#DEA Fic

[hotchscoffeecup]

pillow talk

pairing: javier peña x DEA!reader

word count: 3.2k

tags: thunderstorms, there was only one bed, fluff no smut, near car accident, no y/n

summary: when a severe storm causes you and javier to have to stop off at a motel for the night, a game of two truths and lie as you both struggle to fall asleep reveals some hidden feelings for one another.

incredibly huge shoutout to @bau-muffin for always beta-ing my fics and encouraging me. i hope you all enjoy! this fic is open ended, so if you’d like to see a part 2, let me know in the comments!

You jolt awake gasping, reaching out a hand to steady yourself. It takes all of five seconds to grasp your surroundings and remember you’re still in this fucking car.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, princess,” Javier grumbles from beside you in the driver’s seat. His knuckles are clenched around the steering wheel and his back is rigid, muscles stiff as he focuses on the road as rain slams down against the windshield.

You swipe your hair back with one hand and rub your temples as you lean forward and peer out the window. “Jesus Christ, it’s really coming down.”

“Yeah, no shit. Thought I was going to have to check your pulse here in minute sleeping through the end of the fucking world like that.”

“Someone needs a cigarette,” you mumble under your breath.

“You’re telling me,” he says, eyes not once leaving the uneven pavement.

Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating everything for a split second and you don’t miss the way the trees bend under the force of the wind.

“How long do you think this will last?”

Javier shakes his head. “Fuck if I know. It hasn’t let up in the last hour, so I doubt anytime soon.”

Thunder explodes like cannon fire and another streak of lighting crackles in violently jagged patterns. There’s a crack, like a whip, and you barely scream out Javi’s name in time for him to jerk the wheel to the left and avoid the massive tree as it falls into the road.

The wheels screech as Javi veers off the road and slams on the breaks. You lurch forward and feel your heart hammer so hard against your chest you’re certain that it will shatter your ribcage.

Blood pounds in your ears and you look down to find an arm stretched across your chest. In slow motion, you process the arm as Javi’s and turn to look at him and his eyes, shining in the dim light and full of concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks, clearly shaken as well.

It takes you a second to find your voice, but you clear your throat and nod. Javi nods curtly and glances down at his arm across your chest. He quickly pulls his arm away and drops into his lap. “Sorry, reflexes.”

Rain continues to slam down diagonally in torrential sheets.You strain your eyes to try and see through the downpour, but even with the windshield wipers continuing to swipe at their highest speed it’s difficult to see anything.

“How about we pull off at the next town and grab a room at whatever hostel or motel they’ve got?”

Javier reaches up and jabs the overhead light. He yanks the crinkled map down from the dash and glances between it and the clock. “We’re only three hours from Bogotá. The ambassador wanted us back for the briefing at 9am.”

You glance at the clock on the dash and in the dim light, make out the time: 3:19AM.

“Javi, the only reason we’re driving from Medellín to Bogotá in the first place is because all flights were grounded on account of this incoming storm. What the ambassador should’ve done is just push everything until we were in the clear.”

Javier chuckles wryly and tosses the map back onto the dashboard. “Something tells me the President of Colombia wouldn’t appreciate being told to wait on account of two DEA agents because there’s a storm in Medellín.”

You heave a sigh and lean back into your seat with your arms folded across your chest. “He would if we had any new intel actually worth sharing.”

“Yeah, well we don’t, so—”

“So, then we should just stop for the night! The briefing will happen with or without us. We don’t have anything new to share anyway. The ambassador doesn’t give a shit that we have to drive for ten hours. He’ll bitch at us for following what ended up being a bogus lead. Basically, we get our wrist slapped in front of the president or we get our wrist slapped without an audience. Frankly, I like the latter.”

Javier drops his head back against the headrest and holds up a hand to silence you. “Okay, okay! Stop the lecture, please! We’ll stop.”

Your lips quirk into a smug smirk and you have to admit that you feel quite satisfied with yourself. “Damn, Javi, you fold easier than expected. I thought I was going to have to beg.”

Javier huffs and inclines his head as he shifts the car into drive and pulls back on to the road. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

•

“Goddamn, could you open that door any slower?” You stretch your jacket up over your head as the short awning extending over the perimeter of the motel does little to keep you dry in the face of the rain pelting sideways across the building.

With a grunt of effort, Javier turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open. You stumble in after him, nearly tripping over his heels in your rush to escape the rain.

A shiver rushes down your spine as the chill from your damp clothes settles into your bones. You shrug out of your rain jacket and rub your hands up and down your arms as Javier dropped your two duffel bags by the door with a heavy thud.

He slaps at the wall for the switch and a single bedside lamp flickers to life, illuminating only half of the room in a dull yellow glow.

“Hey, Jav.?”

He doesn’t turn as he kicks out of his boots by the door to avoid tracking any mud into the room. “Hmm?”

“There’s only one bed.”

Javier turns, looks at the bed, then looks at you, and shrugs. “Astute observation there, agent. There is indeed one bed, that’s correct.”

You aim a dagger sharp look at him and he smirks. He swipes a thumb across his lips and scratches at the few days of stubble on his jaw. “You’re not going to find many double bed lodgings this far out from the capital. It was this or nothing.” He shrugs out of his rain-slicked leather jacket and tosses it over the small table that was meant to serve as a dining area. “Listen, if you’re really that uncomfortable I can sleep on the chair,” he says nodding towards the worn lounger in the corner.

You stare at him for a little while longer and roll your eyes, relenting as you release the tension in your shoulders. He’d been driving for hours without complaint. It would be unfair of you to ask him to sacrifice even more tonight. “No, we can share the damn bad.” You point at him with steely determination, “Just remember I have a gun.”

He chuckles low in his throat as you dip past him and scoop your bag off the floor. “We have the same gun.” As you duck into the bathroom to wash your face and change clothes, you hear him laugh again softly to himself.

When you emerge from the bathroom in a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top you don’t miss the way Javier’s eyes glance over your figure. He’s already in bed, shirt off, and lower body hidden under the faded floral quilt.

“Peña I swear to God, you better have pants on under there.”

He lifts an eyebrow and then pulls the covers back, revealing a pair of loose gray sweatpants. He inclines his head towards you as he pulls the blanket back over himself. “I was torn between Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse for the sort of pajamas you’d have.”

You ignore his comment and climb into bed beside him, realizing just how small a queen sized bed can actually feel.

“Come on,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “I’ve got some pajamas with Tweety Bird on them back home. Flannel just doesn’t do a whole lot down here in Colombia.”

You stifle a laugh picturing hard edged Javier Peña in Tweety Bird patterned anything.

“Come on, what do you usually wear to bed back in D.C.?”

You roll over abruptly, catching Javier off guard. You look him in the eyes, offer a coy smile, and say, “Nothing.”

His stunned silence is so loud as you turn around and settle into the pillows with your arm tucked under your head. You smile to yourself as Javier clicks off the bedside lamp and for a while all you hear is the rain slamming against the tin roof.

You close your eyes and just as you feel like you’re about to drift off, Javier says your name, breaking the quiet stillness that had settled over the two of you.

“Go to sleep, Peña,” you mumble against the crook of your elbow.

The mattress shifts as he rolls onto his side. “Can’t.”

“Try.”

“I did.”

“Try harder.”

“Think I’m still coming down off the adrenaline rush of nearly getting crushed by a falling tree.”

You groan and turn over to face him. A lazy smile hangs on his lips and you feel an extremely strong urge to punch him, but also, with the way the dim light streaming in through the slit in the curtains illuminates the shine in his eyes, you can’t help but soften a touch.

“Jav, you’ve been in a firefight with how many sicarios? We’ve come back from a bust and I’ve seen you fall asleep at your desk without even realizing it.”

He blows out a breath and falls back onto the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. He breathes out a short laugh. “Yeah, I have done that, haven’t I?”

You prop yourself up on your elbow and rest your head in your hand. “Is something on your mind?”

He makes a disapproving sound and waves a hand in the air before letting it drop back to the mattress. “There’s always something on my mind, but I don’t want to keep you up. We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover before the ambassador hands our asses to us for missing the briefing.”

“Well, then, we’ve got time to sleep in. Tell me.”

He clicks his tongue, again, trying to avoid whatever it is that’s eating at him. “Same shit, different day. Every lead turns out to be a wall. More people end up dead. Escobar remains out of reach.”

You press your lips together, nodding in understanding. You reach out with your other hand and place it over his, folding your fingers around his palm and offering it a comforting squeeze. “At least we’ve got each other through the bullshit.”

Javier tilts his back into the pillow, shifting his eyes to look up at you. “Careful, there, someone might actually think you like me.”

His words strike an uncomfortably awkward chord in you and you feel your face flush. Your brow pinches. “Of course I like you, dumbass. You’re my partner.”

He strokes his thumb across the space between your thumb and forefinger and you tense before withdrawing your hand and falling back onto your pillow so that you’re also looking up at the ceiling.

Javi is the first to break the silence. “Hey, I’m sorry—”

“And Steve!” you blurt.

“What?” Javi questions, brow pinched.

“Steve is also our partner.” Oh my God, would you just shut the fuck up and stop rambling? Why are you short circuiting over a fucking thumb stroke? You were just being nice, friendly.

With your coworker.

Who was shirtless.

In bed with you.

Right next to you.

Your skin tingles where his thumb brushed against the top of your hand.

“Right,” Javier says, drawing out the T.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan internally. Before your internal dialogue can take over and embarrass yourself further, Javier speaks up.

“Do you want to play a game?”

The question is so unexpected, it abruptly halts the runaway train inside your brain.

You tilt your head to look at him. “What?”

He nods as if that’s exactly the right thing to ask at 4:30 in the morning. “Two truths and a lie, you ever played it?”

You scoff, but smile all the same. “Not since high school.”

He smiles. “Good, so you remember the rules then. I’ll go first.” He clasps his fingers together in front him, steepling his thumb and forefingers as he takes a moment to think. After a moment, he perks up. “Got it, okay, so, I broke my collarbone falling off a roof, I played football in high school, and in the same year asked a girl out in front of the whole cafeteria with a dozen roses and everything, the whole nine yards, and she rejected me.”

You can’t help the hiss of air that flows through your teeth. “The last one has to be true,” you say. “Seems like a pivotal event in the life and times of heartbreaker, Javier Peña. I’m going to say that it's definitely true.” You pause, thinking. “Men love talking about their glory days, so I think I’d have heard you mention being a football player at some point or another. I think you’re foolish enough to be me up on some roof you shouldn’t be, so falling off and breaking your collarbone sounds plausible.” You pop your lips as you make your decision. “Football. You never played it.”

Javier grins beside you. “Running back.”

“No shit.”

He nods, “I was a scrappy kid who could run fast and run hard.”

“No wonder you love a foot pursuit, then. Alright,” you start, turning over and propping your head up in your hand. “What was the lie?”

“I only had one rose.”

You roll your eyes and laugh. “Of course you did.”

He sits up, propping the pillow up behind him and leaning against the headboard. “Maybe if I’d had the whole dozen, she’d have said yes.” He taps your forearm with the backs of his knuckles. “Your turn, go ahead.”

It doesn’t take you long to come up with your responses. “Okay, I have seen the Red Hot Chili Peppers in concert three times, I was a competitive dancer, my favorite flowers are roses.”

Javier’s eyes brighten. “Roses. That’s the lie.”

You baulk at his quickness. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen your CD collection at your apartment. You have every Chili Peppers album.” He pauses and looks you up and down, though most of your body is concealed by the quilt. “Have you seen your legs? Of course you were a dancer.”

You blush and hope he doesn’t notice in the dim light.

“Plus, I know for a fact your favorite flowers are carnations.”

You turn sharp eyes on him. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs, “Overheard you talking to Steve when he was thinking about what sort of flowers to get Connie after that big fight they had. You got all doe-eyed and said something about how sweet carnations are.”

“I do not get doe-eyed,” you insist and playfully slap Javi on the arm.

He nods, chuckling. “Oh, you do.”

You wave him off. “Alright, fine. You got me. I love carnations. Your turn, go on.”

Javier swipes his thumb across his lip. “Got it.”

You give him the floor. “Lay it on me.”

“My partner has feelings for me.”

Your heart stills in your chest.

“I might have feelings for my partner.”

Incredible heat rushes to your cheeks.

“I can breathe underwater.”

Your eyes drop to his chest, flickering across the skin of his neck and shoulders as if there’ll be some sort of answer spelled out there amid the smattering of freckles and moles dotting his skin.

Javier looks at you from beneath his lashes, drawing your attention back to his soft, brown eyes. “If you’re looking for gills, you won’t find any.”

“I—” you start and stop. “We should really go to bed.”

You move to turn away from him, but his fingers find your shoulder and the way your name sounds on his tongue is nothing but genuine. A few beats of silence pass between you before he says your name again and you close your eyes.

“Javier,” you breathe out on a sigh.

“No, don’t say my name like that. Like you don’t feel it too.”

You open your eyes and find his are still focused on yours. His pupils dart back and forth across your face, irises flickering in the cool darkness of the room.

“Jav, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just caught up in—” you gesture between the closeness of your bodies and the room. “All of this, what’s happened tonight. It's an infatuation you’re feeling, nothing more.”

“You think I’d fight with the colonel to ground Steve and let me go on this wild goose chase of an operation if I was only infatuated with you?”

You blink hard, thoughts clearing. “What?”

“It was supposed to be Murphy on this with you, not me. They wanted me to follow a tip we got on La Quica.

Your eyes widen, “But you’ve been on his trail for months!”

Javier presses his lips together and nods as he waits for the realization to dawn on you.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Javier echoes.

The space between you narrows and for a while, the only sound is the rain against the tin roof and rumbling of thunder in the distance.

You finally break the silence and speak up, smiling sheepishly. “You, uh, sure you’re not hiding any gills from me, Javi?”

He cracks a half-smile and inclines his head towards himself. “You're welcome to take a look for yourself.”

You laugh, a little uncomfortably and a little unsure of what to do now. You drop your chin to your chest and before you can say anything else, Javier clasps your face in one of his hands, thumb caressing your jawline, and draws you in to press his lips against yours.

You freeze, but only for one stunned moment before you return the gesture. He tastes like mint and menthols and his mustache tickles the skin above your lips as he deepens the kiss.

A moan escapes your lips into his open mouth and you break away, breathing hard. You rest your forehead against his and don’t even remember when you’d looped your arm around his neck. You brush your fingers against the skin of his throat where your hand curls around the back of his neck and swallow hard. “Javi, we ca—”

He kisses you, stifling the words as they form. “Don’t,” he whispers, a quiet plea. He swipes his thumb across your cheek. “Don’t say anything, not now at least.”

He does something then that surprises you. He kisses your forehead, the space right above your brow. “It’s all out in the open now. Think about it. Just don’t,” He pauses, and you’re stunned by how shy he suddenly looks. “Just think about it, okay?”

Unable to think of anything else to say, you can only nod. “I will.”

Javier smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good, let’s try to sleep some, huh? The road to Bogotá isn’t going to get any shorter.”

You stare at his back as he turns over and settles down onto the pillow, concentrating on a mole on his shoulder. After a couple seconds longer, you turn so that your back is to his. And though you’ve never been closer to him, you can’t help but feel like some incredibly wide chasm has opened up in the space between you.

You just have to figure out if you’re brave enough to take the leap.

[yuansie]

guys I SWEAR im trying my best to upload my caleb one shot w non mc! reader but uni has me in a headlock 😭 once i get my spring break in april ill FR upload it during that time if im unable to do so beforehand 😭

[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)

[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.

[biscutlovingbitch]

Fic ab my baby Dea ho 🌠

God I'm in love with this man it's actualy sickening...

Smut 18+ pleaseee mdni 🙅‍♀️

Warnings!!!

Talk of death, being somewhat naked, some y/n, and that's all for pt.1

A little different from the show, when they vote, they all go home instead of staying.

It all started when you woke up, classical music blaring in your ears. You opened your eyes and looked around, and you were shocked. This wasn't your bedroom, nor was it anywhere you recognized. You were terrified. As you looked around a little bit more, you saw other people. You saw some people getting out of their beds and going to the main floor where it was open. You didn't know what to do, so you just stayed in your bed and sat there with your knees up to your chest, holding back tears.

A group of masked people resembling soldiers came into the room. They stood on a platform, and the front and the one with the square started to speak. "Welcome, players, we are preparing for the first game." he kept talking, but you found yourself spacing out and looking at people around the room. You first saw a tall man with bright purple hair, easy to spot in a crowd. Other than him, everyone seemed relatively normal.

As we were told to follow the guards, you started to worry. "What is this place..." You said to yourself that after walking into a large colored stairwell. This had been like nothing you had ever seen before. Bright colors and patterns with bright lights. The tracksuit that you had woken up is also a bright color of green. Everyone had one on, but everyone had a number. You forgot to look at your number, 199... "Wow," you said. You couldn't believe that you were that close to the first group of people.

You walked through a green gate looking door into a large sandy area. The walls had painted on trees, and the sun was blaring down at you. You continued to look around, but your thoughts soon stopped when a man started yelling. You tried to tune him out, but he just kept yelling and getting louder. "There's guns in the walls!" He said, screaming and pointing at the walls. Jesus, this guy was a total nut case.

As the game started, he yelled, "DONT MOVE!". As we were all lined up in a single file line one behind another, I couldn't stop but think what would really happen if someone had moved. Right as I thought that, I heard someone screaming. As I looked over, she was shot in the head. "Where did that come from..." you said under your breath. Oh god, this was serious... this guy wasn't just crazy no he was onto something. He knew something that we didn't, and he was trying to save us?

You were so lost in thought that you had forgotten to move during the green light and were now behind everyone. Shit you thought to yourself, the timer is almost up, and you are still so far away. The next time the doll said green light, you put in your all, running across the field like your life depended on it because, we'll it did. As everyone crossed the line, you were still on the field. The clock was ticking down, and you panicked. Just as the doll said green light, you felt a person grab onto you and pull you to the finish line.

As you looked up, you saw a man. He had dark eyes and longish black hair that was halfway pulled up. He was looking at you concerned. "a-are you okay?" He said with wide eyes. You couldn't speak, you where still so shaken up about the whole situation that you had been a part of that you almost forgot how to speak. He looked worried, so you nodded your head at him. His gaze softened, and he went to pull you up. For the rest of the time, he was right in front of you. As you walked back to the sleeping area, you had seen that there were a few beds missing.

"Congradulations, you've completed your first game," said a woman like voice over the speakers. You sat on a bed because you had forgotten where yours was. An older man had approached you. "You could have gotten yourself killed out there. Why didn't you listen to me?" He said, almost yelling it at you. "I-im, sorry," you said, shaking and looking down at your hands. Of course you were scared you had just seen about a dozen people killed right in front of you.

456... he was an older man with short hair, taller than you. He and his friend you assumed had sat down in the bed right next to you. "What is this place?" You asked him "hell" he responded coldly as if it was the real thing. You had gotten your food and sat back down on the bed you had been sitting at when the guy from earlier had caught your attention. He was sitting on the bed that was right above yours and eating his food while talking to the other two guys from earlier.

"Thank you for saving me," you said, looking at him and bowing your head. "It's okay. I just didn't want to see you die. " Fair enough, you thought to yourself, "what's your name?" You said, looking at him and tilting your head a little to the side. That gesture seemed to make him almost choke on his food. "D-dea ho," he said, clearing his throat. "I like that name," you said, smiling at him, locking your eyes together.

He couldn't look away, stunned by your beauty he tried to turn, but it was so hard to. "We need to get out if here," said Gi-hun "well how do you soupose we do that?" Said his friend. You were scared thinking about the games, so you got up and asked dea-ho if you could sit next to him. He said yes, and you watched as Gi-hun yelled about some clause or something. You shouldn't think straight being this close to Dea ho was like a dream come true. You had never met this man before nor had you ever seen him anywhere else but here. You wished that you had met before the games so that you could have a life with him, but with the crippling debt and your living situation it was hard to imagine something that good would come so easily.

"If you wish to leave press the red X if you wish to continue partisapating press the blue O" the masked man said, you didn't even think before you pressed the X you just knew you didn't want to be here anymore. After the last mad pressed O, you were scared, but the blue outweighed the red by one point. You were so excited to go home that you practicly jumped into Dea ho's arms and hugged him. He was stunned but also happened, so he hugged you back. After a minute, you went back to your beds, and then it was lights out.

You were rudely awoken by being pushed onto the pavement. You had no clothes other than your undergarments, and your hands and feet were bound behind you. You tried to get up, but it was no use, you where stuck. You thought all hope was lost until you heard a familiar voice behind you. "Who's that?" IT was Dea ho. "It's me, player 199" you said, moving a little against the cold pavement. "If I unite you, will you promise not to leave and help me?" He said, moving his hands to yours and slowly tugging on the rope. "Yes," you said breathless, not meaning to sound so desperate, but you couldn't stop thinking that you were in your underwear, and so was he.

After you got untied, you stood up and started to get dressed. You could feel his eyes lingering on your body. "Where are we?" You said rubbing your wrists. "I don't know, maybe the countryside, I think my mom lives around here somewhere," you thought to yourself. What are you going to do? He has someone close by, and you don't recognize anything. He started to walk mumbling something as he got further away, he turned to look at you. "Are you coming?". What he wanted you to come with him? "Are you sure, You don't know me..." you said, looking down at your shoes, your clothes where the same ones you wore to get into the van. "I dont want you to stay out somewhere you don't know in the middle of the night, so yeah I'm sure" he said smiling a little at the end of the sentence.

You walked with him until you came across a tiny house in the middle of nowhere. It was cute and had traditional architecture. You loved it. As he knocked on the door, he said some things to you. He told you that his mom lived alone and that she didn't have anyone else but him. You felt sorry but as soon as you turned to him and opened your mouth the door opened. There was a tiny old lady, frail, and she seemed like she had just gotten up. "Mom," he said, leaning forward and hugging her. She was looking at you the whole time. "Who's this?" She said,'You finally get a girlfriend?" She said, being serious. "Mom!" He seemed embarrassed, but was he embarrassed by the fact that you were being called his girlfriend? "I was wondering if we could stay here tonight"

The house was warm and smelt like good food. She had photos up on her walls, and the decor was very warming. You looked at the clock. "It's 1Am?" You said puzzled. You weren't even tired yet, but it was past midnight already? Those games must have messed you up pretty badly. "So Mom, is my bedroom still open?" Dea-ho said, smiling at her and pointing up stairs. "Yes, and I even kept all of your little dolls too," she said, smiling and pinching his cheak. "There not dolls..." he said, looking at you. The house might have seemed small on the outside, but it had 4 rooms.

As you followed him up to his room, there were more photos on the wall. "Are these your sisters?" You said pointing to a picture with 5 little kids in it. "Yeah, it was hard growing up with 4 sisters, but I learned how to play a lot of games," he said, smiling at you and opening up his door "after you" the second you walked in you felt different, you havent been in a real room in so long. It was cozy and neat, but there was only one problem, one bed. You looked at him as he shut the door and sat on his bed, reminiscing about his childhood. "Um... where am I going to sleep?"

He went around and checked all the other doors, but his sisters were locked, and his mom was already asleep. Not wanting to disturb her, he suggested, "No worries, I can just sleep on the couch" you did think about it for a second but the couch was more of a love seat with inly space for two people and he was defiantly taller than two people, plus it was his house and you couldn't do that. "No, it's okay. I will, I can fit on the couch better. " As you started to walk away, smiling to yourself a little, you felt a hand on your wrist.

"I grew up to respect women, I will not have you sleep on my mom's couch."Well, I'm not going to have you sleep on your mom's couch either," you said, looking at him almost as if you were arguing. "Oh yeah?" He said his face closer to yours. "Yeah," you said, pushing your face closer to his. Your lips were centimeters apart, but he pulled away. " All right then, I guess I'll just have to sleep on the floor then." You tried to protest, but he had already started walking back to his room. You fallowed him in there but it was too late he had already had a blanket and pillow on the floor.

"I can't let you do that." You sat down on his bed, looking at him. "Well, too bad, I am," he said as he started to walk out of his room with some extra clothes. "Did you want some different clothes, the closet has some of my sisters stuff in it I can get you some?" You were going to say no, but since the guards had practicly thrown them onto the ground, you agreed. He came back and changed into some plaid pants and a grey t-shirt. He was holding some clothes for you and said what way the bathroom was. You almost didn't want to leave, just so you could strip right in front of him. But you decided it was probably best to go and change somewhere else.

The shirt he brought you was a little white shirt with a character on it, but it was a tad bit see, though. Along with the shirt, you had some little pink shorts. As you finished up fixing your hair and whining off the rest of your ruined makeup, you went back to his room. You thought he was already asleep but when you opened the door he was looking at you with those dark eyes of his. "Is that okay, I can find different clothes if you need -" " it's okay, they're comfy," you said, smiling at him. "Okay," he smiled back, you shut the door and got into his bed. You hadn't really smelt him before, but his bed felt so nice, like he was hugging you.

Throughout the night, you could hear him tossing and turning. You weren't able to sleep because every time you'd close your eyes, you'd see people die again. After a few more moments, you got tired and finally asked "dea-ho Are you asleep?". "No, can't sleep." he sighed and sat up a little, resting himself on his knees. It was night, but the moonlight was lighting up the room. He looked tired. "Would you mind coming up here with me?" You choked out. He just looked at you, his wide-eyed expression said no, but his body said yes. "A-Are you sure?" He was slowly getting up as you nodded.

He got behind you with his face, looking at yours and his back against the wall. The bed was a twin, so there was definitely no room. You stained at his lips for so long that you thought you had fallen asleep. "Whats your name?" When you finally stepped out of it, you saw him looking at you with his head proped up on his hand. "Y/n," you said, looking up at him with doe eyes. "I like that name," he smiled at you, thinking about when you said that about his name earlier. "Thank you." You were getting nervous he was looking at you like you were an angel. Your body started to get hot. After a little while, you turned around to your other side, now facing his room, when you got an idea. He felt so far away from you, and you felt so close to the edge. It wouldn't hurt if you just scooted back a little right. You were wrong. As soon as you scooted back, you were right up against him. You felt his breath hitch and his heartbeat pick up.

You couldn't stop thinking then you felt it...

[hotchscoffeecup]

those things will kill you

pairing: javier peña x dea!reader

tags: gun violence, broken glass injury, bullet wounds, blood, no y/n

word count: 5k

summary: attacked in a public bar, javier takes you back to his apartment to get you cleaned up and tend your wounds. an almost kiss leads to an exploration of feelings neither of you were prepared for.

as always, big thanks to muffin for always being willing to help beta my fics <3

The bartender places a bottle of beer, sweaty with condensation, in front of you on the bar top.

After uttering a short thank you in Spanish, you leave a couple of bills on the counter and twist your fingers around the neck of the bottle. The beer is cold and slides down your throat easily, but it tastes bitter in your hollow stomach.

You run your tongue over your teeth and tsk, shaking your head wondering how you ended up in this mess. Everything seems like it’s going to hell in a handbasket and all the government wants to do is tie your hands and everyone else’s in the search for Escobar.

You hate how it all keeps you up at night; the cat and mouse. For every inch you eked closer, Escobar always seemed to be a mile ahead. Even when he is right under your nose, he evades capture and disappears without so much as a trace of evidence.

You think too far too deeply about Pablo Escobar and you know it affects your work. How can the same man who built homes and schools for the poor of his hometown be the same man that would blow up a city street full of school children and their families a week before school starts? The thought of it keeps you awake at night because you genuinely cannot fathom how such a disconnect can exist in the human mind. He is a drug lord. A killer. A criminal. But he was also someone’s child, someone’s husband, someone’s father. Could he really justify all of this cruelty and malice? You wonder when enough stopped being enough for him. You wonder if a reality existed where he was just that, a man of the people. A family man. In another life, maybe he could’ve actually maintained a seat in the Colombian congress. In all his posturing and speech making, he really did exude all of the makings of a good politician that wanted to see a better and more prosperous Colombia. Instead, he became that which instilled fear in the hearts of those that called the great nation their home.

The clipped click of a lighter snaps you out of your own mind and the sounds of the bar pull you out from under the sea of thoughts you’d lost yourself in.

“Real sharp instincts there,” Javier jabs as he drags on the cigarette between his lips and settles into the seat beside you. “Glad I’m not a sicario. Getting the jump on you would be all too easy now, wouldn’t it?”

“Fuck off, Peña, I’m not in the mood.”

“What happened? Get in trouble with the ambassador or something?”

You direct a hard stare in his direction and that seems to speak for itself.

“It’s an adjustment for everyone. He’s definitely more of a tight ass, but he’ll get used to the way things operate down here. Give it time.”

You scoff. “Easy for you to say. All you and Murphy have to do is posture and dick swing your way into his good graces. It’s not that easy for me.”

The bartender nears your end of the bar and inclines his head towards Javier. He gestures towards the drink in your hand with his cigarette and says, “Lo mismo, por favor.”

With a drink now in hand, he turns towards you and levels his deep brown eyes on yours.

“Cut the crap.”

Your brow arches toward your hairline. “Excuse me?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as one side of his lips quirks up. “I’m not buying this ‘I’m-a-lady-so-I-have-to-work-twice-as-hard’ bullshit. You’re a damn good agent and that’s why you’re here with me and Murphy. Ambassador knows that. So, why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”

He takes a swig of his beer and swallows hard. Pointing the bottle at you he says, “and to be clear, I’m not swinging my dick around for anyone.” His eyes flicker over your face and a glint of mischief enters his gaze. “Unless they ask nicely of course.”

You drop your chin and shake your head. “Just when I thought you were being genuine.”

“Hey, I am genuine,” he protests. He pops the cigarette between his lips and grabs your shoulder, the warmth of his palm pressing through your jacket. “C’mon, what’s really eating you?”

You grab the bottle in front of you and swirl the pale liquid inside, forming a small tornado when you still your hand. “I just haven’t been sleeping, that’s all.”

Javier drops his hand from your shoulder to take the cigarette from his lips and blows out a puff of smoke, angling his mouth away from you but the acrid smell still manages to burn your nostrils.

“Those things will kill you, you know?”

Javier smirks and you hate how good it looks on his smug face. “We work in Bogotá. A lot of things can kill us.”

“No need to tempt fate.”

He moves from side to side as if weighing his options. “Cigarettes, alcohol, working too hard trying to prove ourselves that we don’t sleep at night…we all have our vices.” His eyes linger on yours and you suddenly feel vulnerable being called out like that.

“Consider the reasons I don’t sleep, Javi.” You drain the last of your beer and push the bottle away from you.

You press your hands against the edge of the bar, but before you can push yourself up and off of the barstool, Javier claps a hand over one of your wrists, stilling you.

“You can talk to me, you know?” The browns of his irises flicker as they bear into yours and the hollow pit in your stomach widens. You know you can talk to him. Steve too. It’s just hard to be too vulnerable down here though when there’s so much pressure coming down from all angles. If you even look like you might collapse under the weight of it all you’ll get rotated back to the States so quickly, you won’t even get the chance to say goodbye. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you and you can’t squander it. So, it stays easy to lock it down, despite the consequences.

So, you do just that and lock it down. Forcing a smile you know doesn’t reach your eyes, you shake off his hand and zip up your jacket. “I’m fine, Peña. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He presses his lips together, but doesn’t say anything more. He nods his head in farewell and you turn to leave.

You take two steps before your name rolls off of his tongue and you roll your eyes. “Peña, I’m—” The words die on your lips as you turn, eyes drifting past Javier to the pair on the motorcycle beyond the glass window that makes up the external wall of the bar. The man on the back of the motorcycle aims an automated weapon in Javier’s direction.

“Everybody get down!” You cry out as all hell breaks loose.

You’re airborne as the glass shatters and the explosive sounds of gunfire fill the space. You collide with a thick wall of muscle and hit the ground hard, covering your head with one arm and shielding his body with the other. The gunfire stops almost as soon as it had started and the sound of tires squealing on the pavement echoes off the street.

Patrons scream and cry out as they scramble over one another to evacuate the space. You roll onto your side and groan as shards of glass cut into your arms through the thin windbreaker you have on.

“Javier,” you groan as you reach for him. He’s moving so you know he’s alive. You lean over him and his shocked visage. “Javi, are you with me?”

He blinks hard out of whatever stupor he’s in and sits bolt upright. “Which direction did they go?” He turns his head to look over his shoulder and the gaping frame where shards of glass poke out of the windowsill like jagged teeth.

“They’re gone,” you say on an exhale. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head or anything when I tackled you?”

He breathes out a short laugh and you fear he might be in shock. “Did I hit my head? No, I didn’t—” He stops and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear away a fog. His brow pinches as he looks around at the damage. Tables and chairs are upended and cast aside. Broken bottles line the floor where they shattered upon impact off the shelves behind the bar and litter the ground. You’re surprised to find that, miraculously, no bodies littered the ground in the wake of the attack.

A hand cups your chin and you reflexively reach for the gun tucked into your waistband.

Peña raises his other hand in surrender. “I think you might’ve hit yours though.” His eyes shift just above your field of vision and that’s when you feel the hot sticky substance drip down onto your lashes. You raise a hand and touch it, surprised to find a smear of red staining your fingertips when you look at them.

“I think that’s just from the glass. It’s all in my jacket.”

Javier clambers to his feet and dusts off his jeans. Bits of glass hit the floor as it rattles off of his leather jacket, a much heartier material that you wish yours had been made from.

He extends a hand towards you and you take it, wincing as he pulls you to your feet. With a grunt, you tug the zipper down and shrug out of your jacket. There’s no saving the ripped and bloodied material so you drop it on the floor.

“Fuck, you’re hit.”

The words don’t register as Javi closes the gap between the two of you and the smell of cigarettes and cologne envelops you in a strange, yet almost comforting cloud of, well, Javier.

He scrubs a hand over his face as he hesitates to touch you. You hear him muttering to himself, but the words don’t quite register. Funny how a moment ago you were worried about him going into shock.

A sharp sting of pain brings you back to your senses as Javier presses a folded up bar towel to your shoulder. “Hold pressure on that,” he instructs. He turns and reaches back to take your hand in his. “Come on, I’ll get you out of here. I need to get you taken care of.”

And that’s how you find yourself in the passenger seat of Javier Peña’s Jeep with blood seeping through a dirty bar rag onto the upholstery of his passenger seat. At some point he reaches over you and retrieves the satellite phone from within the glove box to call in the attack.

“No, Murphy. I’m fine. She’s fine. Minor wounds it seems. No—no, don’t wake Connie. I’ve got a kit at my apartment. Yes, I’ll keep an eye on her. I’ve already called the Ambassador and Martinez. Yeah, yeah. Ok, goodnight. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

By the time he pulls into his garage, the adrenaline wears off and the sharp sting of pain in your shoulder becomes glaringly obvious. Javier gets out and moves to open the door for you. He places a supporting hand under your uninjured arm as you maneuver your way out of the car in the confined space. Your body brushes against the firm plane of his as you do and you don’t miss the way he stiffens in response.

“Let’s get you inside,” he murmurs and drops his hand to the small of your back to guide you towards the door.

His apartment is simple, built in the same style as yours and Murphy’s. They all share the same furniture and simple decorations, though yours doesn’t have quite the number of liquor bottles perched on various surfaces and vaguely remember what he’d mentioned about vices at the bar. The smells strongly of him, of his earthy cologne and cigarette smoke. You’ve grown used to it from sitting across from him at work for the last six months. There’s something oddly comforting about it even though the amount he and everyone else smokes bothers you to no end.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He says, gesturing toward the couch.

You do as he suggests and sit on the couch, only on the edge though. You don’t want to ruin the upholstery like you’d done with his car. Plus, you’re fairly certain there’s still small shards of glass embedded in the skin of your back and the idea of pressing those in any further makes you queasy.

Javi disappears into the bathroom, muttering expletives under his breath in English and in Spanish. He returns with a small red first aid kit, a couple of wash clothes, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

He climbs onto the couch and perches on the back of the sofa, his legs spread on either side of your body. “Hold these,” he says, and doesn’t wait to dump the items into your lap.

With gentle hands, he peels the bar rag up and off your shoulder. “Good,” he sighs. “Bleeding’s stopped. Let’s get you out of this shirt.”

You turn your head over your shoulder to look at him from beneath an arched brow and he immediately doubles back. “So we can clean this properly and make sure there isn’t any more glass. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Funny, I thought you liked it there.” Your lips curve into a wicked smile. “I know what you meant, but it is fun to watch you squirm.”

Javier shakes his head and you turn back around to pull your tank top up and over your head. You try to do it with one arm to avoid aggravating your shoulder, but the movement jostles the joint and you hiss between your teeth. Javi catches your hand as you try to pull it over the injury and takes over guiding it up and over the wound. He discards your tank top on the ground and sucks in a breath.

“What, Jav? You see women in their bras, or without them, all the time. Relax.”

“No, it’s not that. Wait, what—”

You smirk to yourself. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s just on second thought, I think we ought to move to the kitchen. There’s more light there and there’s still some glass stuck in and around where the bullet clipped you.”

He gently lays the towel back down over the open wound on your shoulder and you follow him to the kitchen and drop your keys and gun onto the counter before perching on one of the bar stools. He kicks the nearby waste paper basket next to the empty stool beside you and arranges the first aid items onto the counter, opening the kit and withdrawing gloves, tweezers, gauze pads, and roller bandages. He zips the kit shut, determining he has everything that he needs and places it in his lap as he sits down.

A strange silence settles over the two of you as he snaps on the pair of latex gloves and sets to work. He removes the soiled rag from your shoulder and drops it into the trash. The pinch and sting of him pulling glass from within and around your injuries dulls over time and you watch as the tiny pile of red stained shards grows on the counter next to you.

“You know there wouldn’t be so much of this if you hadn’t fallen directly on top of me.”

Javier scoffs. “You’re right. Next time we’re in a firefight, I’ll let you fall on me.” The tweezers lock on to another small shard and you grimace as he pulls it free. “I think that was the last one.”

He unscrews the plastic cap from the bottle of rubbing alcohol and soaks a washcloth with it. “This is probably going to hurt worse, but we gotta get this cleaned up.”

You nod. “I know, go ahead.”

When he’s cleaning the dried blood from off and around the skin, it just grazes over small cuts and scrapes that feels more annoying than anything else. It’s when he passes over the open wound in your shoulder that a curse slips past your lips and tears well in your eyes.

“Fucking shit, that hurts.”

“I know,” Javi says apologetically. “We definitely don’t want you to get any infection though.” He swipes the cloth over the injury three more times and just when you start to wonder if he’s a sadist, he finally declares he’s finished and drops the washcloth into the trash. The cool air blowing from the nearby AC unit dries the alcohol and relieves the burning sting. He replaces it with a fresh gauze pad and holds it in place with his left hand while his right works the roller bandage into position. He works quickly and quietly as he winds it around your shoulder and bicep. After securing a knot in the bandage, he sits back and nods affirmatively, content with the job he’s done.

“Now let me see your forehead. We oughta get that cleaned up as well while I’ve got you here.”

You’d almost forgotten about the cut above your eye with the adrenaline wearing off and the pain in your shoulder growing more severe. You reach up absentmindedly and brush your fingers against the now dried and flaking blood stuck in your eyebrow. Javi spills some alcohol onto a gauze pad and your breath catches when he touches the tips of his opposite hand beneath your chin to tilt it towards the overhead light.

He swipes at the dried blood and scrubs it free from your eyebrow. When he passes over the shallow cut, you wince and he apologizes. When it’s clean, he peels open the wrapper on a butterfly bandage and uses the tips of his fingers to try to place it so it’ll pull the cut closed. A small smile tugs at your lips as you watch him press his tongue to his bottom lip as his fingers tremble ever so slightly as he makes sure the small ends of the bandage don’t tear.

“There,” he whispers when he’s sure it’ll stay put. His face is so close to yours and the breath catches in your throat when his eyes drop to yours. “Just like new.”

Time slows to an absolute standstill and you feel yourself inextricably drawn to him, as if there’s some tether pulling you towards him and you really start to wonder if you did hit your head harder than you thought in the chaos because you’re pretty sure he’s also leaning in towards you, which would be crazy because he’s your coworker, but he’s also tilting his head and his face is incredibly close to yours…

Reality snaps back into place like a rubber band against skin when the first aid kit resting on his thighs clatters to the ground. You immediately pull away and drop down off of the stool to pick it up and Javier immediately chastises you doing so.

“Dammit!” He curses and your name sounds sharp on his tongue. “You’ve barely stopped bleeding, don’t jerk yourself around like that.” He snatches the first aid kit from you and splays a hand under your elbow to pull you back up to a standing position. He tosses the kit onto the counter and stalks off into the living room leaving you at the bar wondering what the hell is driving this one-eighty in behavior as he paces back and forth across the carpet.

“Damn, Peña. I’m not going to bleed out on your kitchen floor.” You smirk. “Your jeep, maybe,” you suggest, trying to make light of the sudden tension in the room.

Javier either doesn’t or chooses not to hear you. He loops his thumb through one of his belt loops as he shakes his head and mutters under his breath. “I don’t need this right now.”

Your brow pinches and you hate the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You shuffle your weight from foot to foot and suddenly feel like you’re taking up too much space in the small apartment as he increases the space between you and him. This errant behavior is giving you more whiplash than when you’d taken him to the ground and you’re about to call him out on it, when, without another word, he turns and ducks into his room.

Irritation quickly replaces whatever vulnerability you’d just been feeling. “What the hell does that mean?” You ask, your words clipped and demanding. You walk towards the sounds of him rummaging around inside drawers and come to an abrupt halt as he strides out of his bedroom and presses a ball of fabric into your chest. “This,” he says by way of explanation and takes a dramatic step away from you.

“And by this you mean what exactly?” You know exactly what the this in question is, but you want to hear him say it. Frankly, you’re just as surprised by whatever just happened between you and him, but you’ve worked with each other long enough now to know when the other is severely bullshitting their way through a situation and you have no intention of letting him get away with it.

The smell of his detergent wafts up around you from the shirt in your hands and you take the opportunity to try to awkwardly shrug into it without aggravating the freshly dressed wound. It’s hard to start an argument and be taken seriously when you’re standing toe to toe with someone and you’ve only got on jeans and a black lace bra after all.

As you fumble with the buttons on his shirt, he takes a resigned step backwards and collapses onto the couch. He gestures vaguely at the space between the two of you. His voice is softer when he speaks, tired. “All of this. God.” He runs a hand through his hair and falls back into the cushions. “You,” he says, eyes briefly meeting yours and then at the ceiling.

Your fingers pause mid-fastening. “What about me?”

Javier shakes his head. A wry smile pulls at his lips, rife with disbelief, and it fades as quickly as it comes. “You nearly died tonight.”

You arch a brow and direct a knowing look at him. “Javi, not sure if you were paying attention but we both nearly died tonight. I mean, things moved a little quickly for me to break out my calculator and add shit up, but I don’t think all 30 or 40 of those rounds were meant just for me. I think they were aimed at both DEA agents and they didn’t give a fuck who else got caught in the crossfire.”

“That’s not the point,” he responds resolutely.

“Then tell me what is.”

He doesn’t answer, but sits up and pulls the half crushed pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and slips one between his teeth. As he rolls his thumb over his lighter, you feel your already short fuse ignite. Without giving it a second thought you step forward and snatch the cigarette from between his lips.

“Hey!” He protests, nostrils flaring.

You snap the stick of tobacco in front of him and toss it to the floor. “Enough of the theaterics, Peña.” You stare directly into his eyes, refusing to let him get away with ignoring you. “Quit bullshitting me and tell me what’s really on your mind.”

The sound of the wall clock ticking fills the space and the silence is unbearable, but you refuse to be the first to break. Fifteen more uncomfortably strained seconds tick by before he drops his gaze to the floor and scrubs a hand over his face with a heavy sigh.

He slides over on the couch and pats the cushion next to him. “Sit down, will you?”

You do as he asks and situate yourself at an angle towards him with one leg pulled up across your lap.

“Here,” Javi says as he pulls a throw pillow out from behind him and wedges it gently between you and the couch. “I don’t want you to go and tear open anything I got closed.”

You huff out a quiet laugh and thank him, glancing down at his haphazardly buttoned shirt you’ve got on. You notice you’ve completely misaligned what you’d managed to fasten. Ignoring that for now, you kick at his shin and incline your head towards him. “You done with all the tough guy shit?”

Javier presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what happened. I just—”

“Just what?”

He lifts his eyes to yours and you watch the way his coffee colored irises flicker in the lamplight. “There's just some lines you shouldn’t cross.”

“This is Bogotá,” you say, mirroring his words from earlier. “There’s a lot of lines we shouldn’t cross.”

“I’m serious,” he responds brusquely, eyes darkening as he shuts you out once more.

You sit up straighter, undeterred by his obvious attempts to push you away. “Yeah, well tough shit, so am I.”

The way he speaks your name is laced with frustration and uncertainty. He’s holding back and your own frustration mounts. You’re tired, you’re in pain, and frankly, now you’re just feeling plain stupid. You’d heard rumors of Javier’s extracurricular activities with women. Did you really want to be another notch in his bedpost?

You let out a low, wry chuckle and shake your head. “You know what, Javier?” You push yourself up and off the couch, wincing as you do so, and look down at him. “Give me a call if you figure out what side of the line you stand on.”

You turn and swiftly move towards the door, swiping your keys and gun off of the counter as you do so. You use your good arm to shove your sidearm into the back of your jeans and unlock the deadbolt on Javier’s front door.

You’ve barely pushed the door open when Javier appears at your side and yanks it closed. Before you can protest, he pushes you up against the door and presses his lips to yours in a devastatingly desperate kiss.

You can’t control the moan that rushes from your mouth into his as you kiss him back. He tastes like mint and menthols and you suddenly can’t remember why you hate the smell of cigarettes so much. The cuts along your back and shoulder blades sting as the wood rubs up against the shirt Javier gave you, but with his hands pressed against the expanse of wall on either side of your face, you decide it’s bearable.

That is until you reach up unthinkingly to tangle your hand into his hair and a sharp sting of pain reverberates from your shoulder all the way down to your fingertips.

Javi abruptly breaks off the kiss and his eyes flicker across your face, shining with concern. “Fuck, I’m sorry! I just got caught up in the moment. Did I hurt you?”

You place a placating hand against his chest and feel the erratic beating under your palm. “I’m fine, Jav. Really.”

He licks his lips and you already miss the way they felt against yours. He presses them together and nods. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo. “I guess I should head home though, get some rest. God knows the ambassador is going to want a report on all of this.”

“You got shot, the ambassador can get fucked.”

“Fucked, is what we’re both going to be if we can’t figure out who targeted us.” You sigh and shake off the thought. “I better get going. It’s late.”

Javier stops you from turning to leave. “You’re not walking home alone this late at night.”

“It’s down the street, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not walking alone.”

“Then walk me home. Your strong male aura will keep danger at a bay,” you add sarcastically.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what do you suppose I do?”

“Simple, stay here. I’ll drive you home in the morning.”

“And sit on all that blood? No thanks.”

“Okay fine, I’ll walk you home in the morning.”

You consider the implications of that and choose the safest route. “S’pose I could sleep on the couch.”

Javier shakes his head. “I’m not gonna make you sleep on the fucking couch. You’ll sleep in my bed.”

“And you’ll sleep where?”

“Next to you,” he says smoothly. “If you’ll let me.”

You arch a brow. “And we’ll just…sleep?”

Javi shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and shrugs his shoulders, his smile smug. “Tonight, yes.” He steps forward and takes a hand from his pocket to cup your face gently in his wide palm. He places a tender kiss upon your lips. “Tomorrow night might be a different story.”

“I think I’d be quite interested in reading that,” you respond playfully.

“It’s different than what I’m used to,” Javier says and then adds, “but I think change might not be a bad thing.”

You give him a once over and nod. “I think you’re right about that.”

He smiles, somewhat sheepishly, as he says, “I’m sorry for being such a dick.”

The corner of your mouth quirks as you shrug your good shoulder. “I’m not sorry I pushed your buttons like that. It’s about time you open up and actually let yourself feel your feelings.”

He rubs his thumb across your bottom lip and then drops his hand to curve around your hip and rest on the small of your back. “Let’s get some sleep, huh?”

And that’s how you find yourself lying in bed next to Javier Peña of all people, wearing his shirt to sleep while he snores softly beside you; and you can’t help but wonder how many things had to happen for you to end up here at this moment. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you in against the steady warmth of his skin and you find that you quite like the way you fit so perfectly against the crook of his body.

In the comfort of his arms, you drift off into an uninterrupted sleep and for the first time since you can’t remember when you don’t dream of Pablo Escobar.

[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

[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)

[simperator]

Haeresis Dea - Chapter 8

Your peaceful cottage life is decidedly short-lived. AO3 Link

A Tense Night in the 1980s.

It was an utter miracle that nobody had died.

Everything was a homogenised blur. Seeing his father and brothers, all the novitiates, the deafening organ and buzzing of voices. Secondo dreaded this day all leading up to it, during, and now after. He wanted to banish it like it was all one big nightmare, that he should wake up the next morning and still be a priest, be seated during masses, and be seen as an equal to the other Siblings. See the young sister again.

Secondo was already in comically low spirits throughout the entire day. He hated waving his hands to ordain the new Siblings, he hated parroting archaic Latin to the congregation, he hated how his father pretended to be proud of him as father and son instead of just another trophy.

Everything changed for the worst when Terzo handed him that note. In the courtyard, while the entire church was enjoying festivities after what was supposed to be one of the most joyous of church occasions. The note said that the one person he grew to trust, grew to appreciate, and though he would never admit it- grew to love, abandoned the church. Abandoned him.

Terzo had spent the rest of the night in vain trying to soothe him, get through to Secondo that she left for good reason and that it had nothing to do with him as a person. However, just like his father, Secondo only understood that she was here, she convinced him that she cared for him, and then she left. It was all Nihil’s fault. No, it was Imperators. But Primo was going to be the one to actually axe her in front of everyone. That was the worst part in Secondo’s eyes.

“He was going to humiliate her! In front of everyone! What kind of fucking monster would do that?!” He was pacing wildly, hands rubbing together as if restraining them from being balled into fists and flinging them at the first thing he saw. “It’s not Primo’s fault, fratello. He was just following orders…” “From that old bastard, he ruins everything!” Secondo roared.

Nothing Terzo could say could make that statement untrue. Nihil Emeritus did ruin everything. Sister Imperator pointed the gun and he’d shoot. The brothers, unfortunately, found themselves in the crossfire, and worse, the one thing that Secondo let himself care about other than himself and Papacy was the target.

“Maybe she’ll come back one day,” Terzo spoke softly, genuinely. His brother’s kindness soothed Secondo if not only a little bit. Despite that, both of them knew that was untrue. Secondo would silently pray to the Olde One every night for her return and Terzo would spur him on, but she was gone. She was betrayed. She was never coming back.

Secondo had removed his gloves long ago, dressed only in formal attire as he refused to don a cassock. He stopped in his tracks, eyes refusing to meet Terzo. “How could they do this?” Terzo glanced around uncomfortably, stumbling at how to answer such an obvious question. “It’s just what they do.” Secondo looked back at his brothers, eyes heavy with sprawling unrepressed hatred.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he opted for looking away, past the dirt trails that lead away from the cathedral. Maybe if he was a braver man, he would go and search for his beloved sister himself, God knows there’s nothing for him here. At least he thought so, but his brother’s voice grounded him once more. “We need you here, Secondo.” He strode up next to him. “And besides… there are other sisters out there! Or, in there…” Terzo uncomfortably chuckled, shaking a thumb at the cathedral behind them.

The larger Emeritus tensed up at the seemingly heartless comment from his brother, but with a deep inhale, realises that he only ever means well. Secondo gazed down at Terzo, whatever white-hot anger dissipating into flat, cool, bitterness. Terzo offered him a sheepish half-smirk in return. “Come on, Secondo… at least give the party a shot… they threw it for us after all!”

Secondo cocked an eyebrow at him, trying to coerce him to go like a child who just wants to go home. Terzo shimmied his shoulders in mock excitement. “There’s wi-ne!” clearly impersonating a nondescript character. Secondo snorted at his antics as he turned back to the cathedral, illuminated in orange light against the deep blue hues of the surrounding night. One more look to the dirt path, as if confirming to himself that going after her was a stupid idea. “Alright.”

—-----------

A Lazy Summer in 2011

You honestly couldn’t be happier if you tried.

Wouldn’t anyone in your position? Laying out in the southern European morning sunshine, cooling yourself off with freshly cut fruit, finding yourself dozing in and out of a nap innocently trying to enjoy a lazy Sunday. A knowingly impossible task considered where you lived, the chapel bells beginning to echo in your ears was a grim reminder of that.

What could be expected really, the rural village you lived in was almost unanimously Catholic, and it was the good Lord’s sabbath. Honestly, you really could not be bothered to move from your spot. Even on a day less perfect for achieving nothing, you normally didn’t really bother with going to Mass unless you were egged on by one of your neighbours, or to celebrate the big holidays like Easter and Christmas.

You found yourself extremely disillusioned with religion, especially the Catholics. From the time you were a very small child you studied, worshipped, and built your whole life around the very lake-of-fire-and-sulphur enemy of God. Satan, whether you liked it or not, was your game. Suffice to say you did not like it at all.

Because you did play that game. Studying and translating occult texts from Latin to Italian to English and back to Latin again. Staying up until the Witching Hour every Sunday to worship the culmination of all perceived evil. Your only life’s dream was to spend the rest of your days being a servant to Satan and all he stands for, and being an equal parts servant to the ministry that came with it.

That life was so foreign to you now. A bright-eyed, true-blue Satanist turned apostate who volunteers at the local church to weave palm leaves and replace burnt-down candles in the name of God. Ambiently atheist, you were content with the quiet little life you’ve curated for yourself. A humble fruit market saleswoman, an odd-job purveyor, and feeder-of-stray-cats. If there was a God or a Satan, this life was what they had planned for you.

Paradoxes are strange in a way that a small loophole can uproot one’s entire view of their life, and unfortunately, you lived in a paradox. Were you happy with this life? Of course you were. After all, Thessalonians 4:11 says that you should strive to lead a quiet life. God is certainly pleased with you in that regard, nothing has happened to you in years. No tragedies which were divine, but also no notable joy.

Sure, the Christmas and Easter masses were fun. The rapport you’ve built with the other vendors in your local market made you feel like you belonged. Dinner parties with your neighbours filled the loneliness quota in your soul. However you did not have many close friends, no one to share your innermost secrets, fears, and passing thoughts with. Nothing and no one seemed to have that spark about them, so you lived your life in a state of ambient shades of grey.

It was days like this you thought about the Church of Satan the most. There’s no spark to you quite like hellfire, and though you have refused to even look in the direction of the old cathedral, on lonesome Sundays while watching the congregation gather outside the church, you indulge your mind and let your thoughts wander about the people you knew all those years ago.

Has Papa Nihil gone senile? Primo must’ve risen the ranks to be Papa by now, it’s been long enough. Plus, he always did have what it takes. Did Terzo ever end up growing up, or did he just take his father’s place as an immature, pompous asshole? Did Secondo ever think of the time you shared? Did Copia?

Copia.

With a sinking in your stomach, your lovely morning was immediately uprooted. Copia. Your nearest and dearest friend since childhood, you knew even as young and dumb as you were that your sudden departure was going to be a shock to him. A nasty shock. He knew more than anyone about your life’s circumstances outside of the ministry, he knew where you were. Copia knew everything. Your birthday and your favourite books and those deepest fears and secrets. How come he never wrote?

Perhaps he was angry with you for leaving the church, you wouldn’t blame him. But, then again, you would. The man you were in love with was ready and willing to ruin your life and dash all your hopes, in front of all of your friends and family. Yes, Copia was a bit more of a pushover than you were, but wouldn’t anyone jump ship like that? He would understand. He has to understand. If he understands, why hasn’t he written to you?

Forget it. Living in the past has seldom done anyone good. It was only two hours before the mass would let out and local families would go about their leisurely Sunday shopping, so you had to kick yourself out of this pity party and get to work. Brushing grass and dirt off yourself you pick up your basket of fruit and begin to trudge back to your cottage.

The crunch of the dirt road under your feet has become such a comforting sound en-lieu of the clicking on cobblestones, The sound kept you company on the short stroll through the empty streets, trying desperately to shove down thinking of Copia and Secondo any longer. So much time was spent trying to shove down old memories was damn near like teleporting because before you knew it, the modest stone structure stood before you.

Comfort washed over you at the sight of your home. Well, your mother’s home before she decided she wanted to enjoy the hustle and bustle of Florence in her retirement years. It was worn down, sun-bleached, and blessed with so many windows a fortune was saved on electricity.

The stock for this Sunday was already pre-prepared and sat in large bags leant against your front door, so all you had to do was wait for your driver to stop by to help you load them and take you to the marketplace. Giving yourself a mock-job you decided to inspect the fruits as you approached for any bruising or mould, already knowing that there wasn’t going to be any.

Maybe you could squeeze in a quick lunch, or you could quietly sneak into mass. Such a hands-off life led to many bouts of boredom which fed into your constant reminiscing and self-dialogue. Scanning the front of your home for any cracks in the stone, anything out of the ordinary, your eyes finally met with your mailbox. The closest thing to being out-of-the-ordinary was the lid of it being half-opened with a small off-yellow parchment peeking through.

There was really no use in getting excited, you received letters semi-regularly. Mayoral lobbying, church newsletters, letters from your mother in Florence, you were already pretty sure of what you’d be reading before you even creaked open the lid. You had become so talented at identifying the three types of letters you’d receive you could tell by the thickness and colour of the envelope which it was going to be from.

The colour and thickness suggested a church newsletter. The summer itinerary for sure. With half-hearted slowness you pick up the letter and inspected it, hoping to be lulled into the comfort of the same penmanship with the same address. There was a comfort about how it felt under your fingers, but the comfort slowly fizzled out when the dissimilar penmanship read an unfamiliar address. You read the first line of the sender’s address over and over to yourself until it sunk into your skin.

Cardinal Copia Emeritus.

Followed by the address of the cathedral, numbers and words that you forgot to remember. Too shocked to even shake, you stared at his name. Obviously, he had written it all himself, it was penmanship and not the typical ministry address stamp. Did God listen to your musings and listen to your prayers? Did Satan? Your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to feel the unabashed joy of hearing from your old friend, searing anger that it took him this long, or all-consuming anxiety that he wrote to express how angry he was with you.

Deciding that this was the work of St. Rita, patroness of impossibilities, you debated even opening the letter at all. Maybe you could pass it over to the church as proof that prayers can be answered, or you could throw it out to not deal with the weight of the contents being unknown. Fuck both of that, you were going to rip it open like a mad animal and read it immediately.

Not so mad that you ripped the address writing, as seeing Copia’s penmanship was the first twinge of real joy you’ve felt in years, you pulled the thick paper from the envelope, the sight of his handwriting in a couple of squished paragraphs fueling your anxiety fire. Something about the meticulousness of his cursive suggested this was not a letter written out of anger, as he had taken the time to make it look nice, but you were holding onto any ridiculous bit of hope for that.

Eyes darting up and down at the paragraphs without consuming any of the words, you gripped the sides of the letter tightly so as to not let your shaken hands obscure your ability to read it. Swallowing a dry breath you relaxed your vision to read the first line. All while trying to expect every possible outcome.

The sight of the first three words immediately threatened hot tears to prick your eyes and your throat to tighten. Sobs were brewing in your diaphragm. Pure, happy, sobs. After all these years of worrying that you had become a forgotten relic of the ministry, an embarrassment. But no, Copia was here, as he always was, to soothe you and reinforce the love that was felt for you. Vision obscured with tears, you whispered the first lines of the letter to yourself.

“My Dearest Sorella,"

[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.

[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

[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."

[hotchscoffeecup]

intro 🖤

hiiii my name is ash! basic things to know: i’m 26, queer, use she/her pronouns, and created this account to share my fanfics.

movies/shows: the lord of the rings, the hobbit, the mandalorian, narcos, criminal minds, bones, superstore, brooklyn 99, demon slayer, sailor moon

characters: thranduil, bard the bowman, aaron hotchner, emily prentiss, din djarin, javier peña

i love bringing people’s visions to life! see my master list below for all of my fics <333 fic requests are also OPEN

master list🪻

Fics with an asterisk * are NSFW and are 18+ only, MDNI!

Criminal Minds

hotch x reader

power struggle

banana pancakes

drunk dial

through love and loss

after hours *

how do we carry on?

reconciliation (pt.2 to how do we carry on?)

from across the bar *

stricken

stuck

unstuck (pt.2 to stuck)

savoring the moment

alex blake x reader

the crossword can’t wait *

emily prentiss x reader

for her, i’d endure

live a little *

tied up in knots*

hotch x emily

come home with me

emily x jj

lavender bath salts

Narcos

javier x reader

those things will kill you

pillow talk

The Mandalorian

din djarin x reader

don’t punch beskar, you’ll break your hand*

[yeonnies]

hiiii sorry for not writing at all !!! i'm just taking a break bc i am still feeling very burnt out and i am also very much so in love with ateez atm 😭 im writing for them on my other blog LOL but i'll be writing here soon i swear 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼