#DEA Fic

[sneez]

thinking about gwynplaine having speech loss episodes and using tactile sign language to communicate with dea :-) please don't tag as body horror or anything similar [id in alt text]

[tofixtheshadows]

hi!! so there are a lot of improbabilities that make this hypothetical unlikely but: if kabru had met toshiro first & recruited him (toshiro being so passive + not with a clear goal would have helped there & kabru is ptsd-driven but very noble in his goals which can be explained) AND they got all the way down to the bottom (idk if i believe in them...but hypothetically!) would the winged lion find either of them to be a good target for next dungeon lord? one over the other? im thinking kabru has the intensity and complexity of desire necessary but i can't imagine what it would look like if he became lord of the dungeon. do you have any thoughts?

Good morning. This is a very fun thought experiment!

(side note: I got a second anon this morning with a very similar request? not sure if related. I'm gonna let this answer speak for both of them)

Toshiro sure would have had a different time of it if Kabru had gotten to him first, huh? On the one hand, Toshiro seems to like Kabru; I think it's sweet that Kabru seems to gravitate towards hanging out with him when he isn't with the rest of the main cast. So they probably would've been good in a party together.

On the other hand, Toshiro never would have met Falin and fallen in love with her. Even if she didn't reciprocate in the end, I don't think he regrets anything that happened. Even his difficult friendship with Laios was ultimately positive (for both of them!).

They definitely would not have made it to the deeper floors, I think Senshi is crucial to achieving that ... but this is a hypothetical.

I'm puzzling over the question of Toshiro, because he is a secondary character and there's only so much we know about his motivations. His big one in canon is to save Falin, even if it means all he can do is put her to rest. Without that, without her, what sort of desires does he have?

Toshiro originally came to the Island because of a demand from his father: for one of his three sons to find "something interesting" enough on their travels to bring back home that would convince their capricious bastard father to make them his heir over the others. So they're all off on their separate training journeys with their respective retainers with the added caveat that they can't return without something to impress their father. It's implied that after falling in love with Falin, Toshiro had wanted to bring back home a wife.

Since he's said to inherit the family after he returns home without her anyway, I've been assuming that the "thing" Toshiro ended up bringing to Toshitsugu Nakamoto was the story of the dungeon, the demon, and his friend Laios, king of a risen country and Devourer of All Things Horrible.

Anyway, the things we know about Toshiro's home life are kind of fucked. It's amazing he turned out to be so nice. He's always been a shy, sensitive person, and he was sickly as a child; Maizuru cared for him despite her spymaster duties and ended up filling a motherly role for him, even though Toshiro's mother is still alive. Historically, it wasn't uncommon for noble children to be raised more closely by their governesses/household retainers than their parents, so perhaps something similar was happening here (disclaimer that I don't know much about feudal Japan specifically).

We know that Maizuru loves Toshiro and dotes on him, but she's also very strict and frankly terrifying; she used the same Hag summon that she was monitoring Izutsumi with on Toshiro as a child just to keep him from wandering off. We also know that when he found out that Maizuru was having an affair with his father, it put a distance between them. Whether this is because he felt betrayed on his mother's behalf or because he dislikes his father that much, or something else, is unclear.

Toshiro was childhood friends with Hien, but as they got older, she had to take his place as one of his retainers, which seems to have severed that closeness. Canonically, he isn't close to his two younger brothers either. Toshitsugu literally bought Inutade and Izustumi (the latter as a drunken "gift" for Maizuru!). We see that Toshiro is uncomfortable with this, but doesn't know how to approach the issue. He lets Izutsumi go the second she's out of sight for five minutes, which implies to me that he really wanted the excuse to do so. Inutade is harder, because she loves being with the Nakamoto family and hero-worships Toshiro's father.

...all this to say, Toshiro has complicated relationships with his family and household. There's love there, but also a lot of coldness enforced by the upper-class need for propriety. Toshiro falls in line and acts as the proper stoic samurai, but he chafes at this; he envies Laios's gift for feeling and expressing things openly and readily. I think that's what the Winged Lion would prey on, given the chance.

I don't think he would be prime dungeon lord material, but if it came to that, I could see the Lion tempting Toshiro with a kinder vision of his life, one where he and his little brothers weren't pitted against one another, where his family was warmer, where there weren't barriers of class between him and his retainers, where he was allowed to be more himself.

Now ... Kabru.

Kabru is interesting because, since his ultimate goal is to seal the dungeon and eradicate monsters, I imagine that meeting a demon would be like a guy who's given a genie and wants to wish for no more genies. And if said genie is trying to take over the world via wishes, the genie is a bit screwed. I really think that Kabru is the character who would stump the demon(s) the most, despite his complex desires, because they are antithetical to the demon. Laios also had complex desires, but the Winged Lion lured him and set him up as the hero of a fake prophecy because a lot of Laios's desires revolved around monsters, so his wants aligned perfectly with the demon's methods. Oh you want monsters? That's great, they're the things I use to solve most of my problems anyway.

Even in the absence of prior knowledge of demons, I think Kabru's back would be up as soon as the Winged Lion tried speaking to him. Kabru's insight is almost preternatural, and he's well-versed in persuasive speaking thanks to his own silver tongue. He would mistrust the Lion immediately, especially considering its monster-like form.

Giving the demons bestial appearances is an artistic choice on Kui's part, so I don't think there's any indication that the Winged Lion & co can't look human, but the Lion might have been constrained both by Thistle's seals on it and the need to maintain the lie that it's just the innocent guardian deity of the Golden Country. If it could, I think it would try to look less monstrous, with Kabru.

Still, the point of the demons, I see, is that anyone can be tempted, anyone can be manipulated, because we are all full of buried desires that can be unearthed, and wanting things and having to defend them make you susceptible to manipulation.

Consider what Mithrun told Kabru: they keep the knowledge of demons secret because knowing the truth would not stop people from trying to have their wishes granted. After all, Mithrun was a Canary, but he fell for its temptation anyway. I've seen people characterize this as a sort of rock bottom decision, and maybe that's true, but I also pin it on his toxic inferiority/superiority complex. That's exactly the kind of thing that makes you think you're built different.

Would Marcille have stopped before unsealing the Winged Lion if Mithrun(/Kabru) had actually gotten to sit down with her for five minutes and explain why becoming dungeon lord would be a very bad idea? Maybe. Or maybe her desperation, and her own pride, would have made her decide that she knew better, that she'd be careful, that she'd go in with a plan and definitely get what she wanted with no dire consequences.

I think Kabru could be desperate enough to make a similar decision, even if his desires were antithetical to the demon. And the demons have an advantage over the aforementioned genie simile: their ability to eat desires.

If the Winged Lion were smart, it wouldn't let Kabru seal it away like Thistle. Given the opportunity, its best chance for dealing with Kabru would have been to immediately eat his desire to stop another Utaya.

I'm gonna plug this wonderful and tragic little one-shot someone wrote recently about the dungeon lord Kabru hypothetical: This place is not a place of honor.

[softpascalito]

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

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

aka

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

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

WC: ~4200

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

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

Notes:

hello!

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

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

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Secure

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

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

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

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

“Excellent.”

“Good.” You smiled. 

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

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

“Great.”

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

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

“Coffee. Decaf.”

“Coming up.”

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

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

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

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sweet.”

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

“Night.”

“Nice Spanish.”

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

“I’m Javier, by the way.”

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

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

“A couple years. Yourself?”

“Same.” 

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

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

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

She was a people person. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he was. 

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

But the moment you smiled, his nerves eased. 

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

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

“Goodnight, Javi.”

“Night, hermosa.”

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

You were in deep trouble. 

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

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

It felt different. 

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

It felt…natural.

Homely.

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

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

But that was when he noticed them. 

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

“Hermosa?”

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

“The marks…”

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

A memory you wished to forget. 

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

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

“They’re nothing, Javi.” 

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

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

Slowly, you both lay back but then you remembered. 

You had a job. 

Unfortunately.

Javi groaned. He had one, too. 

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

God, you were falling. 

Hard. 

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

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

4 months later…

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

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

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

Connie came rushing inside. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smell off the coffee shop - it was Javi. 

It was you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And legible. 

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

His heart dropped. 

“Peña?” 

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

“You…what happened?”

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

“And the other?”

“Hospital.”

“How?”

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

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

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

You had faught? 

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

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

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

This couldn’t have just been a robbery. 

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

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

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

“I’m fine-“

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

But he didn’t.

You were here. 

You were alive. 

Are.

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head.

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

“Those scars. How did you get them?”

“Javi.”

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

“They’re nothing-“

“Bullshit.”

You stared him down. He wouldn’t budge. 

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

“Nothing.”

“Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

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

Javi waited for you to continue. 

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

“So you came to Columbia?”

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

“And the guys?”

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

“Did they say anything?”

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

“They know you were a fed?”

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

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

“I’m fine, Javi.”

“You could have told me, you know.”

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

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

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

Your gaze was both soft and serious. 

“I’m telling you now.”

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

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

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

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

“I know.”

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

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

You would be okay. 

You are alive. 

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

But in this moment; it didn’t matter. 

All of that could wait until tomorrow. 

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

And you were okay with that. 

After all, you felt the exact same way. 

[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.

[januaryembrs]

BEST GIRL | Javier Peña x DEA!reader

Request: Congrats on 1k! <3 If I may request a Javier pena x reader, where he insists on taking her home to insure she's safe? Thank you, if this doesn't speak to you, feel free to skip!

description: Javi offers to walk you home when you get stood up on a date.

Word count: 1.4k

trigger warnings: hickeys, mention of a gun, walking home alone, jealousy?

main masterlist

Author’s note: As much as I love doing these singular prompts I keep getting attached to the characters I'm writing and wanting to write fully fledged fits which I don't have time to do. Love the x dea!Reader trope as we all know.

It had all started two weeks ago when you bustled into the office with a hickey on your neck. He’d had a subtle crush on you for the past few months, though he had tried to put it down to lust, but inside Peña knew he was screwed. You were a beautiful woman, smart and witty, amazing at catching narcos. You were possibly the best in the department, at least that’s what it said according to the leaderboard you kept of the number of arrests made this month. 

You were in the lead with fifteen, Javi running in close second with thirteen and Steve falling behind at nine. Though in his defence, Carrillo had been grilling him with paperwork to fill out so he didn’t have as much of a chance in the field as the two of you did. But it was clear that when you walked into the office, hair messed and a small purple splotch on your collarbone that your winning total was not the source of your delight. 

Sitting at your desk and shoving your handbag under your chair, you moved to make a start on your own paperwork. You felt two sets of eyes burning into your skull, your face flicking up to the offending agents with pride. 

“Oh, good morning gentlemen,” Came your smug voice, as if they had been an afterthought in your charm this morning. 

“Morning,” Steve murmured, sitting upright in his chair to get a look at your desk, “Where’s your coffee?”

You were a creature of habit, and after working closely for nearly a year with the two men in your unit, they grew to understand that every single morning you brought the same coffee flask, in the same handbag, which you brought to your lips with the same shade of lipstick almost immediately upon entering the building. But today was different, off. Your peachy pink lipstick was nowhere to be seen, a deeper red painted on in its place. And the beverage was missing too.

Javi’s eyes perked up at the distinction in your demeanour, your face going hot at the fact they had known you just that bit too well for you to get away with your little secret. 

“Just didn’t fancy it this morning,” You responded, trying to bury your nose into your work. Steve’s pen clattered to his desk in shock. That was certainty new. A job like this meant you had to stuff yourself full to the brim with caffeine if you were to make it through the day. 

“No, no,” Javi said suspiciously, “You look different. You only wear red lipstick when we’re going out,” Your eyes shot to his at the remark. An odd warmth spread in your chest when you realised he took notice of your little habits and you hid a scarlet smile at his words. 

“Yeah, and your coffee cup is gone because you couldn’t make it the way you like it this morning. Maybe you weren’t home?” Steve finished, raising his eyebrows in an accusation.

You puffed a breath, leaning back in your chair at their interrogation, “Save the questions for the criminals, boys,” They simply stared at you, waiting for an answer. You knew you weren’t wriggling out of this one. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t home last night. I’ve started seeing someone,” You confessed.

“Yeah, we gathered. That hickey on your neck says it all,” Javi teased, though inside he was bitter at the fact he had missed his chance with you. “So when can we meet him?”

Obviously not because Javi wanted to size the guy up or anything. Obviously. 

—

Not even three days later, Javi had practically forced you to arrange a double (triple) date with your recent interest. 

All you had told them was that his name was Mateo and that he was just so dreamy. He worked at the coffee shop you stopped off on the way home from work (again, getting your fill of caffeine for your guaranteed share of paperwork waiting for you at home). He had been the one to make the move on you, take you out for drinks, kiss you first on his old sofa in the dead of night. 

So as the five of you sat in the bar, two drinks down, it made no sense in anyone’s eyes why you were sitting alone. 

Steve of course had brought Connie, Javi had brought some girl he owed a second date, Eliza you think her name was. Then there was you. 

Mateo was supposed to be here an hour ago, you thought as you wrung your hands in nerves. The conversation flowed nicely as it always did between the three of you. Connie was by far the nicest woman you had ever known, and boy did she give Steve a run for his money with her drink tolerance. And Eliza was nice. She was quiet though, too interested in kissing Javi’s earlobe as he blushed and tried distracting her with something else whether it be shots or a less physical form of affection to keep her away.

She was nice, they all were. But god did you feel like an idiot. 

You chugged the remnants of your beer, still glancing at the door in case he made an appearance despite being diabolically late. When there was still no sight of him for a moment, you sighed and stood up from the table. “I’m gonna head home, it’s getting late-”

“You’re leaving?” Connie said, her blue eyes turning sad as she grabbed your wrist kindly, “He still might show up, please don’t go,”

“It’s getting late, I think I’m just going to go home. I have a huge report due for Carrillo by Monday anyway-” You brushed off politely, hating the look of pity everyone sent your way. You were obviously lying, anyone could see you were simply trying to save face over the fact your date had stood you up.

“Y/n, please just wait up, one of us will walk you home,” Steve tried to interject, but you were too fast, already slipping your coat on and stepping away from the table. 

“No, it’s fine really. I’m a big girl, I have my badge and gun on me anyway,” You promised, a meek smile clearly masking the embarrassment you felt. 

You turned on your heel to head out the door, giving the quartet a small nod goodnight as you left. God, this was pathetic. A woman of your grown age getting stood up on a date still, as if you were a stupid teen chasing an even more childish boy. You willed yourself not to cry out of sheer embarrassment, though your eyes stung with hatred and unshed tears anyway. 

That is until you heard your name being called behind you. 

“Wait!” You spun around to see Javi speeding to catch up with you, his date left at the table with a new cocktail in her hand and a slightly sour looking face. “Let me take you home,”

“Javier, you’re on a date. I can walk home alone, I’m fine. I don’t need everyone fawning over me-” You started but was cut off when he overtook you and held the door open for you to leave. “Javi!”

“Steve and Connie are taking Eliza home. Come on,” He held his hand out to you leaving no room for an argument. The warmth you felt in the office returned when you saw the way he looked at you, a mixture of pity, pleading and concern in those doe, brown eyes. All for you. “I can’t leave my best girl to walk home alone, can I?”

Because you knew he would do anything for you. The same way he would for Steve, or anyone else in the department. But something about the way he held his hand out, kind and inviting, as if he needed to take you home just as badly as you needed a shoulder to cry on, made your heart flutter like Mateo and his dreamy pick up lines never had. 

You took his hand gently, and he began walking the two of you through the cold Medellin night air, pulling you close with a sigh, “Jackass doesn’t know what he’s missing,”

[heartfullofleeches]

what about reader who's poor and works at 2 jobs, then the worshipper god saw their situation and surprised them with wealth?

"Just a minute!"

Trays of food in hand, you race around the small dinner; giving each table its order. You drop a check off at one, nearly losing balance of the second plate as another customer shouts for your attention elsewhere. The restaurant was packed; a blame mainly to be put on some event in town. You were the only one currently on the wait staff as your other coworker was taking their break and the called in sick.

You hurry over to the customer. From the redness of their face- something tells you this won't be good.

"What can I do for you?"

"Does this look like tea to you?" The customer shows you their mug filled with a murky liquid. Hot chocolate.

"I'm so sorry about that. I'll go get that changed for you.-" You grab the cup, but they place their hand over yours before you can take it.

"You wouldn't have to be sorry if you did your job right. I've waited six minutes for you to come, and I want a discount for the wasted time."

You purse your lips. "I'll see what I can do about that..."

"Pardon me? I believe you have my drink."

You look behind you. A hooded figure stands holding another mug and looking at the customer. They don’t meet your gaze; shying away from it if you saw correctly. They place it on the table.

"I have your tea. It was sent to me by a simple mistake. This establishment is filled to the brime and they are only one person so give them a break. Drink it."

The customer huffs. "I'm not drinking that! Your fingers have been all over it and its probably cold."

The figure leans in. "Drink it."

The customer's eyes turn cloudy. They pick up the mug and down the tea; half of the filling their mouth and half splattering over their shirt. In a sudden change of demeanor, the stranger offers you a shy smile.

"May I?"

You nod. You don't remember seeing them at any table - but you weren't going to complain.

"Thank you." The figure picks up the hot chocolate. They bring the cup to their mouth; hands shaking more vigorously the closer they get to their lips. Their body relaxes when they touch the rim; an indirect touch between them and your hand. Bliss before they even took a sip.

They finally start to drink. The chocolate is like warm now, but drinking it warms their spirit like a cosy fire. It was just cheap store bought stuff, but they treat it like it was the finest brand in the world. They consume every drop, licking the porcelain to get that remaining dribble. What an interesting experience.

"Marvelous...."

Just then, your coworker walks from the back; notebook in hand. "Yo, Y/n! It's your turn to take a break."

Thank God.

"Coming!"

You walk past the figure and head to the back; their eyes trained on your shrinking form.

-

You walk outside the backdoor and sit on the porch. There's no breakroom, so this was the only place you could do to get the smell of burnt eggs out your nose. The back alley was cold and bleak. As depressing as it sounded, this was the highlight if your day. You grab your phone, checking the schedule of your second job. That shift started only fifteen minutes after this one ended. You were exhausted, but desperately needed the cash.

You lean back; head against the worn metal door and eyes pointed at the sky. How long would your life be like this? You've been stuck in dead in jobs for the better part of five years now. At least you have enough to cover bills, but there wasn't much left after that. You just need one break - other than the one you're currently on.

"E- excuse me?'"

You look ahead. A person stands over you. You recognize them by the sound of their voice; hood pulled back. Strange marks lined the left half of their face. You try not to look at them. They make your head hurt.

"I am at an understanding that you are low on funds, and wish to provide aid."

"I'm not sure how you know that, but I'm not sure there's any other service I can give you aside from some soggy waffles."

"Oh! No. I do not require any exchange. I've heard that your kind gives its currency to their idols without expecting much in return, and I want to do the same. I believe this can be used for monitory value."

The stranger extends their arms; the skin pulling away to reveal a small void in place of their veins. Galaxies swirl within the folds of their flesh. A single gold coin falling into your apron. You pick it up to look at it. Out falls another, and another; the shower continuing until your lap is completely filled with gold to the point that it's spilling over the streets. You attempt to catch it all; brain in shock, but able to function well enough to tell you to as such. The deity bows before you.

"I hope this is enough to earn your favor for the time being. My only prayer is that you live a fulfilling life so I can bask in the afterglow of your happiness. I shall take my leave to avoid stealing more of your time. Thank you again, my grace."

They vanish in a clash of white light. Leaving you alone in an alley with a small mountain of gold in your lap. Your body trembles as you process what just happened. You'll probably have to take the rest of the day off to recover.

[shadebloopnik]

I just read the newest update of Stolen Moments

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

[seatnights]

HEY I NEED HELP🤠

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

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

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

[madomkasak]

final dead heat chapter don't talk to me

[simperator]

Haeresis Dea - Chapter 4

AO3 Link

You have something to tell Terzo, Secondo has something to tell you, Copia has something to tell Secondo- nobody shoot the messenger.

You never were so keen on folding laundry.

Another week, another Saturday you’re stuck folding an entire Clerical staff’s laundry when you could be doing literally anything else. Normally this task would be done whilst you were hypothetically kicking and screaming, or sneaking off to a breakroom, but you were absolutely flying through folding these cassocks. You hummed a mindless little tune to yourself, your gaze transfixed in a daydream.

Secondo, Secondo, Secondo.

Almost as if you’re the protagonist in some rom-com you’d normally turn your nose up to, you let loose a satisfied sigh. Imagine it, having an infantile little crush on him all because he’s being nice to you. Part of you wants to kick yourself for letting such flighty emotions creep over your thoughts but unfortunately, the thoughts replayed the time you’ve been spending with the middle Emeritus brother. The way he understands your frustration with the injustice of power in the church, the way he makes you laugh, the way his gloved thumbs rubbed over your hands…

Anyone could see it, you’ve got it bad. Not that it would be a problem, but unlike most other organised religions the Unholy Church of Satan welcomes intimate relationships and marriage-adjacent rituals among clergy members, so it’s not as though your infatuation is punishable. Well, to the church at least. Sat on the desk in your dormitory is another letter from your mother, you don’t read them too closely anymore, but something something “Always mind your vocation” something something “Saving yourself”. The other postulants laugh it off as puritanical nonsense, you make a solid effort.

One of the sisters in the clerical commons, unbeknownst to you, has been watching you as you absentmindedly breeze through what is otherwise one of the more tedious chores Novitates are saddled with. “Wow! Look at you! It’s not even noon and all the cardinal’s cassocks are done!” she chirped brightly. This snaps you out of your hormone-heavy haze. “Hm? Oh! Yes, I suppose so…” It is all over your face that you’re out of it, and it seems it wasn’t going unnoticed to her. She gives you a mischievous smile. “Any uh…” You immediately lost interest in speaking in favour of daydreaming. “Anything on your mind?”

“No…” your reply is sickeningly melodic and extremely unconvincing. You’ve been receiving many of these prying questions and knowing looks from people you knew all across the clergy, but no one dare rush the process of romance, especially with the knowledge of the papacy and the subsequent Prime Mover ritual. Prime Movers were a concept that always flummoxed you. Perhaps it was just your upbringing, but you never understood why Papas and clergy members don’t honour the sanctity of marriage. Of course, it goes against their doctrine- but the idea of an entire ritual to initiate oneself as just a Papa’s personal baby-making machine and not their life partner always felt heartless to you. Even the name, Prime Mover, felt strangely perverted in comparison to ‘spouse’, even if on a primal level they serve the same purpose. Deep down, you’re sort of happy Nihil pays you no mind by that fact alone.

You banish the thought of Prime Movers, the idea that people are rooting for you to become one, the fact that they are rooting for you to become Secondo’s. You’re sure there must be some impossible qualifications one must meet in order to be chosen to birth the apocalypse, qualifications that you do not fit. Besides, if they’re not even going to make you a Sister, no way in hell you’d be anyone’s personal child bearer. All of it seemed… immoral to you. Maybe your mother’s letters have merit after all. “Sister.” It was Imperator’s voice. She was standing between the two of you in her typical sneak-up-behind-you manner. Remembering your little conversation, Sister Imperator looks you in the eyes and offers you a curt nod. “Novitiate.” The recognition and respect felt good but not good enough to dispel the foreboding nature that following Imperator around wherever she went. “I must speak with you about preparations for something important. Privately.” Your fellow Sister looked to you, somewhat of a twinge of guilt on her face while you felt the familiar anger begin to bubble up inside you. ‘Let me guess, something I’m not good enough to hear? Too fuckin’ stupid?’ Would never dare to say this out loud.

“Coming, Sister Imperator.” Her voice was well-experienced in hiding her meekness. Sister Imperator wordlessly begins walking away with the Sister trailing behind her. As much as you were up in arms about the seemingly impossible hoops it takes to earn any respect, you admire Imperator’s ability to command people without a single word. It would be somewhat blasphemous, but a common sentiment among the clergy is that Sister Imperator would be an infinitely better leader than any of the Papa’s have been for decades. Mama Imperator… you silently hope to see the day.

Once again, you’re left alone while important matters are going on, like a child. Sighing, you gather up all the laundry into one basket and begin the trudge to the cardinal’s suites to deliver their cassocks. It’s a long way, up many flights of stairs, but a small part of you gets excited to see the cardinal’s wing of the cathedral. The lights are big and brighter, and the carpet a bit softer, it’s all just a bit… nicer, for cardinals. Go figure. Cardinals are usually busy during the day, debating Satanic laws, supervising and ordaining priests, and administrative work- so you rarely have any run in’s while you gently place clean cassocks on their beds.

Life seems to be anything but rare for you because the next door over the sleeping quarters was unlike the typical neat, clean, professional interiors you’re used to. Posters of secular metal bands hung on the walls, a leather jacket hung lazily over a chair, and a single kazoo was the crowning jewel on the otherwise messy desk. All of this was certainly not becoming of an Unholy cardinal, you stare off into space trying to figure out who in the clergy would have a room like this. “Good afternoon, Novitiate.”

A beat passes while your face distorts into one of unabashed irritation. “Good afternoon, Cardinal Emeritus.” You turn to him, forcing the best smile your muscles can fake. He smirks at you with that same, fucking smug look on his face. “Oh please, Terzo is fine. You’re on a first-name basis with all of us, right?” He chuckles at his own joke while your face grows hot with anger and embarrassment. “Your black cassock is on your bed.” The words fall out of you while you desperately try to scurry your way out of his room. “Wait!” He laughs out the word.

“Wait-” the second time it’s softer. Stopping in your tracks you let your ears prick, you’ve never heard Terzo Emeritus use that tone before. “Don’t go, Sister…” his tone apologetic, still with an air of teasing thick in it. His piercing green eyes look into yours, rife with remorse but his half-smile says otherwise “I’m… I’m sorry.” You swallow, continuing to step back. “It’s alright.” Terzo snorts. “No it’s not, you’re as red as this cassock.” He’s being nice to you, genuinely sweet. It’s confusing, he might as well have sprouted wings and flown off. “Thank you for eh, bringing the black one by the way red isn’t really my colour.” You exhale in the place of laughter, smiling at his little attempt at a joke.

“Really, Sister. I’m only joking.” Eyes dropping to the floor, you bite your lip. Oh no, are you going to have a heart-to-heart with Terzo of all people? You set down the laundry basket. “It’s okay, I’m not even a real Sister. Tease me all you want.” A part of you immediately regrets snapping at him but you try and convince yourself he deserves it. “Sorella… don’t be that way.” He purred, approaching you tentatively. “Just because Papa Nihil hasn’t said the magic word doesn’t mean you’re not a Sister to me.” His hand makes its way to your shoulder.

You sigh, now feeling even more guilt for the vitriol. “And what do Brothers and Sisters do? We tease!” Shoulder squeezing, you begin to smile at him, totally not of your own volition. Damn it, he is charming. “You’re not some shrinking violet, I know you can take it.” He playfully punches your arm. “And you can dish it, come on, Sister, do your worst.” Unable to hide your shock you let out a laugh. “You mean to insult you?” “Yeah! Come on, no one’s watching!”

Asmodeus, Belial, Satanas, whoever was listening at that moment you thanked a thousand times. Finally let Terzo Emeritus get a piece of your mind, for every time he teased you, every shit-eating grin, every condescending look. “You talk so big for someone so short.” It’s true. Terzo was the most, vertically challenged Emeritus brother. Superior or not, he was still only a couple of inches taller than Imperator, which was not a generous amount. He blinked at you a couple of times before letting out a few small laughs, which crescendoed into bigger ones. You couldn’t help but laugh too as threw an arm around your shoulder. “See? You’ve got some claws! No wonder my brother likes you so much.”

Your laugh fades into a surprised smile. “Really?” The word came out more girlish than you would’ve liked. “Oh yeah, talks about you all the time. How admirable it was you were sticking up to him like that for Copia.” His voice was mockingly poetic, your nose scrunches in annoyance. “Father Copia.” “See?!” Terzo clasped his hands together. “That! That there! That is why Secondo likes you and that is why I tease you. You’re not some sheep who goes along with whatever people say, you got fire! Passion!” You tuck a stray hair behind your veil sheepishly. Not only has it knocked someone down a few pegs, but it’s also made someone you really fancy like you.

“Speaking of passion, when you’re done with delivering cassocks, Secondo wanted to speak with you in the library. Wouldn’t tell me what about.” Your eyes lit up, mind already reeling about what it could be. Picking up the laundry basket you tried to hide your excitement. “Ah! Okay, I’ll just… finish with this then. Thank you, Terzo.” He smiled at you. A real, genuine smile. Turning away from him, you only have a few more rooms left. You hear Terzo’s footsteps enter his room, the door shutting behind him. You thought that’d be the end of it but he just had to have the last word. “Be sure to bring protection!” Fucker.

Two laundry firsts today. The first time you finished folding it all before noon and having them delivered to all the cardinals in under an hour. You were on fire, and so was your anxiety. What could Secondo want? The logical part of your brain reasoned that he was only calling you in to discuss clerical matters, either administrative or just housekeeping. But the small, stupid, fanciful part of you hoped it would be a secret meeting, time spent laughing and enjoying each other's company, with no pleasantries or responsibility. You were so disjointed with all the possibilities you forgot to even knock on the library door before entering, having rushed there after throwing the laundry basket back in the commons.

Secondo was sat at one of the tables, looking up at you wide-eyed as if it was a shock to see you there. You smile warmly, if not a bit awkwardly. “Hello, Secondo!” you chirped, masking any dizzying butterflies you were feeling. Still looking at you, he swallows anxiously and nods slightly. “Hello, Sister.” His detached nature puts you off a little- he looks affronted to see you. Perhaps you should have called him Father? Were you interrupting something? Is he here because he knows of your little crush and is going to spell out how disgusted he was? You try and shake off your overthinking by putting on a friendly face. “May I… sit?” You gestured to an empty chair across from him. “Please.”

You begin to approach the chair but he shoots up from where he was sitting and speed walks behind it, pulling it out for you. His 1000-yard stare is unchanging, but you’re touched by the chivalrous sentiment. “Thank you” your voice was barely above a whisper. Straightening your robes, you watch as he sits back down, taking a few breaths while twiddling his thumbs. The air is tense with an air you can’t read, and you certainly know he isn’t going to cut it. “Is there… a reason you called me in, Father?” using the formal title just in case. Secondo snaps out of whatever daze he was in, sputtering as he spoke. “Oh, no. I mean, there is a reason, but not any you should concern yourself with.”

Eyebrows furrowing, your head cocked slightly. What was he talking about? What Sister Imperator was referring to earlier? “I just… wanted to spend some time with you.” Secondo looked almost apologetic as the words came out of his mouth like you were going to shout at him after he got out the words. No longer able to hide your happiness, you start beaming at him, a soft shade of pink spreading across your cheeks. “Well, I want to spend time with you too.” He tries to hide an awkward smile to no avail.

The two of you sat in semi-comfortable silence for a breath or two before Secondo broke the silence. “No one’s been given you trouble?” His voice was low and unsure. Biting the inside of your tongue you weigh in your mind what counts as ‘trouble’, but not wanting to ruin his mood you shake your head left to right. “No.” “Not even my brother?” You smile and recount the conversation you and Terzo had earlier. “No, not even him.” Secondo halfheartedly smiles as he nods in response.

“I actually asked you to meet me because I wanted to show you something…” Your interest was immediately piqued, your brain reeling twice more than it has been all day with all the strange ways people have been acting. Secondo got up from his seat and approached where you were sitting, offering a hand. Taking it, you assumed it was a gentlemanly move to help you up but as you stood fully straight Secondo didn’t let go. His gloved hand on yours was a feeling you missed.

He led you down many towering rows of books, admittedly, you don’t spend as much time as you would like in the library outside of sitting with your friends at the tables and the sections that held your favourites. As Secondo led you deeper and deeper into the library your mind began to wander as to what could be waiting for you, but your mind was drawing blanks. It could be showing you secret ministry documents, it could be rebellious, I-must-take-you-now sex, you indulge in both little fantasies but only for a second, surprised at yourself for imagining sex with Secondo. You would not be the first in the clergy and you certainly will not be the last- which comforts the shame a little.

Secondo stopped in a row which was able to escape light, the smell of dust pungent in the air. Whatever he led you to was not looked at often, you brushed cobwebs out of your face. Scanning the bookshelf, you see nothing but old records, dating all the way back to the 1960s. If this is what he wanted to show you, it certainly was not as fantastical as you had hoped, but seeing documents older than you was kind of cool. Secondo looked at you, a mischievous glint in his eye- one you had never seen before. “Check this out”

Pulling two of the large, leather-bound records out from the shelf revealed something propped up against the end of the bookshelf, something hidden behind all these records. You look to Secondo, expectant for answers. Instead he wordlessly, and very gently, pry the square thing free. Upon further inspection, it’s about the same size as the sleeve of a vinyl. It’s kind of cool seeing old technology, most everyone is accustomed to using Walkmans and cassettes so seeing something from your childhood was amusing. “A record?” you say sweetly, prompting him.

Looking at you, Secondo smiles smugly, you note how much like Terzo he looks when he does so. Putting the record horizontally to his lips he blows the dust off, revealing colours that are reminiscent of psychedelia, with a little cartoon pope on the front. Lowering the record so it’s in both of your hands, you try and read the technicolour font on its front.

“Ghost…?”

“Mhm.” Secondo sounds almost proud. “Ghost. An early metal band, and their one and only EP from the ‘60s.” He never struck you as a music buff, but you’re happy to learn more about him outside of what you’ve gathered these past few weeks. “Cool, I didn’t know you were into old music.” Secondo shook his head, still smiling. “This kind of music really isn’t my thing, I’m more into Pantera, Exodus…” his voice, to your disappointment, trails off the minute he begins talking about himself. “But, the reason I wanted to show this to you…”

Opening the vinyl sleeve, you studied the two songs. Kiss the Go-Goat and Mary on a Cross, sound cool, but not as cool as what was wedged between the folds of the sleeve. It was one bright pink ticket for the Whiskey A Go-Go, and an old-looking photograph, with autographs of the members, signed on it. Before you could make out the letters on each signature Secondo picks up the picture and shows it to you. Strange-looking people in masks posing with their instruments, a beautiful young woman clad in green, who is lovingly facing a mop-top man in a black fur coat, sporting the skull Papa paint.

The Papa paint?

Secondo hands you the photograph, which you have brought up close to your face to examine. Wait… that kind of looks like… “That’s my father.” He cuts off your train of thought. You stare at the man in the picture before it sinks in before your world gets thoroughly rocked. “That’s Papa Nihil?!” The papal paint was the same but you never in a million years would see Papa posing with a band in a lavish fur coat. Secondo taps your shoulder and points to the woman in green. “And that’s Sister Imperator.”

Your mind is reeling. What in Satan’s name are they doing there? With this band? Together? Secondo answers all these questions for you. “My father was in this band way back before I was born to try and proselytize to the masses with our teachings. It’s how he met Imperator.” Your eyes were transfixed on him, not even beginning to believe what you were hearing. “Sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll, that was Nihil Emeritus for the longest time, before he got super into the church-y thing.” Secondo is smiling smugly, knowing he would get in trouble showing this picture to someone.

“Wow…” was the only sound on your lips. Nihil and Imperator… together… they looked so happy. “What-’ you worrying if the end of your sentence will come off as pressing. “What happened? It seemed like they were a pretty big deal.” Secondo took a deep breath, heaving his shoulders. “Primo happened. Was just… left in his dressing room one day with a note. Brought Imperator back to Italy with him and decided he wanted to take all this seriously.” Primo always struck you as the type to have been born from his mother in some Satanic rituals, with chanting, candlelight, and the Olde One himself right there with him. But… no.

“You mean he was just left there?” Secondo nodded wordlessly. He bit his lip tentatively, his face dropping into an expression you deciphered as somewhat of a mix between betrayal, shame, and grief. “I… was too.” He turned to you, eyes glistening with some unspoken sadness. “I was a churchstep kid, just like you.” your eyes widened, one hand reaching its way to your mouth is nothing short of pure shock. “Secondo…” your voice was soft, barely audible. The poor man looked like he was going to cry.

He closed the vinyl slowly, as if it would be for the last time, and put it back in place, along with the two large books. Not knowing what to make of this, you just stared at the photograph, attempting to conjure in your head the story for yourself. Nihil and that young blonde woman, meeting in L.A, young and free, and then two little babies, and now he’s Papa and Sister Imperator is as cold as anything. “So… if anyone thinks that we’re somehow better than them, just know all the Emeritus’ are is a failed musician and his two mistakes. The only genuine one out of any of us is Terzo and look at him, we’re not fucking special.”

It’s not venom in his voice, but something else. Something much more pained, as if he had been trying to tend to this wound for years. Before you had this connection with Secondo, this would’ve been plastered all over every corkboard, the topic of every conversation, and your triumphant victory. The Emeritus family doesn’t mean anything, they’re just as messed up as any of us! But, seeing Secondo like this, ashamed of his own bloodline, of himself- was the farthest thing from victory you could possibly feel. The Emeritus family isn’t the only people deserving of respect, they aren’t the salt of the Earth either. They’re just… people.

Secondo breaks the silence by sighing, fighting back whatever emotions were straining to come out. He tries to force a smile. “Guess that must… make things better for you-” “You’re not a mistake.” Your voice was completely flat, no emotion could get across the weight of your words. Secondo is visibly taken aback by your assuredness, by your kindness. Now you’re going to cry. It all makes sense to you now, he’s not aloof because he’s superior to you or quiet because he’s busy scheming his future as Papa- he’s so convinced that his life doesn’t matter he sees no point in participating in the one he’s been given. He’s a sad, dejected little kid who just wants to feel wanted, not feared or worshipped. You take his hands and hold them tightly in yours, squeezing them tightly. “You’re not a mistake…”

Secondo’s eye water at your words, face contorting before swallowing it and going back to the resting angry face he gives to everyone. Upset by the fact he feels the need to hide his emotions and pained at how upset he is you do something a little impulsive- but you’re willing to try anything to make him feel better. Slowly, you bring his hands to your face and kiss his gloved hands. Not making eye contact, not expecting anything, just tenderly kissing his hands as a way to say “I care for you.” with no words. Secondo frees his hands from yours to cradle your face in them. “Neither are you, Sorella.”

The two of you stay like that for a while, just staring at each other’s sad, but comforting faces. You want to kiss him, you want to kiss him more than anything, but you wouldn’t dare. Not now, not in the place you are with your ordination and the context of the situation.

Secondo finally lets himself smile softly at you before pulling your head gently towards him, placing his lips on your forehead. Such a small gesture is made all the more passionate with his thumbs tracing over your face- you’re unsure if he’s ungodly warm or it’s just your face. He pulls back, to look at you, his cheeks stippled pink. Your eyes must have been absolutely sparkling at him because he couldn’t keep eye contact, looking away as his hands found their way to your shoulders.

He pats them before speaking again. “Would you like to walk with me? I don’t think I can stand to be in here anymore.” You nod, in full agreement. God, this part of the library was stuffy. This time, Secondo has the panache to hold his arm out to you, and you happily oblige by holding it in your hands. Thankfully, around this time of day people would be eating lunch, so there would be no one about to give the two of you any grief for being affectionate, even this quietly. The light through the windows is bright, warming your skin in the most pleasant way.

“I’m afraid the only place I know best is the cemetery-” Secondo says, sheepishly. Patting his arm, you smile warmly. “Show me the way.”

It was a beautiful little trail, if not for the foreboding sense of death. You knew of the cemetery growing up but you never had any reason to visit. It’s common for people to visit often or use the graveyard dirt for rituals and magick but you had never seen it in broad daylight, with brisk early spring hair filling your senses. The two of you had been walking in comfortable silence for a while now, not feeling any need to say a word- but you did have one question on your mind.

“What were those songs about? On the record?” Secondo thought for a moment, attempting to jog his memory. Nihil would never share with the Clergy, but that album is one of his greatest achievements- it is actually Imperator who implored the brothers to keep it hidden all these years. Secondo always chalked it up to the bad memory of finding having to go to Italy after his boyfriend finds a baby in his dressing room- but his father would often be heard humming some of the tunes. “Kiss the Go-Goat is about the obscene kiss, you learned about that, yeah?”

Kissing the Devil’s anus. You wince at the idea of Papa singing about such things. “Sure did.” Secondo’s tongue travels around his mouth as he tried to remember the other song. “Mary on a Cross… I think… I think that was about Imperator.” Nihil and Imperator being in love at one point is something that will never stop surprising you, but you had to admit his idea of writing a song about her was pretty adorable. “That’s so sweet,” you sigh. “I wonder if they’ll ever make a band again.” Secondo snorted at the prospect. “Doubt Nihil’s joints will be up for it, we’d have to find a new singer.”

“You like music!” you chirped naively. Secondo paused in his tracks as if mulling it over for a moment. He shook his head. “Ghost was fun, but didn’t really make us known. Probably Nihil’s fault.” It was strange hearing Papa be called for the first time. “I don’t know, the Clergy would have to get pretty desperate.” You mulled it over too, the reigned Papa singing onstage about all things unholy. It would either be the best decision the Clergy would make in its life for the downfall of the entire church. You shrug it off as just a pipe dream.

The two of you kept walking, weaving through, only briefly grazing the names of those who had died. You couldn’t help but notice that some of the headstones were tipped over, you had heard rumours of the church using dead bodies for rituals, but that was between Papa and the cardinals for sure. The thought of it makes you shiver. Secondo looks you up and down with a smile. “I’m surprised you’re enjoying this.” Your eyes meet his. “I mean, most people don’t consider a half-finished cemetery to be a pleasant walk.” He joked. Attempting to save face, you swat your hands as if trying to sweep your obvious discomfort away. “Oh no! Nothing to be scared of here! Dead bodies are just bodies! Might as well call me zombie queen!”

Secondo chuckles are your antics. “Maybe I will.” Under a particularly warm patch of sunlight, the two of you stood, taking in the air and how much the two of you appreciated each other’s company. Your mind couldn’t help but wonder within this quiet pocket of time, about that small forehead kiss. Absolutely a pleasantry, but a part of you wished it was something more. You used this pocket of time to silently pray that he’d kiss you again.

A sweet moment was uprooted by the sound of footsteps on the dirt trail, for a moment you two ignored it- assuming it was a mourner or someone gathering supplies. That was until a familiar voice piped up from behind you. “Father Emeritus?”

The two of you turned, still arm-in-arm. It was Copia, and sweet Satan did he look rough. Not rough enough for him to ignore you, offering you a curt nod and a pained smile. “Sister,” Immediately there was a sense of urgency, Copia had to have run from the cathedral to find the two of them there so quickly. “Copia? What’s the matter?” The poor, smaller priest was out of breath beyond belief, putting his hands on his knees and heaving. “No emergency well… it’s, kind of an emergency, nobody’s hurt. But it is very dire. ” Secondo’s voice dropped into one of seriousness and deep concern. “What is it?”

Copia swallowed before meeting your gaze again. “It’s Sister Imperator, she needs to speak with you. Now. It’s extremely important.” You and Secondo looked at it each other, your face read concern while his was a knowing sort of anger. “Is it about…” Copia nodded rapidly before Secondo could finish. Grumbling to himself, Secondo removed your hands from his arms, patting them before he dropped them. “I’ll meet you again later, Sorella.” He briskly walked right away from you and straight past Copia.

The two of you watched as Secondo left in a bit of a muted hurry, while Copia turned back to you with an everything-is-cool-and-fine sort of smile. You were almost offended by it. “Copia, what the hell is going on?!” you scampered towards him, the poor man still sweating profusely. “It’s er uh… nothing to do with you. Or me, really. Just… family matters.” You search Copia’s face for any sign of anything other than his usual placating nature. “Sister Imperator was calling Sisters to speak with her earlier, is that what this is about.”

Copia began to wildly fidget with his hands. “Yes and no… but I promise you it’s nothing to worry about it could just be routine housekeeping along with what’s happening now.” You’re not convinced, but he wasn’t going to break easy. “Come, come, come. Let’s walk, yes? We can just forget about all this fuss.” He snaked an arm around your shoulders and began to slightly push you forward down the trail, dishonesty dripping in his tone. You look past your shoulder to see Secondo’s figure getting smaller on the horizon. You hope for the best, but you have a sick, sinking feeling for the worst.

[sneez]

an illustration i drew for the fic i wrote recently (which you can read here if you are interested) :D please don't tag as body horror or anything similar [id in alt text]

[tofixtheshadows]

I keep thinking that King Laios is gonna have a real hard time, politically, with dwarves post canon. I think it's established that dwarves have the most beef with elves (though this might also apply to gnomes to a lesser extent, given Tansu's opinions) and I'm sure they would have their hackles raised over the continent chocked full of concentrated mana that suddenly appeared from the depths due to ancient magic right after the Canaries went in and fucked around.

Worse, the king's court magician is a half elf, and his royal advisor, once they get intel on him, will turn out to be some tallman elf pet straight from the elven capital. And their court was established with a live-in elven ambassador (Pattadol) from day one. Just like in the canon timeline, a bunch of completely innocent circumstances have converged to paint a horribly suspicious picture. The Golden Country folks are gonna have a hell of a time convincing the world that they're not an elven puppet-state. This is designed to give Kabru a chronic migraine.

[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

[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)

[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.

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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.