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disgruntledspacedad · 3 years

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The White Room

The Better Love Series || Join My Tags

a sequel to Shit Hits the Fan

pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader (Ears). Part of the Better Love ‘verse.

summary: Bill Stechner makes his move. You never even saw it coming.

words: 6.1k

warnings: 18+, plot, a little angst, a little fluff.

notes: unbeta’d. this is a big one. notes at the end.

<< Shit Hits the Fan || These Hands are Magic >>

MASTERLIST

You take the embassy steps two at a time, wishing you’d have been notified about the change in your schedule just half an hour earlier.

You’d gotten a page just as you were headed out the door of the apartment. Stechner has decided to pull you from Centra Spike’s night flight over Medellín. He wants you at headquarters this evening instead. He didn’t say why.

Part of you isn’t sorry. Escobar has been getting desperate lately, and between the outbreaks of violence in Medellín and the continued bombing campaign in Bogotá, you’ve been burning the candle at both ends. Javi, too. He’s been spending more and more time at the base in Medellín, and you’ve been spending more and more time in the skies, pulling random shifts through all hours of the day and night.

It hasn’t put a strain on your relationship, exactly. In fact, in some ways, the little moments that you steal with Javi when your schedules just happen to mesh are all the more precious because of it. You’re both exhausted and a little cranky, but there’s been an underlying desperation to your recent interactions that’s only served to stoke the flame that flickers between you.

It’s a bittersweet feeling. You cherish the time you get together, but on the other hand, it seems like even when Javi’s right there next to you, you miss him so much that your chest aches.

Which is why you’re miffed that Bill couldn’t have shuffled you around a little sooner. Javi’s been in Medellín for the past two days. He’d caught an early flight back to Bogotá just as you’d been finishing up another late shift flyover. You’d just happened to run into him at the embassy airstrip, a perfect coincidence. Your eyes had met over the tarmac, and like a pair of magnets, you’d crashed into one another. Javi had wrapped you into a fierce hug, and you’d pulled him into a heated kiss, and the two of you had spent a good five minutes canoodling in a hidden corridor near the water fountains, kissing and whispering and grappling for position as he’d pinned you against the wall. He’d breathed you in, and you’d reveled in the taste of him on your lips, each of you pressing frantically against the body of the other as if it had been weeks and not mere days since you’d been together.

“I’ve got to go,” Javi had apologized into your mouth, breathing the words between a series of soft, desperate kisses. “Fucking… fucking early meeting with Martinez.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you’d reassured him, feeling very much like it wasn’t okay. You hardly get enough of him as it is. This tiny little taste had only deepened your aching need, and you’d felt your heart splitting in two as he’d pulled away from you, a small little grimace of frustration twisting his face.

“I’ll see you soon,” you’d called as he’d hurried away, and he’d responded with a tight lipped smile and another dark look of longing.

Now, you round the corridor toward the DEA office, walking as quickly as you can without drawing attention to yourself. Javi is working late again. If you hurry, you’ll have twenty five uninterrupted minutes with him before your night shift starts.

“Ears!” You stop in your tracks, a little shudder of resentment flashing down your spine at Bill’s overeager greeting. “Just the lady I’ve been waiting to see.”

You school your face into a neutral expression of polite interest. Most days, you like Bill just fine, despite the fact that you really don’t trust him for shit.

Today, damn him straight to hell.

“What’s up?” you ask, quirking your lips into an intrigued little grin. There’s a certain informality and blasé banter that Bill’s grown to expect from your encounters, and he’s sharp enough to sense that something’s off if you don’t perform.

“Oh, loads and loads,” Bill says, leaning casually against the corridor wall with his arms folded.

You bite back a sigh. You really, really don’t have the patience to dance around him today. “Oh, really?”

Bill arches a questioning brow at you, and you remind yourself to be convincing, dammit. Usually, this isn’t an issue. Most days, you like your job, and your boss, just fine.

Most days.

“You’re bored, aren’t you, Ears?” Bill continues, pitching his voice deep, those probing eyes piercing straight through you.

“I -” you start. Bored isn’t how you’d describe it, lately.

Tired, more like.

“No, no,” Bill’s expression is patient, endearing. “Don’t deny it. I’ve been watching you. I know that hungry look when I see it. You want more. You came to Colombia to do something important with your life, I can tell.”

Six months ago, hell, even three months ago, Bill’s words would have been true. Now, the very thought of more is enough to send you crawling into bed and sleeping for a week.

‘Isn’t tracking down Pablo Escobar pretty fucking important?’ you’re half tempted to ask. You hold your tongue.

Obviously, it’s not to Bill Stechner.

“What do you have for me?” you say instead, hoping you sound intrigued, carefully not confirming or denying Bill’s suspicions.

“Real work,” Bill says with a sharp smile. Something cold jolts down your spine at the his use of the word ‘real.’

As if everything until now has been a sham.

“Follow me,” he beckons, and you have no choice but to obey.

Bill leads you past the DEA offices. You catch a glimpse of the top of Javi’s head from the corner of your eye. He’s hunched over his desk, pouring over an open manilla file. You can barely see the deep furrow in his brow. He doesn’t notice you pass by, and you don’t pause to acknowledge him.

Something throbs in your chest at that.

You follow Bill through a few more winding corridors, down into the basement, past Centra Spike’s room, right up to an unassuming little bookcase built into a nondescript wall in the middle of nowhere.

Bill pauses here, turning to look at you with shining eyes.

You meet his stare, giving away nothing.

With an enthusiasm that borders on theatrical, Bill huddles over a little keypad that’s tucked away at the edge of the bookcase. He punches in a series of numbers, glancing over to confirm that you’re still watching.

You definitely are.

Bill steps back, and like something from an Indiana Jones film, the entire fucking bookcase slides aside, reveling a reinforced steel door built into the wall.

“Whoa,” you can’t help but breathe.

Bill’s eyes glitter. He’s eating this up, impressing you.

And truly, you’re impressed. That little spark of interest that had died in the past months of your burnout has flared with a vengeance.

This is the shit that you joined the CIA for, and Bill Stechner knows it.

“Welcome to the white room, Ears,” Bill announces lowly. It’s the soft, knowing voice of a man sharing a deeply guarded secret. He opens the steel door with a flourish, and it swings slowly aside, heavy and creaking, as if its weight alone could announce the gravity of what you’re about to see.

Carefully, you step inside the room, ducking a little to avoid knocking your head against the low hanging doorway, crawling past the steel corridor entrance before you can straighten.

You blink, astounded at what you’re seeing.

Of course, you’ve heard whispers of CIA’s fabled “White Room,” a repository of classified files tucked away somewhere in the embassy basement. Even Javi’s mentioned it a couple of times, always with a hint of resentment, like he’d give his left arm for even a glimpse inside. Rumor is, Steve Murphy’s been in here before, but just once, and he was heavily supervised the entire time. It’s a fucking goldmine of intel, stacks upon stacks of carefully organized file folders, all at the fingertips of the few individuals who are important enough to be need-to-know.

“Okay,” you whisper beneath your breath, taking it all in. Reality is a little different than you’d pictured. The entrance is impressive, sure, but what you’re staring at is even more so. Box after carefully labelled box is packed atop one another, stacked six deep on a never-ending series of steel shelves.

You could spend an eternity here learning all of the secrets of Colombia. The implications are mind-boggling, and distantly, you wonder how many other well-hidden rooms the CIA has tucked away across a spread of foreign countries, a never-ending fountain of secrets related to god-knows-what.

Your brain stutters at the thought.

You realize suddenly that Bill is watching you carefully from the corner of his eye, observing your reaction as if he’s surreptitiously taking notes on every thought that flits across you brain. Again, you school your expression, reverting to that practiced, dead-eyed stare of careful neutrality.

“Cool,” you say, a little breathlessly, knowing that Bill’s eager to wow you, and not seeing any reason not to acknowledge the fact that, yeah, you’re pretty fucking wowed. You turn to face him, ignoring the temptation to sweep your gaze over the many, many labeled files at your eye level. “So, what are we doing here?”

Bill laughs. “I’ll show you.” He leads you past the shelves, and now that you’re behind him, you can’t stop your eyes from tracking over the labels at your eye level. You’re appalled by what you see.

Shelves upon shelves devoted to Escobar, and even more to the Cali Cartel, all broken down into sections of the individual godfathers. Rodriguez, Herrera, Bejarano, Moncado are all names that catch your eye. There are folders on each major sicario that you recognize from Javi’s info board: Mosquera, Lucumí, Vásquez, Gaviria... the list goes on. Even more files files are labeled Castaño. There’s a whole series of boxes on M-19, and a little past that, an entire shelf devoted solely to FARC.

It’s more than your mind can possible comprehend in one quick sweep, and hell, that’s just what you could catch at eye level.

It occurs to you that this is what Steve and Javi are always bitching about. Sure, you’re aware of the ever present pissing contest between the DEA and the CIA, but it’s always been peripheral information to you. Steve in particular is pretty vocal about his frustration with the ‘fucking CIA.’ “Goddamn file’s so redacted that it might as well be scrap,” you can just hear him muttering.

Christ, if this is the kind of intel that the CIA has open access too, you can kind of see his point.

Bill stops at a table in the center of the room, indicating it with a sweep of his hand. Reluctantly, you sit, a little annoyed that you’ve got your back to him now, but not feeling comfortable enough to twist around to track what he’s doing. Your instincts are screaming at you that this is a test. A big one. So you wait demurely in your tiny plastic chair, your hands folded primly in your lap, listening intently as Bill shuffles for something behind you.

After a long moment, Bill leans his hip heavily against the table, just a hair too close to your shoulder for you to be totally comfortable. You don’t have time to think on that, though, because he’s sliding a black and white photograph under your nose for you to view.

The man that leers up at you has a pinched face beneath a deep brow. His nose is long and lopsided, as if it’s been broken at least once. His thinning, limp hair hangs low over his eyes, giving him a mysterious, almost rebellious look. His mouth is wide, crooked teeth exposed in an open-mouthed grimace. He’s angling toward the camera, obviously unaware of its existence, leaning forward with a machine gun cradled to his chest.

“Feo,” you say instantly, your mouth working before your brain can catch up. You recognize him from the evidence board in the DEA office, and even more from your conversations with Javi.

Feo is a low level sicario, one that’s just now caught the attention of Search Bloc, mostly due to the recent chatter that Centra Spike has picked up. You’ve yet to get a positive ID on his voice, but he’s been mentioned in several conversations lately, always in reference to ‘drops.’

Javi’s been working deep in the night to decipher these conversations, eager to learn what ‘drops’ Escobar and his sicarios are so desperate to come by.

“Feo,” Bill drawls, a hint of something sharp licking at his tone. You glance up at him, curious. “That’s an unfortunate nickname.”

He’s staring down at you with eyes that are too aware. Probing, assessing.

Fuck.

“I’ve seen him on the DEA board,” you explain, grateful that you can provide an answer so quickly. You don’t like the way Bill is looking at you, like he’s daring you to confess a sin.

“I didn’t realize there were many photos of him floating around,” Bill says casually. But you aren’t stupid. You read the threat in his statement, loud and clear.

“It’s a new one,” you reply automatically, feeling as if you’re scrambling to claw yourself out of a hole.

But this is also true. Feo has been an ongoing mystery to Search Bloc, one that they haven’t taken seriously until recently. You wonder what it is about this man that’s got Bill so on edge.

Bill hums. “Good eye.” He hunches over the photograph, so close that you can feel his body heat against your neck.

“This is Raul Manriquez.” Bill taps the forehead of the man in the photograph, then turns to leer at you. “Apparently, he’s known to his friends as Feo.”

He’s watching you for a sign. You refuse to give it.

“So,” you ask after a beat. Bill folds his arms across his chest, waiting for you to continue. He’s not giving any signs either, the dickwad. “What does the CIA want with Raul Manriquez?”

Bill has never behaved this way with you before. There’s a certain weight to the way he regards you that hints at paranoia. He’s deeply, almost obsessively interested in this man, and it doesn’t make sense.

Feo is a sicario, sure. But sicarios are far, far below Bill’s pay grade. The thought is laughable, even.

Something drops in your stomach. If Feo is more than a sicario, as it seems he must be, then it is far, far above your pay grade to be this involved.

Bill pulls out a chair beside you and sits heavily. He leans on his elbow, swinging his legs so that his knees brush your thighs.

You echo him, carefully positioning yourself so that you’re facing one another, but no longer touching.

“We have intel to suggest that Raul Manriquez is connected with a Russian weapons ring,” Bill starts. You notice for the first time that he looks tired, too, his eyes a little bloodshot, heavy bags dropping darkly beneath them.

Something clicks in your brain. “He’s Pablo’s weapons guy,” you breathe. The pieces fall together with startling clarity. The drops that the sicarios had mentioned. The fact that Feo seems to stay at the periphery of things, not nearly as involved with the day-to-day bullshit that other sicarios seem to thrive on. “He’s running guns.”

“Among other things,” Bill drawls, seeming thoroughly bored by the turn in the conversation.

You ignore that. Your thoughts are spinning wildly, forging connections, solving problems. Escobar’s got to get his weapons from somewhere. In the back of your mind, you’ve always sort of known this, but the significance of it has stayed firmly out of sight, swamped by other things that, at the time, had seemed far more important.

But if you could catch Feo… If you could choke off Pablo’s lethality directly at the source…

“We could end this,” you whisper, sitting up to look Bill directly in the eye. Your voice rises. “Bill, if we neutralize Feo, Escobar’s lost his access to his guns.” Something swoops in your heart, and you feel brighter, more energized than you have in weeks. “We can end this war!”

“Oh, the fucking drug war.” Bill scoffs, waving his hand in a casual gesture of lazy dismissal. He looks frustrated, disappointed. “Ears, broaden you horizons a little, sister. Escobar is on the run. When he’s gone,” Bill leans in, the glint in his eye damned near dangerous. “And he will be gone, Ears, trust me.” He huffs a deep sigh, shaking his head as he pitches away to balance on the far feet of his chair, rocking back and forth in a way that reminds you of a restless kid in a elementary school classroom. His eyes are sharp, possessive as they pin yours. “What then?”

You stare at him flatly, a little miffed to have nearly a year of your life’s work brushed aside as if it’s just petty bullshit.

You shake that emotion away, blinking hard, reminding yourself of where you are, of who your boss is. With the lines as blurred as they are in Colombia, and your unique position dancing between Centra Spike, the DEA, and the CIA, and Search Bloc, it’s easy to forget that ultimately, it’s Bill Stechner who owns you.

For the first time, that thought deeply unsettles you.

Bill falls forward heavily on his elbows, looking at you with a furrowed brow, and you remind yourself for the umpteenth time that this meeting is a performance, one that you’ve utterly and completely bombed until now.

You brain spins, processing the little bits and pieces of information that you’ve been given. Bill sees Escobar’s fall as in inevitability, inconsequential, even. He’s concerned about Feo in the context that he’s connected to the weapons trade in Colombia.

Quickly, you consider what you know about Bill Stechner. A CIA big wig with a shady-ass military background. A man who’s mind lives in the future.

A future without Escobar. He’s made that much clear.

“You’re looking to fill a power vacuum,” you announce suddenly, knowing instinctively that you’re not far off the mark. Bill Stechner is a man who is always thinking ahead, studying the political chessboard to analyze his next move, and the one after that, too.

And that truth bomb jars free even more thoughts that have been floating untethered in the back of your mind. When he’s not skulking around his office, Bill is gone for weeks at a time, supposedly off in depths of the amazonian jungle, brushing shoulders with his right winged military buddies.

Commie hunting.

The pieces fall perfectly into place, painting a sobering picture, and all the while, Bill watches, a sharp little grin playing at his lips as you connect the dots.

“Bill,” you say, refusing to accept any bullshit. You thump your finger hard against Feo’s leering smirk, pinning Bill with a dark stare. “Is this guy connected with FARC?”

Both of Bill’s brows arch skyward, and he leans back, looking at you with a new light in his eyes. You get the impression that once again, you’ve impressed him.

You’re not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

“I don’t know, Ears,” Bill admits, glancing away to his hands, which are suddenly curling into fists in his lap. You can tell it really grinds his gears, the uncertainty. “That’s what I want to find out.”

You consider him carefully, keeping your face expressionless. This is the most open response you’ve ever gotten from Bill, and you file away that information along with everything else you’ve learned today.

It’s a lot.

“What do you need from me?”

It’s a valid question. Part of you, the part that is equally intrigued and enraptured by Bill Stechner and the CIA as a whole, genuinely wants to help.

The rest of you is just desperate to get out of this room.

Bill’s lips slide into a knowing smirk. “Well, Ears,” he drawls, eyeing you in a way that makes something sink in your gut. “I’m glad you asked.”

“I’m listening.” You deliberately leave off the ‘sir,’ that you’re tempted to tack on to the end of that statement. Damn your army background.

“This is the moment that we’ve put you in place for,” Bill confesses, hunching forward on his elbows. Again, you get the impression that he’s trying to reel you in, seducing you with a show of honesty.

You brace yourself.

“The DEA is interested in this man, too,” Bill starts, shooting you a pointed look that says ‘I know you already know this.’ You keep your face carefully blank, so Bill continues. “I know that they’ve been working to track his location.”

Something cold coils in your heart. “Are you asking me to spy on Search Bloc?” you ask point blank.

Bill shakes his head. “No, no, no, Ears,” he chides with an expression of extreme patience, as if you’re a child to him. “That would be counterproductive. We’re all on the same team, after all.” He pins you with a dead-eyed stare that sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m asking you to fully engage in your position with the CIA.” Bill stresses the last point, again reminding you of who you are, who you answer to. “You’re a liaison.” He hums a little, all casual disinterest, disarming you, reinforcing the bonds of loyalty that he’s forged with a simple shrug of his shoulders. “So, liaise.”

You realize with a starling, icy jolt of clarity that Bill Stechner has tolerated your relationship with Javier Peña for this very reason, that he’s garnered your favor - accepting your transfer request, giving you a raise, buying you drinks, playing your buddy - all in preparation for using you as his own personal mole in the ranks of Search Bloc.

And you’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

Your throat works hard to swallow against a suddenly dry mouth. “I understand, sir.”

For the first time, Bill doesn’t correct your formality. You hardly notice the shift, though. You’re still reeling from the implications of what he’s asking of you, of how he’s exploited you, taken advantage of all of your vulnerabilities. Suddenly, you feel as if you’re choking, like a noose is tightening, tightening around your neck. You have to stop yourself from reaching to massage your throat, clenching your hands into tight firsts into your lap instead.

Bill watches it all in cool amusement. “Atta girl,” he praises, and you swear you taste bile. He stands, and you copy him absently, feeling detached and awkward, walking on legs that require all of your attention to keep from trembling.

Bill claps a heavy hand on your shoulder. His eyes flash with something like pride, and you decide in that moment that you hate him, this motherfucker, almost as much as you hate yourself for falling for his bullshit.

Goddammit, you’re so fucking stupid.

“Good talk,” he says, and you nod in a way that you hope is contemplative without being telling.

You follow Bill out of the room on wooden legs, your mind spinning with the implications of your conversation. He nods to you as the bookshelf slides shut behind you, and you nod back, relieved to see that he turns to head the opposite direction from the DEA office.

You glance down at your watch. You’ve got ten minutes if you hurry. With all your heart, you hope that Javi is still working.

You need to see him.

You push past his glass door, swinging it open hard enough that it bangs ominously against the wall. Javi is still slumped over his desk in the exact same position as before, studying a jumbled series of papers, a half-spent cigarette dangling from his lips.

Your breath catches at the sight of him.

His head snaps up at your noisy arrival, dark eyes narrowed at the intrusion. His expression softens when he sees that it’s you.

“Ears.” His voice is a sigh, a release of that same tension that you feel leaking from you own bones, and you dart forward, heedless of who might be watching beyond the glass walls.

“Hey,” you say, shoving aside an opened manilla folder to create a bare space for you to lean against. Javi doesn’t seem to mind that in the least, so you flop up onto his desk, pressing your thigh against his elbow, enjoying the feeling of just sharing the same space.

Javi glances at you, and your something lurches in your chest as you take him in. He looks haggard, exhausted, dark bags gathered beneath his bloodshot eyes like he hasn’t had good night’s sleep in far too long.

“Another little chat with Stechner?” he grouses, peering up at you with narrow gazed suspicion.

Your heart sinks, and you have to blink hard against the onslaught of his ire. Javi’s always been grouchy when he’s tired, and there’s nothing that drives him into a funk faster than any mention of Bill Stechner. It’s as if he has a sixth sense in that regard, like he can smell Bill on your skin.

And that’s a gross thought.

Until now, Javi’s attitude had irked you, and you’d written it off as petty, just another brand of that delightfully obnoxious possessiveness that he’s continuously displayed since your apartment was bombed.

But dammit, you’re the moron here, not Javi. He’d been right not to trust Bill.

You shut your eyes tightly. You wonder if Javi should even trust you, given your most recent assignment.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, not knowing how to put your many worries into words, and Javi must read your conflicted mood, because he lets the subject drop. He huffs, his attention falling back to the open file on his desk, his long fingers working little tapping patterns into its intricate woodgrain.

You follow his gaze, noticing that he’s been pouring over the same photograph that Bill had shown you in the white room. Feo’s ugly mug leers back at you, a knowing, secretive smirk playing at his upturned lips, like he’s mocking you, the motherfucker.

A flood of emotions swamp you. You’ve watched Javi squinting down at this same photo for days, his mind spinning as he attempts to tease out connections, completely stumped as to how this unassuming, ugly man fits into the bigger picture of Pablo Escobar and his sicarios.

And now you know, but there’s not a damn thing you can say about it. Bill’s going to be watching you. Hell, he’d admitted as much today. Verbatim. If he thinks that his little spy is sharing classified CIA intel with her DEA boyfriend…

Well, honestly, you’re not sure what would happen. You just know that it would be bad news for you, and probably even worse for Javi.

You release a deep, broken sigh, exhaling though your nose. You wonder how you’re going to balance it all, working for Bill without betraying Javi.

Well, you absolutely refuse to do that. Fuck Bill Stechner for even asking.

But now, watching Javi huddled over his messy desk, squinting in the dim light because he refuses to wear his fucking glasses, frazzled and careworn and a little cranky, something pulls at your chest.

Refusing to share this intel feels a lot like a betrayal already, and suddenly, you’re desperate to confess it all to him, to crawl into Javi’s lap and spill your guts and cry and beg for his forgiveness for blowing off his concerns about Stechner, for even entertaining the thought of withholding information from him.

Just as you feel like you’re ready to burst, Javi sighs deeply, flopping the file shut. He grinds out his cigarette and turns to glance at you, his eyes dark with need.

Your breath catches.

Then, without a word, Javi pitches forward to rest his head against your thigh. He nuzzles there for a moment, and you find yourself carding your fingers through his hair, helpless against the temptation to touch him, comfort him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs after a long moment.

“Shh,” you whisper. Guilt gnaws at you. You’re the one who should be sorry.

But Javi huffs a hot little breath against your leg, and you brush aside all thoughts of who should trust who, of loyalty and ethics and treason and chain of command. Right now, your entire universe is resting his head in your lap, and you’re determined to enjoy this moment, fallout be damned.

“Baby,” he murmurs into the rough denim of your jeans, and your heart flutters. You bring your opposite hand to rest at the back of his neck, savoring the softness of his skin there, winding your fingers through the curls that brush against his collar.

Javi shudders at your touch, and you remember belatedly that you’re stroking at his number one erogenous zone, teasing him mercilessly without meaning him to.

Reluctantly, you pull away, resting your palm at the slope of his shoulder instead. “Whoops.”

Javi snorts, craning his neck just enough to arch his only visible eyebrow in your direction. The rest of his face is squished into your thigh.

It’s fucking adorable, and it reminds you all over again how little you deserve him, this precious, perfect man.

“What’s wrong?” Javi asks, like he’s sensed the direction of your thoughts. He twists further to frown up at you. One hand comes up to rest at the juncture of your hip, his thumb pressing deeply into your skin.

It’s a comfort.

“Nothing,” you mutter, because you can hardly say ‘everything.’ You busy yourself with working little circles at the base of Javi’s ear, hoping it’s enough to distract him from his line of questioning.

It’s not. Javier Peña has a mind like a steel trap, and he notices everything. “Bull,” he breathes, shutting his eyes despite his best efforts. “You’re worried ‘bout something.”

God, he looks wrecked.

“I just…” You struggle for the right words to to offer him, come up empty. “God, I hate this.”

That one dark eyes flutters open again, soft with concern.

“I miss you,” you blurt before he can dig any further. And oh, god, that’s not a lie. You miss Javi so much it fucking burns, even with him nuzzled right here in your lap.

Javi draws a deep breath, rolling over to expose the entire left side of his face. His opposite arm comes up to wrap around your waist so that he’s almost hugging you, his fingers digging gently into your flank. “What time is your shift over, baby?” he mumbles, his one visible eye glinting, nearly feverish with need.

“Mmm,” you hum, your pulse hammering away in response to the how he’s looking at you. “I can probably be home by eight,” you say sadly.

And really, that’s pushing it. It all depends on what you hear over the frequencies, and how quickly you can vet it. Anybody’s guess at this point in the game.

Javi blusters a deep sigh that prickles hotly at your inner thigh. “Dammit,” he groans, clenching his eyes shut in frustration.

“What’s your morning like?” In the craziness of the past few days, you’ve completely forgotten his schedule.

“Early,” Javi mutters darkly. He doesn’t look at you.

“Fuck.”

“Hardly,” he pouts against your jeans.

And god, you can’t blame him. Resentment wells hot in you. You just want a break, dammit, just a single fucking day to spend with the man you love.

Is that so much to ask?

Suddenly desperate for more contact, you bend down to drop a gentle kiss at his temple.

Javi inhales sharply as your lips meet his skin, and you lay there like that, contorting over him in a way that makes your sides ache and probably displays half of your bare back to anybody who happens to walk past the glass walls of the DEA office right now.

You don’t fucking care. You need this.

“Can I meet you for lunch tomorrow?” you ask as you finally pull away. You haven’t bothered glancing at your watch, but instinct is telling you that you’re already running late for your shift, and your back is killing you.

Javi sits up, slumping against his office chair with his legs splayed sideways. He’s all wild hair and furrowed brow, and if you weren’t at work, you’d be tempted to crawl into his lap and kiss that contemplative look right off his face.

“That might work,” he says slowly, licking his upper lip a little in that way that means he’s thinking hard. Something coils deep in your belly, and you have to shake your thoughts away from those lips and that tongue, and what all they’re capable of.

Javi cocks a brow at you, tilting his head a little. “What are you thinking?”

Fuck it, it’s late. You slide off his desk, planting yourself in his lap with your legs spread across his, grinding subtly against his thighs. His belt buckle digs into your belly, but you don’t give a shit. You tilt his face to yours, reveling for half a second in his confused, awestruck expression before you plant your lips on his for a deep, gentle kiss. Javi moans a little at the contact, plaint and responsive against your advances, his hands coming to graze at your back reverently.

“I was thinking I’d ride,” you whisper against the stubble at his lower jaw just as you lean in to suck at it.

Javi twitches against you, a tiny jolt of his hips, like he’s tempted to take you right here in his rickety office chair, damn the glass walls.

“I need to see your face,” you continue, pulling his hands up to rest at your ribs as you rock gently against him, a subtle preview of tomorrow’s menu.

Javi shudders beautifully beneath you. “What, this ol’ thing?’ he teases, nuzzling against your breastbone. You can tell that he’s pleased by the thought.

“This pretty thing,” you correct, working your way back to his lips.

Javi bites back a groan as you kiss him. “Was asking about food,” he murmurs against your mouth. “But this is better.”

“Don’t worry about food,” you say, falling forward to nuzzle against his neck. “I’ll take care of it. And it will be perfect.”

Javi snorts. “Better be takeout, then.” He gathers you against his body with strong arms, cradling you close. You breathe him in, reveling in the distant smell of coffee and stale cigarette, all mixed in with a hint of musky sweat and something smoky and dark that is uniquely Javier Peña.

“God, baby, I’m looking forward to it,” he confesses against the hollow of your throat, and you throw your head back, shut your eyes and let him ravage you there, just for a moment.

Javi pulls away far too soon, and you shudder at the loss of him, your body damn near trembling with need.

He rolls back in his chair, glancing up at you with an apology in his eyes. “It’s eight oh five,” he tells you somberly, and you wince, disentangling yourself from him, stumbling out of his chair and straightening your shirt and threading your fingers through your wild hair in an effort to smooth it down.

“How do I look?” you ask after a moment, backing up enough to give him the full effect of you.

Javi’s eyes are burning as he takes you in, damn near shimmering with want and exhaustion and pent up emotion, and you curse Bill Stechner once again for butting his big nose into your relationship, for complicating things that should be so fucking simple.

“Perfect,” Javi says lowly, his lips pursed into a thin line, his eyes glittering with some thought that you can’t name. “Fucking perfect.”

Something wrenches in your chest, and you catch your breath, feeling tears prickle at your eyes. You suck them down, frustrated at how often life in Colombia seems to draw your emotions to the forefront.

Nobody needs that.

You lean forward, unable to resist dropping one last, chaste kiss to Javi’s forehead. “Go to bed, Javi,” you whisper against his skin. You pull away, a gentle, teasing smile spreading across your face. “Seriously, baby. It’s just getting stupid now.”

You wink at him, and Javi huffs a little laugh. “Get out of here, Ears,” he grouses, waving a lazy hand at you, but his smile is gentle and soft, and you know that he’s recognized the reference for what it is.

Feeling lighter than you have in days, you shoot him one last cheeky wave. Javi blows a little kiss at you in response, and your heart stutters at the gesture.

God, he’s such a sap.

You damn near dance to the Centra Spike office, slipping into your headphones a full ten minutes later than you really should. Nobody bats an eyelash, though, and you busy yourself with the normal nightshift bullshit, sipping your coffee and switching to the proper frequencies, the promise of tomorrow glowing in your heart.

♠

notes/confessions:

I struggled so hard with this. I still don’t love it, but I’m sick of looking at it, so here ya go. Enjoy.

Okay, I know I have thrown some massive plot things at you this week. I know it’s complicated, and I know it’s a lot. Feel free to ask me questions. I’ve tried to make things as clear as possible, but I’m only human, Narcos is complicated af anyway, and Better Love is even worse, probably.

Look for updates to slow back down again, because a) I actually do have a job, and b) we’re getting close to the point where I’m going to have to start posting If I Fall, and I want to have my chapters outlined a little better and maybe even a few deep before I do that. Look for a few little fluffy one-shots scattered between then and now, but guys... for the most part, the pieces are in place, and we are in the home stretch - of the setup, that is.

Holy fucking shit.

Tags: @jedi-mando, @perropascal, @hotspacepilots, @mostly-megan, @starlight-starwrites, @thirstworldproblemss, @knittingqueen13, @yespolkadotkitty, @lv7867, @pascalisthepunkest, @sarahjkl82-blog, @corrupt-fvcker, @artsymaddie, @leonieb, @justanotherblonde23, @princess-and-pedro

Javier Peña tags: @magpie-to-the-morning, @tiffdawg, @danniburgh, @1800-fight-me, @mandoandgrogu, @hybrid-in-progress, @va-guardianhathaway, @speakerforthedead0, @feminist-violinist, @herefortheart, @dontmindifidontt, @blo0dangel

#Javier Peña #Javier Peña x reader #pedro pascal #narcos #narcos fanfic #Javier Peña fanfic #pedro fandom #pedro fanfic #reader insert #fluff #narcos netflix #narcos fanfiction #Javier Peña fanfiction #Javier Peña imagine #better love #fanfic #fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom

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falsewrds · 3 years

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" don’t you see that i’m a saving grace around this place ? i’m not smiling in your face one minute then glaring behind your back , i’m doing both in 4k , sweetheart. ” ── a guide on PARIS BEAUMONT.

click here for their bio and stats !

area 001. the general info

. ･ﾟ ┇ ⸢ JESSICA SULA , DEMIGIRL , SHE / THEY , MUSE 42 ⸥ ❛ ╾ don’t look now but PARIS + BEAUMONT is heading this way . last i heard , the TWENTY FOUR year old declared their allegiance to FACTION 3 during the last town meeting . it definitely makes sense , considering the fact that they’re known for being CREATIVE & IRRESPONSIBLE . that being said , they can also be quite OPEN - MINDED & PERSISTENT . i don’t know about you but every time i see them i’m reminded of A GLINT OF ADORATION SHINING IN YOUR EYES AS YOU STARE INTO THE HEART OF A FLAME , LIGHTING A CIGARETTE WHILE ONLY WEARING SOME SHORTS AND A BRA , NONCHALANT SHOULDER SHRUGS AFTER REVEALING YOUR DARKEST THOUGHTS , CONSTANT NIGHTMARES INVOLVING YOUR FUTURE BEING WORTH NOTHING TO YOU , APPLYING YOUR LIPGLOSS WHILE STARING INTO THE BLADE OF A KNIFE . i’ve also heard they’re often referred to as the THE BROKEN STILETTO , but that might just be because they’re an ARIES . something tells me it won’t be long before they start to show their true colors . wait , are they listening to SUGAR BABY by MEGAN THEE STALLION ? i love that song ! ❜

legal name : paris kennedy beaumont.

alias / nickname(s) : kennie.

date of birth + age : march 29th , twenty four.

natal chart : aries sun, gemini moon, aries rising.

gender + pronouns : demigirl , she / they / theirs.

faction chosen : faction three.

selected major : undeclared.

orientation : aromantic , bisexual / feminine lean.

area 002. the summary

fire was reflected from deep brown hues , body still as the blaze grew higher & higher as if attempted to reach the night sky above them. screams , coughing and pure anger mixed with confusion filled your ears yet you stood still as ever with no true emotion showing. then a slight grin broke out , quickly dropping afterward. you took cautious steps towards the fire , not that many people noticed , and pulled out your small bit of a rolled blunt from your pants pocket. there you lit the substance and blew heavily into it , allowing the grey smoke to block your eyesight. now things were beginning to become interesting.

if you tried to convince people that the movie child’s play wasn’t based around them when they were younger , you’d be proven wrong so quickly.

paris was always the problem child since beginning to walk. she adored�� hiding things she was able to reach, hitting other toddlers within their presence and even throwing tantrums in public for five seconds before stopping and smiling. a true menace.

her father assumed these habits would die out when getting older but their mother always knew that this was not just some phase. it was actually just the start of the reckless behavior that was to come.

they began shoplifting at a pretty young age despite her parents making some money from their respective jobs. of course everything she stole was either something she didn’t want or just had the urge to take it. this involved into them selling this stuff at school to other students and making their own bank from it.

in elementary school they were either the kid you disliked or the kid you found intimidating yet funny. paris could have the entire class erupt in laughter from her antics or could make some kid cry after saying something brutal for a kid her age.

every parent - teacher conference played the same problems they had with paris : constant outbursts , rude language , unjustified fits of anger. once again , father dearest assumed this would stop but their mother was growing more and more agitated with them with each day.

when hitting fifteen , paris was actually keeping things on the low. claiming the reputation in middle school and onto high school as a mean girl due to her random harsh remarks and snide giggling. her shoplifting business was still going as well and boy did she rack up from funds from this. they even began going legit with their little idea and even brought in a counterpart.

that was until a girl wanted paris to get their hands on quite a few pricey name brand things for her , including a perfume set that would be a gift for the girl’s mother. having no fear that things would fall through , she took on the request and together , her and her partner went to finish their list.

sadly a security guard was hot on their trail and caught the two before they were able to leave the store - like right in front of the double doors of freedom.

they quickly pointed their finger at their friend saying that they were forcing them to do this with them or else they would’ve told their parents they were no longer a virgin as her parents were heavy christians. all lies by the way.

this did little impact on her being in trouble but this did result in a fight between the duo as the other felt upset that she would even think of lying about this as if this wasn’t all her doing.

her parents confiscated the pink, jewelry box holding her money and grounded her for a whole month. they thought this would be the end to that but oh no, they were once again wrong. soon in the next month , paris would get into three fist fights ( all she won ) that resulted in her getting suspended. her aunt could only do so much as the principal after all.

her father finally opened his eyes and saw what his wife was seeing - except he still wasn’t because he saw a future boxer and immediately signed her up for classes.

this did do some improvement on her behavior and they even won a couple rewards for their fights. suddenly, they were given the news that her father was quitting his job and taking over his father’s business located in new ham.

it was her junior year she when they finally were in new ham. at the start she just kept to herself and helped around the store until graduating. then she picked up a full time job at the pharmacy and just helped around in the back with trivial things until she was fired for getting into a heated argument with the owner.

now with no job , and being twenty one , her mother refused to have her return to her old roots. she gave her the ultimatum of either going to school or moving out. one would think they wouldn’t care but at the time, living alone was not ideal because eww .. who wants to pay bills ?

so paris signed up for saltzman with no chosen major , claiming she’ll think of one around their second year.

their time there was spent mainly drinking and partying with some actual seriousness of passing her core classes. nothing could top when some guy sold her her first small baggie of weed. paris would later owe their life to him for gracing her with such a gift.

on the trip paris was actually talking to their parents about her finally moving out. they were gonna look at some cheap places for them for when they graduate and consult when they met in person again. looks like that never got to happen.

now that isolation has consumed everyone , paris would then resort back to their old , conflicting selves. but maybe the scale is turned up a bit.

act 003. the fun facts

the place of business that their father now owned was called the neon room , an arcade / comic book store placed in a two story building. video games ranging from classics to modern are found on the bottom floor meanwhile the comic book store is on the top , meeting your local geek’s standards by a mile.

because they worked there , paris ended up growing infatuated with comic books and video games. she’s recently reading the walking dead series and loves imagining that happening to the new ham students because she knows she’ll outlive everyone.

when everyone was aware of their isolation , they were one of the few souls that didn’t panic and immediately go raid spots around town. instead their walked around aimlessly and wondered how all of this was gonna turn out.

no one knows that her family has a business located here and they won’t find out unless they follow her. they typically visit the store at night and take some comics with them to read and leave out the back to not be followed.

they originally were gonna become factionless but the privileges that came with faction three were calling their name. plus they had protection so if any trouble came knocking for them , they were fine. in their eyes , at least.

doesn’t take shit serious and this was visible during the fire. she didn’t bother rushing to help others or even appear concerned. it anything she looked as though their mind was aware this was gonna happen. what else would you expect from rivalry factions where someone was hoarding for no reason ? they were gonna be taught a lesson eventually.

paris was stealing some of their supplies so she was bummed it did burn after realizing that three days later.

talks a big game and does follow through. if there was one positive thing paris has earned herself throughout the years , it was keeping a promise.

they the type to walk around in just a bra and some baggy jeans and walk around with no care in the world with their iconic black shades on their eyes. quite the vibe honestly.

relationships are ew but attention ? she eats that for breakfast , lunch , and dinner. half of the reason why they do ridiculous things is to garner a reaction out of people. don’t ask why they just do.

literally if the pupper from saw was a real person it’d be paris because they enjoy playing games and toying with people’s lives.

#fwintro #* ❪ 𝙱𝙴𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝙻𝙻 . ❫ › 𝗳𝘁 : intros .

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slamsams-blog · 4 years

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On Her Majesty’s Secret Service - #24WeeksofBond

1969 certainly must’ve been a wild time. For the first time ever, Bond lovers and general movie goers were to go see a Bond movie starring the first “new Bond”. After 5 movies, Sean Connery simply had enough with the character, the franchise, and the main producer Albert “Cubby” Broccoli. So how in the world do you step into a role that had been created and branded into the minds of the fans by Sean Connery? Why even carry on the series without Sean Connery? I wonder what people thought of the concept of a “new Bond” back then? Now a days, it’s a right of passage. We all know that an actor playing Bond has a shelf life, and that they will eventually leave the role only to be replaced by another. In today’s world, for Bond fans, this moment can be a very exciting thing. While I LOVE Daniel Craig, I am very anxious to find out who will replace him. But back in 1969, the thought of a new actor to come in and just carry on the role like nothing happened? There must have been tons of criticism, skepticism and curiosity.

Enter George Lazenby, the man with the distinction of being the first “new Bond”. Lazenby was a legit no-name with a care-free, “fly by the seat of your pants” personality. He was a male model who only got into modeling because someone thought he had the look for it and gave him an opportunity - so he went and did it. Then the role of Bond came along, and with Lazenby’s natural good looks and cavalier attitude - Lazenby literally just walked into the audition room un-announced and told the directors that they were looking at the man they needed. Lazenby got the part. Those actors who had their 2 contrasting 3 minute monologues ready were probably furious.

Back in the day when my brother and my best friend were playing “Goldeneye” on the N64 non-stop, and learning about Bond and all it’s history and the previous actors that came before Brosnan - we had learned that there was a guy who only did one movie. We didn’t know the man’s name back then, so we always referred to him as “Zachary Dumbhead” when discussing Bond. As funny of an anecdote that is to me, I must say that Lazenby deserves a little more respect than that. This was a tough position to be in.

Lazenby may look a bit goofy, and his undercover role of Sir Hilary Bray doesn’t do anything for his overall bravado - but Lazenby plays the role of Bond with a sense of fearlessness and charm, much like how I imagine he was in real life.

Also, nobody throws a harder punch than Lazenby. Sheesh!

I simply cannot imagine Connery playing Bond here, especially given how pivotal this Bond movie is to the rest of the series before they hit the reset button with Daniel Craig. I just don’t think Connery could’ve convinced Bond lovers that he was legitimately in love. A fresh take on the role would’ve made it easier to buy into the love between Bond and his soon to be wife Contessa Terese di Vincezo (Diana Rigg) or Tracy as she would be known in the film.

I love Lazenby and Rigg’s chemistry, I think these two pull off a believable performance despite their off screen distain for each other. Yes, it is widely known that Diana Rigg did not care for Lazenby’s childish attitude and over confidence and it created friction while filming. There is a pretty famous story of Diana Rigg purposely eating food with lots of onion and garlic right before their love scenes so her breath would stink. If you have time to watch the documentary “Becoming Bond” I suggest you do that - it’s pretty much a doc on Lazenby.

Let’s talk about this plot, this strange, fear of chickens curing plot. This movie starts out with Bond bailing out who we would come to know as Tracy on a couple of occasions. Saving her from her trying to drown herself (I think?) and giving her financial help when she blows it at the casino. We come to find out she is the daughter of the European, generic brand version of Blofeld named Draco (Gabriele Ferzetti). He brings Bond to his office in forcible fashion and tells him that he’ll give him a million pounds if he marries Tracy. Bond is like huh? Bond thinks about the offer because Draco has connections to Blofeld himself, and if he got some info he just might go along with it.

Tracy sniffs this out right away and forces her papa to give Bond the info he desires, so he does. But here’s the twist, Bond still pursues Tracy...not because she has any other info on Blofeld (which is Bond’s only thing he looks for in a mate) but because he just has an infatuation with her. So then we see a montage of the typical things two people do while discovering a love for one another...riding horses, sitting by fountains, and what not. 2 minutes of Louie Armstrong later, and boom, they’re officially in love...at least she is. But now it’s time to work.

Bond follows the lead given to him by Draco and finds where Blofeld is and finds out that Blofeld is bringing a genealogist up to his location to dub him as a count. Who knows why...Bond meets the man who is supposed to go meet him and quickly learns all there is to know about the subject and comes up with an uncanny impersonation of him.

This is where “OHMSS” really starts getting weird. We take a break from Bond’s love story with Tracy to go to the Swiss alps where Bond or “Sir Hilary Bray” is to meet Blofeld. But in doing so, he discovers that he is housing a harem of women to try and cure their allergies by making them eat their allergies for dinner and hypnotizing them every night. The real plan being that Blofeld is designing a virus to halt all crops from growing and using the girls to distribute the virus. Of course the ladies love the new man on the block and Bond has a few encounters after-hours. You sure know how to pick em Tracy!

The odd thing about this is the fact that Blofeld doesn’t recognize Bond right away. Maybe it’s the Superman effect, where instead of glasses being the difference between Superman and Clark Kent - it’s a Kilt being the difference between James Bond and Sir Hilary Bray - who knows? Blofeld finds out it’s Bond, not because it’s so obviously Bond, but because he made a tiny slip in the details of the history of his ancestors. What a Sherlock.

Bond’s discovered, and escapes by ski and some entertainingly bad green screen work and bumps into Tracy again who saves him from the bad guys where they finally escape in a horse barn where they will spend the night. This is where Bond finally confesses his love for Tracy and asks her to marry him. I think this scene is beautiful and both actors do a wonderful job. It’s so simplistic, spontaneous and romantic.

The bad guys catch up, Tracy gets captured after being swallowed up by an avalanche and Bond goes against M’s wishes and enlists the help of Draco and his henchmen to storm the castle and destroy Blofeld’s headquarters. This complete with an iconic shot of Bond sliding over the ice on his stomach, gun in hand, and shooting the villains. Great stuff. But more horrible green screen work to follow. Bond catches up to Blofeld during a bob sled chase and hangs him up in the branches. The objective seems to be complete.

The final scene is where Bond gets married, and as they are driving away, Blofeld and his hench-women Irma Bunt drive by and shoot at Bond, killing Tracy in the process. Say what you want about Lazenby’s performance, but his final dialogue to the cop about Tracy is heart wrenching. Lazenby does a fantastic job grieving the loss of his newlywed, and this would be one of the only consistent pieces of Bond’s backstory that we hear throughout the rest of the series.

OHMSS is a good Bond flick, although it is a bit odd with the plot, the unusual casting choice of Telly Savalas as Blofeld, and Lazenby’s random insertion in the role - it is a very important piece of the Bond puzzle and up until Daniel Craig, we don’t see Bond this full of raw emotion ever again. It also has lots of fun callbacks to the previous five films with the gadgets he pulls out of his desk, the janitor whistling “Goldfinger”, and even Bond saying before the title sequence “This never happened to the other fellow”, which makes Bond theorists believe that James Bond is just the name given to the man who holds the 007 number. I’m sure it was just there to call out the elephant in the room and break the ice with the skeptical audience.

As important as this film is to the series this is not one of my favorites given a lot of factors that just bother me. Lazenby does a hell of a job, but he simply just did not care for the real life Bond lifestyle which caused him to break from the role. Lazenby was told to present himself as Bond where ever he went to keep the mystique alive, but at the premier, Lazenby showed up with long hair and beard and did not please the studio execs. Lazenby was just too care-free to be a celebrity, but he does admit that he wished he had knocked some sense into himself back then as it could have made him for the rest of his life. Instead, he is just a blip on the radar and you have to wonder how the next film would’ve have done with Lazenby at the helm.

We will never know.

That’s all for me, hope you enjoyed it tonight! Let me know your thoughts!

Reviews from Friends:

My Mom

I’ve decided it’s really hard to follow a high action film like 007 s in two parts. Started it late last night and fell asleep somewhere in the Swiss alps while watching a group of girls getting hypnotized. Who knows maybe I was drawn in to the relaxation technique. Tonight I resumed so it really lost some luster. This James Bond never really filled the role for me. He was kind of sweaty and goofy. Not the cool calm character he is supposed to be. The chases were fun from the Volkswagen bug to the horse drawn sleigh to the bobsled scene. Not to mention the harrowing ski chases amid avalanches. Wow. And of all the choices this girl was THE ONE for James? I did get a better perspective though after reading your review Sam. You are a very detailed critic. Great evaluation.

Dan Perch

Love the review!! Admittingly It took me a long time to watch OHMSS because lack of interest in George Lazenby. However, when I came around to it I fell in love with the movie! It was So (not so) subtly over the top throughout the whole movie. Lazenby was actually pretty good throughout, and certainly had some cringing lines “call me Hilly”😬 haha! From the sweet 1960’s villain pad, the way he smokes his cigarettes, and how he manages to stunningly excel in all winter sports, Telly as Blofeld is my favorite of all time!! (That bobsled gif had me rolling laughing😂 cinematic gold!) He finds a way to ‘best’ Bond at absolutely everything in this one (strong booking) then right when you think Bond goes over... what an ending! Lazenby delivers that line, and the credits start to roll, Had me speechless! One of my favorite movies from the 1960s Telly was the man!

Jake Benrud

LOL. I forgot all about "Zachary Dumbhead". I honestly have never watched this whole movie. Or at least, I didn't remember it. The plot is strange with the hypnotized girls releasing bioterrorism agents. If I were Blofeld, I would have invested in a helicopter to chase down Bond after he escaped instead of going skiing after him myself. Just a thought. There's a lot I didn't know about George Lazenby until I did some searching on him recently. Apparently he never signed a contract during the whole filming of this movie. Unreal. He also didn't want to play ball with the studio with maintaining the look of "James Bond" outside of work after filming. Interesting guy. Devastating ending to the movie, but we all knew that 007 the playboy couldn't stay married for long.

24 Weeks of Bond will return next Monday with -

You Only Live Twice

#24WeeksofBond #James Bond #george lazenby #Diana Rigg #Sean Connery #OHMSS

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