn't expected him to come back. You should have known, really. ___________________________________________

Something had been off. None of them got nearly enough sleep as was, but today you had seemed like you were barely there. Javier wasn't sure if it had anything to do with what had happened earlier with Vázquez but either way, he didn't like the way you had looked. So, when he finally left the lab they had raided, he decided to drive back to the embassy instead of going home. Surely enough, there you are. Huddled into a corner in the dimly lit room, breathing steady with your eyes closed. He sighs as he takes in your form for a moment, already knowing you'll wake up to back pain from the way your body is twisted up against the concrete wall. Javier crouches down in front of you and for a moment, he considers not waking you at all, simply lifting you up and carrying your form into his car to get you home. He isn't sure if it's the concern of startling you or the anger he'd inevitably have to face if he did, but he lets it go, settling on giving you a gentle nudge instead. “Wake up, dormilona ,” He hums softly, his brown eyes focused on you as he gives you a moment to regain consciousness. You wake up the way you always do, slowly at first and then with a start. Your eyes fly open to stare at his form, taking in his gaze on you and the tac vest he's still wearing, and you blink a few times in confusion. When you don't say anything, Javi gives a small chuckle and gently grabs your jacket before standing and picking up his car keys once more. He rummages through his drawer for a moment before finding another cigarette and lighting it. When he turns back to you and sees you still slouched against the wall, his eyebrows involuntarily go up a bit.

He ponders for a moment before he opens his mouth:” Vamos, get up.Te llevo a casa.” It comes out as a mumble but in the empty office, it's still loud enough for you to hear. It's not as much of a question this time, more of a gentle command. You sigh, your shoulders dropping involuntary. You don't want to explain, don't want him to know, but you're too tired to put up a fight. His gaze is still lingering on you and you distantly wonder if this is the longest he has ever looked at you. “No quieres ir a casa.” He says gently, and again, it's more of a statement than a question. God, he sees through you so easily. “No.” You admit silently, finally averting your own gaze. Both of you stay quiet for a moment. Him waiting for an explanation and you trying to think of one. Again, you feel the need to close your eyes but you know better. Just get it over with. “It freaks me out a little bit. The empty apartment. And it's so far from the embassy, from everyone.” From you, you add in your mind. Not that you'd ever admit it out loud. Javi slowly crosses the space between you in a few long strides and crouches down next to you again. He takes a drag of his cigarette as he looks at you, waiting for you to go on. “The gunshots creep me out. And I-” You shake your head ever so slightly:” This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath:” I never really unpacked. I didn't want everything- the pictures of-” You can feel yourself getting choked up at the thought of your family pictures and simply bow your head a little. If Javier thinks your explanation is stupid, he doesn't say so. To your surprise, he doesn't say anything for a while. You're the one to break the silence:” Look, you can leave. I'll be fine.” He looks at you, cocking his head a little as he seems to consider something.

“No.” No? At that, your head whips around to find him standing up and pressing his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. His face doesnt convey any emotion, and you silently curse him for his poker face. “No?” You repeat, still a little dumbfounded. That gets a small chuckle out of him. “Me quedaré,” He says, as if that explains anything. When he looks down at you and sees the confusion evident in your features, his gaze softens a bit:” Vamos. Come on.” He stretches out a hand to pull you up, gives a quick glance towards the clock on the wall and then leads the way into a small office room that you know Murphy and him use for file storage. Indeed, there are several old file cabinets placed on both sides of the cramped room. The blinds are shut and when you follow his gaze, you notice a small couch that looks like it's been here since the Embassy was built. Maybe even before.

“I crash here sometimes. It's a hell lot more comfortable than a concrete wall, don't you think?” He teases softly but his tone immediately lets on that he isn't serious. At an inviting gesture from him, you sit down and immediately sink into the cushions a little, involuntarily giving a small sigh. It is a hell lot more comfortable. “Here,” he pulls a worn-down blanket from one of the drawers and along with your jacket, throws it over at you. To your surprise, you catch both before looking back at him as he starts to undo his tac vest. You want to say something. Something smart or at least funny. But your mind is still so tired so you just keep looking at him.

That is until he catches your gaze, his small signature grin creeping back onto his face:” Like what you see?” He asks as he throws the vest into the corner, left in one of his white short-sleeved shirts:” Or are you sleeping with your eyes open?” You roll your eyes ever so slightly and give a small huff:” Both .” You shoot back, trying to ignore the underlying message in both your words. When you glance over at him and see him sit down on the floor, you give him a look:” What are you doing?” “It's called being a gentleman, querida,” He replies, that small grin on his face again. Even if this wasn't Javi, or if he wasn't as attractive as he is with his stupid faithful eyes and small brown curls, you weren't going to let him kill his back by sleeping on the office floor.

“It's your couch.” You try gently, hoping he'll take you up on the offer. He glances up at you from where he is sitting, cocking an eyebrow:” Technically, it's George Bush's couch.” You can't help the small chuckle that escapes your lips as you shift a little to make room for him:” Get your ass over here, Javier.” The use of his full name seems to make him understand that you won't back down on this one and with a small sigh, he gets up again and crosses the space between you before sitting down next to you. “You okay with turning the light off?” He asks, his consideration taking you by surprise once more. You murmur a small agreement and feel him shift as he reaches over to turn off the small lamp placed on one of the file cabinets. A few orange rays from the streetlight are falling in through the blinds, just enough to make out his form beside you. You're not sure if you've ever seen him up this close and you allow yourself to study his features for a moment, the way his nose perfectly aligns with the small crease in his forehead, his breaths escaping through his slightly parted lips.

The couch is too small for you two to not touch but to your surprise, the warmth beside you is somewhat comforting. You're squished between the backrest and him and if you weren't so tired, maybe your brain would think further, more. But it doesn't. Nor do you. He has his arms crossed, no doubt thanks to a lack of other comfortable and, well, unassuming positions. You watch his form through the corner of your eye. You break the silence.

“How did she know?” You ask silently and you feel him tense ever so slightly beside you. Of course he instantly knows what you're talking about. “They have files on all of us. What we do here, what we did before DEA.” He gives a small shrug:” I'm assuming she saw yours in passing.” At that, a new fear creeps into your chest, one that seems a lot worse and scary than Vázquez could ever be. “Have you seen them?”

Even in the dark, you can see him turn his head slightly to look at you. He studies your face for a moment. You're not sure if he finds what he is looking for but after a moment of silence, he hums.

“No, I haven't.” “Okay.”

Your answer makes it clear you trust him. Javier wouldn't lie to you. Not on this, at least. He seems to follow your train of thought, his eyes never leaving yours. “Are you okay, cariño?” He asks silently. You instantly know he isn't talking about Vázquez or the files or even Colombia. He is talking about something without knowing what it actually is. It makes your heart ache a little. “Yeah.” You mumble back and you think you mean it. Right now? It doesn't seem so bad.

“You know you can always talk to me, right? I won't judge.” He isn't sure if you're ashamed of anything in your past, if that is the reason why you're so hesitant to talk about it. He just knows that something is there that gives your features a look he doesnt like on you. He wishes he could take it away.

“I know.” You simply say, again meaning your words. Before the silence between you can get too overwhelming, you add:” Lets get some sleep, yeah? Estoy cansada.”

“Yeah, me too.” He mumbles and he seems to hesitate for just a moment before he reaches out and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into him ever so gently. His movements are slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. You don't. If anything, you cuddle a bit closer to him, taking in the way his shirt feels on your skin, the way his arm seems to fit so perfectly around you. In return, you move the blanket a bit, readjusting it until it covers him and you. Again, both of you still.

He is the one to break the silence this time.

“ Vázquez can suck my dick.”

He thinks he can still hear you giggling as you're drifting off to sleep.

____________________________________________

hermosa - beautiful

dormilona - sleepyhead

vamos - let's go

te llevo a casa - i am taking you home

no quieres ir a casa - you don't want to go home

me quedaré - i'm staying

querida - dear

cariño - honey (romantic nickname)

estoy cansada - i am tired

_________________________________

thank you for reading, subscribe on ao3 if you like and maybe leave a comment? <3

[spockanalia-archive]

Spockanalia #1: Vulcan Psychology

By Juanita Coulson

Art by Sherna Comerford, DEA, and Kathy Bushman

A BRIEF SURVEY OF PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT AND LIFE ADJUSTMENT IN A HUMAN/VULCAN HYBRID, by Juanita Coulson

SUBJECT: Spock

Age ____?

Father : Vulcan, Ambassador, deceased (?)

Mother : Earthwoman, Scientist/Teacher, deceased (?)

Occupation : Science Officer and First Officer of United Star Ship Enterprise

N.B. Subject has not volunteered himself for therapy, and his dossier is not available. Therefore, this writer is limited to speculation, based on observation over an eight-month period, plus any information disclosed by the subject in the course of conversation with his peer group. His personality and adjustment to his environment have obviously been affected by his total background, but since the observer must garner such background entirely via allusions to past events, and by the subject's present behavior, this analysis is based solely on inference. Caveat. 

Spock's father was a native of the planet Vulcan, and his mother was an Earthwoman. From Spock's behavior and statements, we are informed that Vulcans are pacifistic and have eliminated war and other violent anti-social patterns, such as murder, from their culture. Additional reference has been made to Vulcan control of all emotional display (a quite severe suppression in human terms), dogged loyalty, and blunt honesty; Vulcan demeanor, in human terms, seems to be coldly unemotional, with occasional overtones of patronizing superiority (both intellectual and cultural).

Since Spock regards himself as more Vulcan than human, it is probable that his mother was of the "convert" personality. Spock's behavior patterns—primarily Vulcan despite his half-human inheritance—are not likely to have occurred if his mother had insisted on even partial Terran conditioning during Spock's formative period, and we may assume she embraced both the Vulcan culture and its methods of education and child conditioning as superior to those of Earth.

The subject was the child of a family situation in which normal communication between parents was impossible; it was also a situation in which it would be forever impossible for either parent to understand his child completely or for him to understand either of them.

Spock's only criticism of his father, implied or expressed, has been in regard to his father's inability to comprehend the emotional needs of his mother. Spock not only behaves as much like a Vulcan as he is capable, but he speaks with special pride of his father and his own half-Vulcan ancestry as a point of personal esteem. Nevertheless, he does not completely deny his half-human ancestry, although, as a verbal fencing exchange with certain privileged human peers, he allows himself to seem offended to be reminded of his human inheritance.

Spock has indicated that his mother's dedication to Vulcan culture patterns was not sufficient to enable her to overcome human emotionality permanently. Apparently, at some time, she either openly requested or otherwise expressed a desire for affection from Spock. Already conditioned in Vulcan behavior patterns, and denying himself such a (to him) distasteful emotional display, Spock still undoubtedly sensed the intense need of his mother for verbal and/or demonstrative physical affection. Thus, he must have been quite violently torn between the urge to express his love for his mother, to please her and gain her approval, and his irrevocable Vulcan conditioning which made it impossible for him to respond in the way his mother wished. Since he has always spoken of his mother in the past tense, we assume she is dead; any opportunity to express his love for her is now lost, a fact which seems to add to Spock's guilt and unhappy self-image.

Spock has a tremendous sense of duty which amounts at times to an obsession; he has on occasion insisted on performing his duties above and beyond that required by service regulations, even to the point of endangering his health and life. Possibly his obsession with duty is a cultural trait of the Vulcans. But it may also be interpreted as a projective method of gaining approval from his father or a father substitute (the figure in greatest authority in his present sub-culture). If the Vulcans are totally pacifistic it's possible Spock's career on a military vessel may be a falling-short in the type of goals Spock imagines his father may have preferred for his son. Obsession with duty may be a sublimation to replace an unsatisfiable wish for normal human relationships and family.

It is probable that Spock can never, physically, mentally, or emotionally, reach the ideal of "Vulcanism" he so admires in his father. Spock can only attempt to reach this goal through the devious method of setting inhumanly high conduct standards for himself, and driving himself to fulfill his duties in spite of all hazards and limitations.

Underlying and co-existing with Spock's obsession with duty are certain masochistic tendencies. These seem to be a form of self-punishment for:

His failure to respond to his mother's desire for affection and 

His failure to satisfy what he feels might have been his father's wishes and/or goals. 

Over and above pushing himself to physical and mental limits, Spock absorbs tremendous amounts of verbal and physical punishment before reacting, even when such punishment is grossly unjustified. (There is a physiological grounding for this behavior, which we will discuss later.)

Over and above pushing himself to physical and mental limits, Spock absorbs tremendous amounts of verbal and physical punishment before reacting, even when such punishment is grossly unjustified. (There is a physiological grounding for this behavior, which we will discuss later.)

When Spock reacts even to unjustified punishment by defending himself, he is quick to insist on his error, to point out his fault, and to anticipate appropriate reprimand or worse. Conversely, he rarely if ever demands redress for the unjustified pain he himself has suffered. On at least two occasions, he has been severely provoked by his commanding officer. Once, at a time when he was quite ill, the ship's captain struck him three times before Spock retaliated physically, Spock's expression on that occasion plainly implied that he was appalled at his own behavior.

In the second instance, his commanding officer verbally goaded Spock with comments on his alienness, his physical appearance, slurs on his manhood, parentage, personal standards (honesty, logicality), and the object of Spock's suddenly released affections. Again, only after extreme provocation did Spock react. And again, when his anger dissipated, he was at pains to insist that he should be punished; in this case he was satisfied by an additional duty assignment—a punishment substitute. (N.B. On both occasions, the behavior of the commanding officer was entirely justified by external circumstances, and did not imply a personal hostility toward the subject.)

In a further sense, Spock punishes himself. He sets goals he cannot possibly fulfill without occasional failure, denies himself companionship and (we suspect) many creature comforts, drives himself to duty when ill, and turns both anger and disappointment inward rather than outward.

In addition to his communication conflict with his parents, his obsession with duty, and his masochism, observation shows us that Spock is not totally accepted by his current peer group—quite possibly has never been fully accepted by his human contemporaries. His rank and position indicate considerable success in both career and social strata of his particular sub-culture (Military-Scientific Vessel, Galactic Class). But the reactions of certain of his human crewmen and chance acquaintances—both human and alien—imply that they have a distinctly adverse reaction to him. Since his physical appearance and demeanor are plainly far more Vulcan than human, he is immediately identifiable as a native of that planet. Reaction to this ancestry has ranged from mild surprise and suspicion to outright hostility. In all fairness, it must be pointed out that Spock's alienness is reinforced and made more inhuman by his Vulcan behavior patterns, which make him seem cold and perhaps repellent to some humans.

Though Spock has spoken of human culture patterns as "puzzling" (in some cases a euphemism for uncivilized and barbaric), he is certainly aware of his own human half, and probably identifies at least in part with human motives, including the desire for approval and companionship (though on an emotionally-detached basis). Therefore, this reaction of suspicion and hostility toward him by human and other species must occasionally dismay him, color his adjustment to his world, and make such adjustment more difficult.

Spock's behavior indicates his home community is presently the USS Enterprise, not the planet Vulcan. Further, he seems to regard the crew of that ship as the most valuable life form with which he comes in contact; despite his oftstated concern for "sentient life," if any other form of sentient life threatens the crew of the Enterprise, it is that crew he will risk his life for. Indeed, he will occasionally revert to his predatory Vulcan/human ancestry to protect the crew. (Part of this may be attributed to his loyalty to the ship's captain, an aspect we will discuss later; but not all of it can be dismissed as such.)

Obviously, Spock regards the crew, particularly certain members of that crew, as eminently worth saving. The subject is reluctant to use the emotion-charged word "friendship," but the indications are strong that his relationships with certain crew members fit that category. The Enterprise is his community; the crew members make up his personal sub-culture. When community and citizens are menaced, survival of both takes immediate precedent over earlier cultural conditioning against warfare and the taking of life. Since this reaction not only enables Spock to save the lives of beings emotionally important to him, but enables him to do this with Vulcan logicality (i.e., sentient life of eminent worth whose duty it is to contact and preserve other sentient life forms—therefore to be themselves preserved against any unfriendly species), it is both adaptive and adjustive.

Vulcan is a heavy-gravity planet, and since Spock is genetically half-Vulcan, and spent his formative years on that planet, he is physically a great deal stronger than his human peers. While this has sometimes proved an advantage, and has enabled him to perform useful and lifesaving services, it is also an emotional Sword of Damocles. He, so very much concerned with the civilized preservation of sentient life, is potentially quite dangerous to the sentient life form with which he daily works. His Vulcan emotional control is vital. It allows him to use his strength only as a constructive tool, not as the deadly weapon it can be. On the rare occasions when he has used his great strength emotionally, his subsequent reaction has been severe and very masochistic. This is adaptive, for his strength must be turned inward at all psychological costs: both Vulcans and humans have a savage, berserker tendency in their pasts, and any reversion to that past puts Spock's self-image, indeed his sanity, into grave jeopardy. Should his strength (through a loss of emotional control on his part) ever severely injure or kill one of his human peers, in all likelihood his guilt reaction would border on the self-destructive.

Hence Spock's continued suppression of normal emotional expression: no expression must be allowed free rein, neither hate nor love impulses; the human pattern makes it far too easy for his emotional pendulum to shift from one to the other, and when Spock's emotion is hate and/or rage, he is deadly. His suppression of all emotional display is very non-adjustive, and his masochism is unhealthy—but it is adaptive, because his strength makes the alternative too terrible to consider.

Spock's relations with human women, and his entire sexual adjustment, have undoubtedly been strongly influenced by his family history. With such a vivid memory of his parents' own failure to erase successfully the racial and cultural differences which separated them, Spock appears determined to avoid a repetition of that unhappy experiment. Thus he has all but cut himself off from human female companionship (which his human half may desire but his Vulcan inheritance and conditioning will not let him accept). Quite apart from his possible sterility as a hybrid, he recognizes that he is normally incapable of the sort of demonstrative emotional response most human females expect from a lover. He is indeed not demonstrative; he does not welcome touching, or embracing, and is unable to flatter. The aloneness of his situation troubles Spock—he has admitted it is a "purgatory"—but memories of his parents have apparently made him decide another Earthwoman should not suffer as his mother did. The unhappiness must end with him.

The subject is able to respond slightly to a moderate amount of low level sexual flirtation from a human female, but more intense approaches apparently trigger painful memories of his mother's unhappy situation. He rejects such approaches outright. His one deep emotional involvement with a human female occurred during unusual circumstances, when he was able, in effect, to block his Vulcan half and become nearly human for a short time. Under normal conditions, such reaction toward a human female is not possible for him.

Since we have never been permitted to see Spock interacting with Vulcans, and since our knowledge of Vulcan sexual customs is limited to the implication that the marriage between Spock's parents was unusual, no speculation is presently possible on his attitude toward Vulcan females…beyond wondering if he might seem as repellently emotional to Vulcans as he seems coldly unemotional to humans.

His relationship with his peers on board the Enterprise is generally professional, with only occasional lapses into something resembling normal human friendship patterns. Spock treats his human subordinates courteously and correctly, though he now and again displays concern, and some affection, for certain members of the bridge crew with whom he has a close working relationship. The two human crew members with whom Spock has the most human relationship are Ship's Surgeon, Doctor McCoy, and the ship's commander, Captain James T. Kirk.

McCoy is a sensualist, would-be cynic, and humanitarian. He seems alternately angered by and admiring of Spock. In return, Spock apparently enjoys goading the Doctor with inarguable logic, and appreciates and admires the Doctor's concern with sentient life. Theirs is a companionship based on a mutual enjoyment of verbal fencing, with some underlying friction resulting from their widely differing methods of attack on the same ultimate goals. But in the end, they display grudging admiration and unvocalized affection for each other.

Spock's friendship and professional relationship with Captain Kirk is a study in itself, calling for a far more thorough analysis than time permits us here. We will confine the present discussion to a few obvious facets. While being fiercely loyal to the Captain, and devoted to his service, Spock is not above arguing his own point of view. Spock is rarely convinced he is in error, and he is rarely proven to be so. However, he nearly always submits to the Captain's orders, even though these orders sometimes countermand Spock's deep cultural and emotional convictions. On the one occasion in which Spock was forced by circumstances to betray Kirk and to disobey direct orders, the action was observably painful for Spock; it was also an emotional and professional shock for the Captain, since Spock's behavior in this respect had been previously so predictable as to seem programmed.

An additional aspect of Spock's reaction to the Captain may be a form of projection. Spock seems to seek approval from the authority figure to whom he gives his loyalty. Presumably, on Vulcan this was his father, and during part of his previous career it was his then-commander, Captain Christopher Pike; now it is Captain James Kirk. While Spock is ego-secure and logical enough to argue for his own intellectual convictions, he will not normally disobey. In this sense, perhaps he is seeking Kirk's complete approval as a substitute; it is conceivable Spock's father disapproved of Spock's choice of a career aboard a military vessel—and approval of an authority figure does seem of great importance to Spock.

In addition to their logic, controlled emotionality, and comparatively great physical strength, Vulcans possess certain extra sensory perception abilities, abilities which Spock has inherited in some part. He is reluctant to display this E.S.P., and his reasons are multiple: 

Because his inheritance is mingled, his "control is not good," 

These abilities are quite private things, and displaying them is both a physical and emotional trauma which temporarily destroys Spock's image of controlled-emotionality in his own eyes and (he suspects) in the eyes of his human peers, and 

In exposing himself to the mind of another, he must expose himself to the emotions found within that mind. 

This is an experience which he would quite probably find distasteful in itself, and unpleasant in that the emotions in question may be unpleasant ones.

Spock has employed these E.S.P. abilities only three times during the eight-month observation period. Each time, he was hesitant, even greatly reluctant, and his motive each time has been a need which only his esper abilities could satisfy—there was no logical alternative.

These extra sensory talents and/or abilities include an empathic capacity to merge his emotions with another life form (a dangerous process, and one in which he has difficulty re-establishing his own personality intact), the ability to plant a simple telepathic suggestion with some minimal manipulative control, and a mindshield to protect himself against telepathic probing. It is possible that his ability to send either telepathic or empathic impulses is quite limited. And further, we may assume Vulcan concern for privacy (necessary on a world where telepathic or empathic ability is universal) has made it almost destructively traumatic for Spock to intrude on the inner thoughts of another being without invitation—even given the ability. Presumably then, Spock is reluctant to use these esper abilities because his own control is erratic and the procedure is therefore dangerous, because it distorts his established personality image, because it holds the potential of his own personality destruction if at some point he should be unable to break empathic contact, and because it is a highly unpleasant experience. His behavior in regard to these special Vulcan abilities seems consistent, intelligent, and as adjustive as possible given the unusual circumstances.

If Spock is heir to the normal human emotions (on a reduced level, at the least) and if he is able to suppress these as he consistently and generally does, the clinician is forced to wonder what enables him to avoid the manifestations of any of the commoner anxiety neuroses. Indeed, one wonders what quirk of evolution has enabled the Vulcans (presumably) to eliminate or drastically reduce the incidences of genuine physiologic, psychosomatic change resulting from severe emotional suppression.

Spock's personality pattern—masochistic, parent-child conflict, culture conflict, non-acceptance by peers, suppression of essential parts of his nature—all point to the probable emergence of one or more anxiety neuroses. His intelligence, education, and self-knowledge would seem to preclude any of the hysterias. Any affliction would have to produce genuine physiological change, since his psyche could not be "tricked" by hysteric disorders. If Spock is not troubled by neurotic asthma, emotional hypertension, ulcers, migraine, or any of the other emotion-triggered respiratory, circulatory, or digestive involvements associated with frustration and/or emotional suppression, perhaps his Vulcan physiology is master of the situation. Or, since in the past Spock has spoken of Vulcan mental discipline—particularly, "Pain is a thing of the mind, but the mind can be controlled"—and since the anxiety neuroses are initially things of the mind, it may be that the Vulcans can control and/or eliminate their physical consequences as well. In the light of the pain, and even occasional death, humanity suffers from complications arising from anxiety neuroses and related ailments, it would seem good psychiatric medicine for each doctor pointing toward that field to spend an internship on Vulcan (once communications are fully established), learning methodology to simulate this envied ability to suppress any given anxiety neuroses without causing another—probably worse—breakout of the psyche.

CONCLUSIONS: All things considered, the subject has made an admirable adjustment to a very difficult life situation, with the exception of his occasionally obsessive masochistic tendencies, his adjustment has been consistent with ego survival, and it enables him to avoid prolonged guilt reactions. The subject is plainly not happy, but in a sense, he seems to have found the one niche he can comfortably occupy, and the adaptive characteristics to live with his human peers with a minimum of friction. Given his unusual family history and professional situation, the most the subject can reasonably expect is some degree of contentment, and in this respect he seems well adjusted. The clinician might recommend occasional therapy away from all peer group observation, in which the subject could release certain suppressed human emotions without fear of face-loss or ego-damage.

ADVERTISEMENT

The Vulcan Educational Board recommends

Examples of logical behavior in difficult situations—an instruction tape for the pre-adolescent Vulcan

It is available at your local tape printout service.

Note: With the help and guidance of Open Doors, we digitized the first volume of Spockanalia and imported it to AO3, which you can view here. In order to meet AO3's terms of service, some of the content was edited or removed. The full version of the zine is preserved on this blog. The masterpost is here.

[darkkitty1208]

3. 🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your wip(s) need if you intend to share it?

(if you've got more than one definitely use the one that'll need the most warnings, yes letting tony be dead counts)

ps. maybe send this one back to me so i can inflict my medical research upon unsuspecting victims so we can compare. i won't even use the minus 2.4 organs wip, promise.

Hey, Harps!! :D Thankies for the ask :33

🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your wip(s) need if you intend to share it?

Uhhh. Let's see. *checks wip*

Just the usual. PTSD and references to depression. Everything I write is just self-plagiarism and the same thing over and over again. XD

[leahseclipse]

Happy Anniversary, Cas.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Castiel

Summary: “I didn’t think it would be so important to you two. No one has done this for me before.”

Warnings: Slight spoilers for 4x1

Word count: 500

A/N: Happy 15th anniversary, Cas!!!!!!!!!

Under the starry sky, Castiel stood outside of the Bunker, watching over the stars he’s known for over two thousand years, having found a sudden interest in watching them from this angle, from so far away. He’s always been beside them and even contributed to their own creation, but it just felt special to him, at this exact moment. 

It felt nice to appreciate something, not worrying about anything. Just being in the moment. Him and the whole universe. 

And Dean. He felt him arrive before he could even announce himself.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel said, hearing Dean muster up a ‘damn it’ as he walked up to stand next to him, at his left.

“I’m never gonna be able to show up without you knowing I’m coming, am I?” Dean looked at him, his face painted with an emotion between annoyance and sadness.

“Probably never, yes.” he said, lowering his head to glance at him. “But I will, though.”

“Believe me, I know. I’ve woken up to you standing right next to my bed way too many times.”

“I didn’t know I had to announce myself differently.” Castiel looked away shyly. 

“Well, it was all you, no one did it like you did. Except demons.” Dean’s tone dropped to a grim one at the last word.

“At least my presence meant good news.” It brought a smile to his lips, saying this.

“That it did.” 

“I’ll try not to surprise you too much in the future, I count on you to keep living for a long time.”

“Sweetheart you won’t get rid of me that easily, I’ve been through worse.” he stated, making Castiel smile brighter at the nickname. These feelings never stopped being overwhelming, in such an extraordinary way. “Hey, why don’t you… Why don’t we come inside for a moment? There’s something I’d like you to see.” Dean extended his hand to him.

“Of course.” Castiel took it without hesitation, following behind him as they descended the steps leading down the entrance of the bunker. He could hear another heartbeat as the door opened. He guessed it was probably Sam.

As soon as the library came into view, Castiel made note of the new additions in the room. A few candles evenly spread on the tables, and a single garland with small lights was tied at the entrance. A few balloons were tied to the wall and what seemed like sandwiches were also on the table. Sam was standing by one of the tables, hands behind his back.

“Is it supposed to be what you call… a birthday? If so, for who is it?” Castiel asked. He didn’t have a single clue as to what was going on. 

“Well, it isn’t officially your birthday, more like… the anniversary of our first meeting.”

“You kept note of it?”

“Well, it also happened to be the day I came back, there was this journal with a date at the top. September 18, 2008. So, I remembered the day you appeared too, naturally. It wasn’t the most friendly first meeting, but still. You became important for us.”

“I didn’t think it would be so important to you two. No one has done this for me before.”

“Well, we did this to show you that you matter to us.” Sam stated. 

“I see. We should celebrate Dean as well, then.”

“It is my resurection slash back from hell day after all, so... yeah.

"Alright. Let's do these anniversaries, then."

[shadebloopnik]

I just read the newest update of Stolen Moments

Please everyone keep your distance as I attempt to gather my bearings in these trying times