#narcos mexico fanfiction

[cositapreciosa]

can you maybe write for kitty where he meets a girl thats similar to him personality wise?? and he falls in love w her immediately and stuff

Head first

Arturo '' Kitty '' Paez x female!reader (strong language, toxic relationship (not with kitty) mentions of cheating (not kitty/not you), spanish female pet names, you’re wearing heels/a dress, the usual for the show), 3215 words

a/n : @hausofmamadas once again saving the day with the Kitty gifs, amen 🙏🏻+ thank u my Kitty ride or die for pulling this one out of me @narcolini <33

As always it's the fictional, not the real deal, enjoy xx

‘’ You’re a fucking bitch, is what you are! ‘’

Between the loud music from inside and the half-open backyard door, Kitty is surprised when your voice reaches his ears. He can see you on the other side of the pool, been watching you like a hawk for a while now, sunglasses down his nose as you push around that boyfriend of yours. Palms on his chest, lips curling with every word that comes out of your mouth. Diego has always been too weak for someone like you, he has no spine, no guts. He didn’t like him. Arturo had decided that a while back, when you first started to bring him around at the house parties, at Roxanne’s.

Arturo doesn’t know you that well. He knows what Ramón tells him, when he finally gets tired of hearing him beg and whine about it, that is how he knows you would ‘eat him up and chew him out’ if he dared approach. Maybe that is why he never did. A friend of a friend, of a friend. He had always listened to Ramón and stayed back, simply because having to work hard for it is something he never liked doing. You could have anyone wrapped around your finger, as long as they were up to your standards. It is a shame, really, that he never made a move. Especially when he can see the fire in your eyes and how it matches his perfectly. Especially when he knows what kind of pendejo actually made it past your walls when he couldn’t.

You are screaming again, hands frantically pushing strands of hair behind your ears. He knows that he shouldn’t be spying on you like this, pretending to go out to light up his joint when he knows doing it inside is allowed. His hand wraps around the handle to push the rest of the door open, taking in the fresh air from the night. The music from inside is still loud even with the door closed, not one of you turning to acknowledge him.

The water reflects light on your legs, on that sparkly dress you are wearing tonight. Short, flamboyant, stunning. Arturo lights his smoke, watching your boyfriend screaming back this time, his finger pointing and piercing the skin of your chest with each word. He can see the disbelief on your face from here, the audacity of the man.

‘’ If it was such a problem, maybe you should have taken your cojones, Diego, and told me yourself, instead of going around and fucking about! ‘’

‘’ Fucking about? You’re the one walking around looking like a whore. ‘’

This one stings, deep in his bone, piercing his chest. All the way over here, he feels angry for you, cheeks hot and red burning his face. You don’t answer back after this, stunned or embarrassed, he can’t tell. He does see how flushed your chest is, how your jaw sets, tense with unspoken words. This is it. The last straw. He won’t allow Diego to insult you any further.

He calls out your name as he walks closer to the side of the pool, it’s more like a statement than a question, a greeting. I’m here, you’re good.

‘’ You’re all good here, mami? ‘’

He knows you heard him, even though you don’t turn to acknowledge him. He is surprised that your boyfriend does, scoffing as he looks him up and down. He is audacious, Arturo has to give him that. Does he think he’s safe in this house? Doesn’t he know who your friends are, who’s been paying for his drinks since he got here? Diego’s finger is pointing at him now, laugh dry and mocking. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

‘’ Him? ‘’ he says, ‘’ Him? ‘’

Arturo knows what he is implying, as if Diego wasn’t the one that was in the wrong, the one that had been fucking half the town behind your back. They had their suspicions in the beginning when you had started to run out of reasons for him not showing up to gatherings and birthdays. He knew he was right when Ramón told him you had given them five dollars for gas money and a few dozen eggs to throw at Diego’s apartment. He couldn’t believe it when he saw you with him the following week, acting as if nothing had happened.

Arturo’s attention turns back to you when you don’t answer, don’t bite into it like he thought you would. He can take a better look at you now that he is closer, inches away from the ledge. He sees the tears dancing on your lash line, your nails digging inside your palms, and he decides he hates it. He hates him. It must be horrible really, giving so much to someone so pathetic, having your words twisted back against you.

He tries to ignore how much Diego’s finger pointed at him bothers him. It is like a stab in the chest, a provocation, like he is making it personal. In a way, it is, he made sure of it the second he decided to belittle you like this in front of him. The thoughts of gripping his hand in his, crushing his joints- He blinks once, twice to shake the images out, and then he says your name again, an invitation now. Let’s leave this. Leave him.

‘’ You should leave. ‘’

Both sets of eyes turn to you as you speak up. Finally, he thinks. You are not asking, you are demanding, telling Diego his time here is over. Diego’s eyes twitch between you and Arturo’s side of the pool, he has to know he will lose if he tries to fight him. From the look of it, he is most likely smaller than him, unarmed. Arturo knows he only hangs out with them for the coke, maybe the small possibility of being one of them too, and then having you back in his bed after the parties. It breaks his heart to know you didn’t catch on to his bullshit before tonight. It is hot in his chest, a deep burn he can’t shake off, maybe it is jealousy.

Diego turns to you, as if your words meant nothing, like you didn’t just ask him to leave. His hand wrapping around your forearm as if you would follow him. The pool is the only thing keeping Arturo from jumping in between you two and sliding his hands around his throat.

‘’ Come on, let’s do this somewhere else. ‘’

‘’ Don’t touch me, Diego- ‘’

He can’t stand it, having to watch this asshole pretend he is still the one in control. Your upper arm is white from Diego’s grip and he can’t help how fast his hand goes to his back, feeling the gun tucked in his waistband with his fingertips. A reassurance that he could end this, here, right now. He will shoot him, he doesn’t care, five times if needed, as many times it would take for this idiot not to have a face anymore.

‘’ Are we gonna have a problem here? ‘’

He doesn’t stutter. It is a warning, his first and final one, spoken clearly in the open space between them.

‘’ Shut the fuck up, pendejo, can’t you read a room?! ‘’

‘’ Kitty… ‘’

You finally catch his eyes across the pool. Your voice is a warning, almost scolding him like a child, telling him to let you handle it, that you can take care of this. Can you? Should you? He notices the sparkles on your eyelids, the same color as your dress, the dried tears on your cheeks. He can’t be stopped, he doesn’t want to, he is too invested in this. Pendejo. Arturo doesn’t remember when he started moving, following the tiles around the ledge, opting to close his fists and take care of this naturally instead. If Diego wanted to play the tough guy, he would show him what it looked like.

He is halfway around the pool when you start moving, twisting in your heels. You grab Diego by the hair, using the momentum and his hold on your arm to push him into the pool. He is taken aback for a moment, stopping dead in his tracks, scared Diego’s grip on your arm will bring you into the water with him. But it doesn’t and you are tiptoeing around the edge, hands in the air, unmoving, like you just dropped something you shouldn’t have.

You yelp when the water splashes back on you, the bottom of your dress, your shoes. It shakes you out of it and you step back from the puddle of water at your feet. When Diego surfaces out from the deep, he is heaving, breathing through his nose, paddling around with both arms. A well-deserved swim, if he could say so himself, but Arturo is not even looking at him. He doesn’t matter, you do, and he only has eyes for you. He is not sure what to do now, he is surely not going to jump in the pool to finish this, who knows what chlorine would do to his Ralph Lauren shirt.

‘’ You’re a fucking bitch, Diego. ‘’

You laugh and it is music to his ears, loud, genuine. You are waving your hands around like you can’t believe this, free at last.

‘’ Stay the fuck away from me from now on, or he’ll shoot you. ‘’

You are pointing at him now, passing the eventual dirty work to him. Arturo knows you have never held a gun in your life, how you can barely accept those that are tucked in your friends’ jeans, but he would do it if you asked him, in a heartbeat, no questions needed. You push at the water on your thighs, probably wishing it would take the chemicals and the water out of the fabric. You turn to him, head thrown back, fists closed, like a child.

‘’ Look what he did to my shoes, Arturo. ‘’

You are whining and he is trying to pretend that his name coming out of your mouth didn’t make his knees buckle for a second. Eat him up and chew him out. You turn back to Diego.

‘’ They’re Versace you fucking bitch. ‘’

Your voice quivers on the last word, a small crack in an otherwise strong façade. Arturo’s hand moves from behind his shirt, leaving the comfort of the handle of metal at his back, motioning for you to come over. It is too cold tonight for you to stand outside, legs out for days, and a drenched skirt stuck to your thighs.

‘’ I’ll buy you new ones, mami. Let’s move before the fish comes out of his tank, yeah? ‘’

He is trying to be funny, but he can hear you sniff, see your hand raise from your side to wipe at your nose. He can understand how it’s too much, too fast now, adrenaline coming down, the cold seeping in.

When you turn his way and brush past him, his first instinct is to try and grab you, to be able to drape a warm arm around your shoulders, protect you when Diego couldn’t. It hurts him when you duck from his grasp, continuing your way to the door, but he swallows it and pushes down whatever angry, sad feeling is bubbling up in his throat. He chooses to follow you inside, follow what his guts tell him, and not take any of this personally. Easier said than done, but Arturo decides to focus on the sound of your heels against the tiles instead, to breathe in your perfume when he skips before you so he can open the sliding door for you.

You make a line for the kitchen and he is thankful no one stops you to ask what happened. Arturo follows your step, tall and burning behind you. You are holding back your tears, he can tell. He doesn’t know why he feels like he has to make sure you are alright. Diego might be an ass, but he wouldn’t dare enter the sharks’ enclosure after that. If this was his house, he would turn around and drown the fucker with his own hands. Nothing he hasn’t done before.

‘’ I’m not crying. ‘’

It’s the first thing you tell him when you enter the kitchen with him, your new shadow, still hot on your heel. You are, and it’s okay, he understands, right? You are alone in the room, just you, him, the marble countertop between you as you turn and pace. You are rummaging through shelves, one hand whipping at your cheek while the other chooses a glass.

‘’ It’s not- this isn’t because of him. I’m not crying- ‘’

A sob leaves your throat as you open the refrigerator door. He feels bad now, his heart squeezing at the thought of your makeup sliding down your cheeks. Arturo leans on the door frame and he looks as you pull out juice from the open door, the other hand grabbing a bottle of tequila left on the counter. The amount you pour into your cup makes his eyebrows frown.

‘’ It’s alright. ‘’

‘’ It’s the shoes. I’m not crying. ‘’

The tears on your face do tell him that you are, that it is about Diego. He doesn’t deal with heartbreaks often, he usually never stays around long enough to feel it. He is a grown man, he never cries, he shouldn’t care, but he does feel better when you open the juice jug, pouring enough that he is not too concerned about how it would taste in the end. He speaks up again.

‘’ It’s alright if it’s not just the shoes you know. ‘’

‘’ You would really buy me new ones? ‘’

He raises his eyebrows at that and you are now pushing yourself up on the counter in front of him, crossing your legs, glass in hand. Your eyes are dry and red, but the glitter on your lids is still pressed to the skin, unmoved. He likes it, he decides, the shimmer suits you, it reminds him of the diamonds he has on a watch at home. You are looking at him, waiting for an answer. Like it would fix everything. Your Versace heels, he would buy you new ones if you asked, the same pair if you wished, an even more expensive one if you begged him to.

‘’ Por supuesto, mami. ‘’

I would shoot him too, let’s keep our word. He doesn’t tell you that, but the thought crosses his mind, throbbing inside his ribcage. The things he would do for you. Something changed tonight, inside of him, changed how he looks at you, how he really looks at you. You laugh at this and he is thankful, happy to hear the sound again. He hopes it means he is doing something good, something to make you feel better.

‘’ I’m just messing. They will dry, I was just being dramatic. ‘’

Rightly so, he wants to tell you, that he would have done worst for less, but he doesn’t, he laughs it off with you.

‘’ All good, mami, I go crazy for less. ‘’

You haven’t touched your drink yet, playing with the rim and the ridges on the side. It is a good sign to him, that whatever he is doing is working, heart being fixed, tears kept at bay. He feels awkward, standing there and looking at you, trying to keep his eyes away from tracing the curve of your legs, the idea of your nails wrapped around his neck-

‘’ You like shopping? ‘’

It’s quick, out of his mouth before he even processes it, anything to keep the silence from going on any longer.

‘’ What? ‘’

‘’ Well, I- ‘’ he stuttered, he never does. Tongue rolling in his mouth, words knocking his front teeth on the way out. Of course you like shopping, ranking bills for days, and matching your shoes with your tops, who wouldn’t? Right?

‘’ Well, because I do. ‘’ He feels like the dumbest person in the house. ‘’ I mean- I mostly look, I don’t always buy. It gotta fit with the rest, you know? ‘’

You hum, nodding with the sound. Your lips touch the rim of the glass, bringing silence back to the kitchen, and he feels like he fucked up. He had to open his big mouth and spill out some none sense. Maybe you don’t like shopping. Maybe you think he is taking too much space, that he should leave you alone-

‘’ Let me tell you a secret. ‘’ Your hands are back on your lap, playing with the side of the glass once again. There is a glint in your eyes as you lean towards him, like you are sharing a secret. Lips pursed, you are not whispering, but he feels like you are. A secret for him, only for him.

‘’ Sometimes it doesn’t even match, but I still buy it, I can’t help myself. ‘’

You have glitter on your fingers from when you wiped your tears off and he can’t take his eyes off yours, you are pulling him in and he takes a step closer as you continue.

‘’ I always think I can make it work, but after a while, I send it to my primas, so it’s not really a loss, you know? ‘’

‘’ You’re free Friday? ‘’

You hesitate a moment, barely a second, but it’s enough to make him self-conscious again. ‘’ Why? ‘’

‘’ Let me take you out. ‘’ Let me make this right. Make you forget him. ‘’ We can go en el centro. I don’t think they got Versace there, but they got nice options. ‘’

He shrugs his shoulders, already pretending that he is going to be okay if you reject him. He knows he won’t, that everything, every minute spent with you until today wasn’t a random twist of fate. He can feel it, feel you deep in his bones, there has to be something there. He can’t be wrong, you have to say yes.

Your fingers move in the space between the two of you and, since he is closer now, you can reach and hook a finger around one of his longer chains, moving the golden cross around so it catches the light.

‘’ Is Thursday too early for you? ‘’

He is flushed when you look back up at him, too stunned to speak, too hot and too cold at the same time. He has asked people out before, multiple times even, but right now, with you, he can’t get a grip, he can’t get himself to breathe and not be putty in your hands.

‘’ Not at all. ‘’ Is all he finds to say when he is brought back down to earth. Arturo can’t stop the smile that pulls at his lips, he can taste your perfume on his tongue. ‘’ Even better, mami. ‘’

[axkirak]

Renegada♱

Taglist: @707otto @juxt4p0siti0n @arcticversed (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )

Pairings:  Amado Carrillo Fuentes x f!reader(Latina Reader) x Walt Breslin  [From Narcos: Mexico TV Series]

Content Rating : Mature 18+  Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Synopsis : Walt did everything he could to eliminate drug traffickers without realizing that ultimately, his actions were causing him to lose you forever.

AN: There're angst everywhere Lol. Get ready to be hurt

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𝙍𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙙𝙖♱ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

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[6]ᅳ 𝐋𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚 𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐥 ✟

The loud 'Bang' jolted you back to reality, back to the awareness of what you were and what this man was. He might be charming, he might be funny, he might be romantic, but Amado Carrillo Fuentes is a drug lord. He is your target, America's target, Mexico's target, and and the target of other drug trafficking gangs whose aim is to see him dead.

They know Amado is hiding here too. And they didn't want him to come back to Mexico.

Armed groups in tourist outfits reveal themselves amidst the growing chaos. They all aim straight for Amado, but they don't care about other lives.  Innocent people unintentionally caught in the crossfire are ruthlessly eliminated,  bodies scattered on the streets like fallen leaves.

The music is drowned out by the gunfire, laughter turns into screams, and in the blink of an eye, tranquility turns into hell on earth.

You're stiff; you should do something to stop it. You think you could if you had a gun with you, but the bad thing is you didn't bring one because you foolishly thought a regular musician shouldn't have a gun to be suspected by Amado, and you were confident you could handle everything well without weapons.

And you're wrong. It's your fault.

Amado yanked you up, dragging you along as he turned back to shoot at the killers chasing him from a distance. For a split second, you imagine pushing him away and escaping alone. Because these people only cared about getting Amado's life, not yours. His death might be a good thing; at least one of the drug lords would be gone. The crazy mission, and everything could finally end.

You should let him die. It would be much easier if Amado chose the same. But this man is now trying to protect you, even though he's been in danger. Yet, those big hands refuse to let go of yours, not even for a second.

You grit your teeth, eyes staring intensely at his hand holding yours firmly. No matter how much you want to reject, somehow you are a part of this fate. Throughout the time that has passed, you have lost and failed to save everyone. let many people die in front of you without being able to do anything. And you can't bear to feel guilty from failure any more, at least not for this time.

In this moment of imminent death,The CIA Agent finally makes the decision that you can't let Amado die.

All of this is for the mission. That's what you try to insist to yourself. In the moment when one of the assassins aims at Amado without him noticing, in the moment when you decide to push him out of the bullet's range, in the moment when you get shot by that bullet yourself.

The chaos still swirls around you, things flashing before your eyes too fast to make out what they are. Everything seems like mere illusions to you. There's nothing clear except the searing pain akin to flames burning inside your abdomen. You slide down onto the pavement, hands clutching your blood-soaked abdomen tightly, the sound of yelling ringing in your ears. It's Amado's voice, but you can't make out what he's saying. All you can do is raise your head to look at him, seeing the shock reflected in those wide-open eyes and your blood smeared on his face.

What went wrong? Your final suspicion is devoid of any clear answers.

Was it an unexpected reaction to the situation? Or the foolish intention to take the bullet instead of the man who deserved to die?

There's nothing funny about it at all. Yet, you let out a light chuckle, mocking yourself, realizing that this might be the end for you—shot foolishly on the roadside, another failure. But at least, there will be no more loss to bear except for your own life.

Perhaps it's a fitting end for someone like you.

You took another glance at Amado, the smile still lingering on your face until unconsciousness envelops every part of your body and fades away in the blink of an eye.

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

Walt never knew when to stop. That was always the problem.

Like a relentless machine, he never took a break, working tirelessly until either the energy ran out or the machinery broke into pieces. Even though he knew it was slowly destroying himself, he chose to keep going until he got what he wanted, or died trying, or worse — had to get his hands dirty and kill someone to get what he wanted.

The hands of the DEA agent were covered in bruises and blood, the throbbing pain clinging to every bone forcing him to slightly adjust his grip.He wiped off someone else's blood onto a dirty handkerchief lying on the floor before looked up at the young man tied tightly to the chair.His face and bare body bore only the traces of severe abuse inflicted by his own hands. 

"Alex Aragón," Walt slowly uttered the name, studying the almost unconscious response from the boy, who seemed barely aware of his surroundings. 

He's still so young, looked like he had just emerged from adolescence not long ago. the pampered, harmless rich kid unless you knew that this guy wwasone of the high-ranking members of the Arellano drug cartel,who just apprehended three days ago.

"If you want to see your parents again, you better tell me right now where Ramón Arellano Félix, your buddy, is and what he's planning," Walt held the cigarette in his mouth before turning his gaze to Diego and the two Mexican cops standing solemnly in the same room. "My Mexican friends here aren't as friendly as I am, and I won't hesitate to hand you over to them if you don't talk to me."

"But...but I'm American!" the young man rushed to say. "I was born in America, I have American citizenship. You can't do this to an American! If anyone finds out, you'll be in serious trouble!"

"So what? Do you think America cares about a bunch of drug dealers like you?"

He lied. When it came to America's image in the eyes of the world, those at the top of politics did care.

But America was also adept at covering up its own dirty scandals.

And if America was good at covering up scandals, Mexico was even better at making them. So, Walt decided to leave the task of tormenting duties to the Mexican police, as he had said earlier.

Walt walked out of the interrogation room to smoke a cigarette, listening to the echoing screams echo with an expression of indifference, devoid of emotions. It was just another ordinary day in his line of work. There is nothing to feel bad about when dealing with someone who deserves to die.

Not long after, Walt remembered that he had only taken a few puffs of smoke when the heavy metal door of the interrogation room was suddenly opened. He saw Diego stepping out with a strangely alert demeanor.

Walt furrowed his brows, quickly flicking away the cigarette that wasn't finished. He didn't feel too good hearing what Diego said, "That bastard finally talked, but it wasn't about Ramón."

"And what did he say?"

Diego hesitated, feeling conflicted. He wasn't sure if he should directly discuss this with Walt. But in the end, he decided to speak up.

"He mentioned an assassination against Amado Carrillo Fuentes."

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The two junior officers in Policía Ciudad de México(The Mexico City Police) were taken aback when an American DEA agent suddenly burst into the room with a look as if he wanted to physically harm someone. Julio, who was seated at his regular desk, looked up for a moment. His expression didn't change much upon seeing Walt. The boss exhaled deeply before waving his hand to dismiss the other officers, leaving just the two of them in the room.

"Ramón Arellano sent assassins to kill Amado on Aruba Island. We need to hurry to help Y/N, she's in danger," the DEA agent exclaimed.

"I already know about it," Julio responded with an unchanged expression. "Netherlands embassy just reported about a Mexican drug cartel incident in the tourist area of the island. The bodies were sent back to Mexico this morning."

Walt sighed lightly, both surprised and irritated by the calmness of his superior. "So, what now? You know about this, yet you're not going to do anything?"

"Calm down. We've checked everything. We didn't find any bodies matching Amado's or Y/N's description. It's highly possible they're still alive."

"Then we need to hurry and help her. We don't know if there are still Arellano's men left on the island. This mission is too risky for Y/N. We need to abort."

"You'll have to talk to America yourself then, Agent Breslin." Julio's tone grew more serious. "Y/N is a CIA agent. Mexico has no part in this."

Walt's face turned pale. It was a feeling when hit by what's called 'Reality'. A reality that Walt hadn't fully grasped until now.

Mexico wouldn't extend a helping hand in this matter, and neither would America. The covert mission regarding Amado is an elite secret known only to a few. Even the Netherlands isn't aware of the CIA's unauthorized incursion into their country. If this mission were to be exposed, it would severely damage trust and international relations.

So, whatever happens to Y/N during this mission should not be linked back to America. They won't hesitate to abandon her immediately. This means she could end up in a state of disappearance without an identity or even a grave to bury.

Does You know about this before deciding to go there? Walt started to doubt. He looked back at Julio's face, seeing him nod slowly, as if already knowing what he was thinking.

"It's her profession. She knows well about the risks, and she's chosen it herself."

A dry chuckle escaped Walt's throat, sounding sarcastic and bitter at the same time. The American officer sank heavily into the chair, hands raised to hold his head, exhaling softly. There was no trace of anger or resentment, not a single word spoken.

Julio laid the documents in his hands on the table. He looked straight at the man opposite.

"Remember the conversation in Cuba? When you were furious because you were worried about her, I told you to trust in her," Julio said with a smile. "I know you're tired of hearing this, but this time I want you to continue to trust her, as long as there's hope. Anything is possible."

"That sounds more like self-consolation than the truth."

"This world is cruel. Sometimes, we get by just by consoling ourselves."

Walt closed his eyes briefly. There were only a few times he showed vulnerability to others beyond his usual demeanor of anger and unfriendliness. "If I knew it would turn out like this, I should say something to her."

He had been thinking about his feelings for you—something more than just a coworker. Every time they locked eyes, shared cigarettes, talked about trivial matters, and laughed together over nonsense, it all seemed clear. He has known it. But he chose to overlook it. Because his job was filled with blood and death every day. There's no space for romance and for a heart that has to bear the pain of sorrow and a painful past.

But the decision to remain indifferent to the feelings in his heart only makes him feel even more sorrowful today.

If on that day he had hugged you tight, if he had asked you not to go to Aruba, if he had decided to tell you how he truly felt, maybe the story could have ended differently. And sometimes, you might have felt the same too.

It's pointless to dwell on things that can never happen again.

The silence persisted until Walt stood up again. He pursed his lips, looking as if he wanted to quickly leave the room. However, Julio stopped him first. "Where are you going, Agent Breslin?"

"I'm just going back to the interrogation room," the DEA replied calmly. But Julio saw the clear anger and darkness in his eyes. "If anything happens to Y/N, I'll make sure they're all going to pay for it."

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[drabbles-mc]

Unprofessional

Walt Breslin x F!Reader

For Day 10 of @narcosfandomdiscord's July Smut Alphabet: jealousy

Warnings: 18+, language, smoking, alcohol, smut

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: The way that I had to fight myself to not let this turn into a 10k fic 😂 I'm already in love with this reader and the general vibe of this fic and idkidk maybe I'll write more for them down the road. Who knows? Not me!

NMX Taglist: @narcolini @ashlingnarcos @hausofmamadas @garbinge @cositapreciosa @southotheborder @artemiseamoon @proceduralpassion (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Walt watched as Sal’s car rolled up to the motel that you and Walt were staying at. He was glad that you at least let someone else bring you home, because based off how you were when he’d left the bar a little more than an hour before, you probably shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. It was usually him that was driving you to and from wherever you had to go, or vice versa on days when Walt didn’t want to put up a fight about it. Judging by the way you were laughing as you opened the door and stepped out of Sal’s car, you didn’t seem to mind the switch up.

He watched you as you leaned on the edge of the window, smiling and laughing still as you thanked Sal and told him that you’d see him tomorrow.  Walt caught the way the man waved to him as well, and he returned the gesture from his chair. It was your chair, actually. It’d come out of your room. You set it up in the little stretch of space between the door to your motel room, and the door to Walt’s. You’d be sitting there with your coffee in the morning, and Walt would sometimes be out there in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep, dragging on his cigarettes, not unlike he was now.

You were practically sauntering up to him, the headlights of Sal’s car behind you rendering you as nothing more than a silhouette in the few seconds before he turned around and peeled out the lot to head back to his own spot.

“Hey,” you greeted him with a smile, “you left early.”

He shrugged, noncommittal. “Yea.”

You still felt like you were buzzing, warm more from the alcohol than the actual temperature. Still, even in your slight haze, you could see the annoyance on Walt’s face. “You okay?”

He gave a short nod, his tone and his words not lining up in the slightest as he said, “I’m fine.”

You were in no mood to try and pull it out of him, and even if you were, you didn’t know if you would be anything close to successful. So instead, you swiped the pack of cigarettes off the arm of the chair he was sitting in and took one out for yourself. The two of you were in a constant loop of bumming them off each other—neither of you bothered asking anymore.

“You know,” you spoke as well as you could with your lips wrapped around the cigarette—you sparked the lighter before continuing, “I know shit has been real rough lately, but that doesn’t mean you can’t ever have a good time.”

Walt shook his head, like you were saying the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Looked like you were all having a good enough—”

“Would’ve been nice if you were there, though,” you cut him off, smoke swirling out from between your lips as you spoke. “Couldn’t take, what, three hours out of the twenty-four to not be all broody?” you said, just enough of a smile on your face to keep that question from starting a full-blown argument. Walt gave you another shake of his head and it only caused you to double-down. “We missed you.”

He scoffed. “Didn’t seem like you were missing much of anything when I left.”

You burst out laughing at that. “I’m sorry?”

“No, I’m just,” he took a drag off his cigarette, “just surprised that Sal brought you back. Looked like you were gonna be goin’ home with your new friend there at the bar.”

You rolled your eyes at him, laughing as you tapped the ash off the end of your smoke. “You think I’m that easy, Breslin?”

He frowned slightly as he shrugged, an expression that was less about being upset and more about being uncertain. “I don’t know what I think about you.”

The statement was a little bit of a lie. Walt thought about you plenty. Some of it had to do with work, a lot of it didn’t. He’d had plenty of time to think about you since he met you, but there was still a lot that he didn’t know. Like how suave and flirty you could be when you were trying to get a free drink or two out of someone, like how watching you do that put a knot in his gut that had no right to be there.

It was the first time the two of you had ever worked together. Before you all got pulled together into the Smash & Grab that you now were, Walt was working in El Paso while you came over from Miami. Neither of you had known each other prior to this, and while you noticed that Walt seemed to have built a rapport with a few of the other men on his team, you were flying in completely blind. You didn’t know anyone. Walt quickly noticed, however, that that didn’t seem to slow you down. You quickly made it part of your job to get to know everyone at least a little bit, just enough to figure out how you should interact with them for the sake of not letting the team fray apart at the edges. It was a good skill, one Walt made a mental note to work on if you all made it out of this mess alive.

All of you had your own rooms, scattered across a few different low-budget motels. You were all smart enough to not all hole up in the same place together, but no one wanted to be completely alone. There was a fine line between having safety in numbers, and making yourselves easy targets to get wiped out in one fell swoop.

Your rooms weren’t adjoining, but you and Walt did share a wall. The walls were thin enough for him to hear the muffled sounds of your television, or for you to hear him if he was on the phone with someone, but you’d have to have your ear pinned tight to the wall if you wanted to make out the exact words on the other side.

He felt like he’d learned a fair bit about you in the relatively short span of time that he was your neighbor, one flimsy wall away from being your roommate. You were always up early, but went to bed late. He only had the latter part of that down for himself—he’d never mastered being a morning person. He’d step outside to have his first cigarette of the morning and you would already be up, coffee in one hand and a manila folder packed with information in the other. But there were still too many blanks for him to have any right feeling the way he felt about you.

“Hey,” you said with a quiet laugh as you tapped the side of his boot with yours, “Earth to Breslin.” You waited for him to look over at you. “Are we good?”

He shrugged, nodding. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I don’t know,” you said as you took an inhale from your cigarette, the warmth from your liquor at the bar fading for the moment as you tried to figure out why it felt like things were suddenly off-kilter between the two of you. “You took off, and now you’re acting different. So…are we good?”

“You just,” he looked everywhere but at you, knowing that he was digging himself into a hole that was going to be a bitch to try and get out of, “you gotta be careful.”

“About what?”

“About all of it!” He dropped his cigarette to the ground and put it out with the ball of his foot. “You can’t trust anyone we—”

“The guy bought me a drink, Walt,” you cut him off, unable to believe that this was the conversation the two of you were having. “I wasn’t telling him trade secrets. Fuck, I didn’t even give him my real name. As far as he knows,” you gestured to where Sal had been a few minutes before, “Sal is my fuckin’ boyfriend.”

Leaning back in the chair, he finally looked at you. “Alright.”

You shook your head. “Alright.” You paused for a beat. “You know, maybe you should’ve stayed for an extra drink or two. Maybe you could loosen up for all of two minutes.”

He didn’t want to keep arguing with you. Really, that was the exact opposite of what he wanted. Even so, it took more effort than it should’ve for him to finally say, “Maybe.”

You weren’t really looking for an argument either. You’d left the bar in a perfectly chipper mood and the last thing you wanted was for it all to fizzle out now. You hadn’t expected to come back to this. Walt always had that edge to him, an overtone of sourness, but this felt different.

“There something we should talk about?” you asked.

Of course there was. There were plenty of things that he should talk to you about. But he wasn’t going to start those conversations, didn’t really know how to. Instead, he pushed up out of his chair, standing up so that the two of you were hardly a step away from each other.

“Shit’s different down here,” he finally said. “So just, just be careful.”

“It’s a little late in the game to have doubts about me now,” you told him. “If you have issues with what I did, how I operate, then you shouldn’t have brought me all the way—”

“It’s not that,” he cut you off. He could tell by the look on your face that you wanted to snap and say, “Then what the fuck is it?” but he didn’t know if he was ready to get into all of that. It definitely didn’t feel like the right time now. “I just…don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” He knew that the statement was skating too close to the complete truth, so he tried to cushion it with, “All you guys, you’re my responsibility. I don’t want shit going south if we can prevent it.”

“Can you be less of a pain in the ass about it?” you asked, the smallest hint of lightness returning to your tone.

He let out a weary chuckle. “I can try.”

You waited for him to have something else to say, but when it didn’t seem like he was going to, you prodded. “Anything else?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but then he backpedaled on it. “No.”

You had the nagging feeling that the conversation wasn’t done, but you didn’t know how to continue it without letting it devolve into another argument. Putting out your cigarette, you gestured to your room. “Drink? Since you bailed early.”

Walt knew that he shouldn’t go, that he should just turn and head back into his own room. But he felt like he owed you this. It was the best he could do for an apology without having to actually apologize.

“So,” he sat on the edge of one of the two beds in your room, the one that didn’t seem like you slept on it every night, “what’d you tell him?”

“Hm?” you asked as you poured liquor from the bottle in your bag into two paper cups. It wasn’t as nice as drinks at the bar, but Walt lost that opportunity quite a while ago.

“Said you didn’t tell the guy your real name. What’d you tell him?” He was as curious as he was jealous. It was a side of you he’d never seen before and he wondered if any of it was genuine.

You laughed as you handed him one of the cups, taking a seat on the end of the bed next to him. “I’ve got a whole rolodex of lines I give people in bars,” you took a sip of your drink, “especially when I’m working.”

He chuckled at the mental image of that, just cards upon cards flipping through in your brain whenever someone approached you and offered to buy you a drink. “Yea?”

“Yea. Why? Looking for some pointers?” you asked as you nudged his shoulder with yours.

“No, no.”

“Sounds like you might be,” you joked. “Should’ve stuck around and seen it for yourself.”

“I saw plenty,” he mumbled out without thinking better of it.

The statement didn’t give you pause so much as the way he said it. Turning to face him, you asked, “What was that?”

He shook his head, a little too quick to be casual. “Nothing.”

The fresh wave of warmth washing over you from the drink you’d been sipping on didn’t slow down the turning of the gears in your brain. “Is…is that why you—”

“No,” he cut you off, already knowing where the sentence was going and not wanting it to go there.”

Your eyes widened for a moment. “All that shit about me being careful,” you shook your head, “and you’ve been sulking here this whole time because you were jealous?”

“Don’t fuckin’ say it like that,” he told you, unable to look you in the eyes.

Leaning back, you braced the palm of your empty hand against the mattress. “Then look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.” The silence that passed spoke volumes, as did the fact that Walt’s eyes stayed glued to the cup in his hands. “You could’ve offered to buy me a drink,” you said, shifting your tone a little bit, softening the conversation just slightly.

Walt rolled his eyes, not liking the fact that this was all starting to feel a lot like pity. “It’s not,” he sighed, bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “just forget it.”

“No,” you said with a laugh, “I won’t.”

Finally, he turned and looked at you. “I have never seen you act like that with anyone before.”

You chuckled. “Yea, well, that’s because they say it’s usually bad form to flirt with your coworkers. Bedroom eyes are unprofessional, apparently.”

That got a choked laugh out of him. “Apparently.”

“I like you, Walt,” you said.

His eyes widened for a moment as he registered what you’d just said. “Yea?”

You laughed, nodding. “Yea. When you’re not pouting quite so much, I like being around you. I’m, you know,” you gestured to the wall behind you, behind the headboards, “I’m glad I share a wall with you.”

His eyes dropped back to the floor. “It’d be stupid to do something, right?”

You shrugged, finishing off your drink. “Yea. But, I mean,” you laughed softly, “it’s also kinda stupid to get jealous over some random guy in a bar buying me a drink sooo…” your voice trailed off.

Walt sighed, letting his head drop back so that he was looking up at the ceiling. No matter what did or didn’t happen next, he knew that he wasn’t ever going to live that down. “Right.”

He followed your lead, finishing off his drink as well. You could see it in his body language that he was about to get up and leave, take the few short steps that would get him back to his room on the other side of the wall. You didn’t want him to go.

Clearing your throat, you said, “Walt?”

He looked over at you, and only got half a syllable out of whatever his response was going to be before you leaned in and brought your lips to his. You felt the way he froze for a moment, a brief hesitation that almost had you pulling away and apologizing. You two had just finished saying it would be a stupid idea.

But then Walt’s brain caught up with the rest of him and he was kissing you back. Empty paper cups fell almost silently to the floor as you brought the hand that wasn’t helping you keep your balance to his chest, fingers curling into the cloth of his flannel and pulling him towards you even more. Walt had one hand on your thigh, the other barely grazing the side of your face, like he was afraid to commit to holding it.

If the circumstances had been different, maybe you would’ve taken your time. Knowing that Walt had been stewing on those feelings for however long would’ve made you a little more patient. But every second since you crossed the border had felt borrowed, and you didn’t want to waste a single one. So you quickly maneuvered yourself, swinging one leg over him so that you were sitting, straddling his lap.

You ran both hands up Walt’s chest, and despite the fact that he still had on his flannel and his t-shirt, he still let out a, “Fuck,” under his breath as your palms and fingers raked over him. His hands settled on your hips as you kissed him again. All either of you could taste off each other was liquor and cigarettes, but at least it was honest.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders as you began to grind your hips against his. He moaned into your mouth as he kissed you, hands sliding from your hips to your ass. Whatever hesitation he’d felt before was long gone now, along with the annoyances the two of you had been volleying back and forth since you got back.

You pulled away just enough so that you could pull your shirt off over your head. Walt was left slack jawed for a moment, taking in the sight of you on his lap with nothing on but your bra and jeans. When the gears finally started turning again, he ran through all the buttons on his shirt faster than you’ve ever seen anyone ever do it before. Within seconds, both his shirts were discarded onto the floor alongside yours.

His hands came to rest on your sides, gentle at first, like he was still wrapping his mind around the fact that he got to touch you like this. Then he gripped onto you with a little more force, bringing you back in so he could kiss you again. His arms wrapped around you, hands splaying across your back. Every motion was punctuated with blunt fingernails and rough callouses, the sensation of it making you put a little more urgency in your movements as your hips moved against his.

Letting his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, he spoke, words coming out muffled against your mouth but you could make them out well enough as he said, “C’mere.”

Deceptively strong in a way that caught you off-guard, Walt had you on your back on the mattress, himself positioned between your legs and hovering over your chest. He kissed you on the lips one more time before pulling away from you. He pulled away just enough so that he could undo the button and zipper of your jeans. You quickly toed off your boots, making it easier for Walt to pull your pants and underwear down your legs and completely off you. You shimmied a little farther up the bed as he rid himself of the last of his clothing as well.

Then he was right back on top of you, one hand cupping your face, one hand gripping onto your thigh. You didn’t let him pull his lips back off of yours, desperate for just a little more. Sliding one hand down between your bodies, you wrapped it around him. The contact immediately caused him to moan, made him buck into your hand even though you hadn’t started moving it yet.

Smiling into the kiss, you brought your other hand up, lacing your fingers through his hair and gripping, tugging just slightly as your other hand started to slowly move up and down his length. He muttered curses against your lips as he brought the hand that was on your thigh between your legs, pulling sounds out of you that he hadn’t even dared to daydream about.

Not wanting to wait any longer, you lined him up at your entrance. You let him feel how wet you already were, dragging the head of him up and down your slit. His hand was balled into a tight fist on the sheets beside your head, trying to have a modicum of self-control. You saw how hard he was fighting to keep it together, and you almost wanted to have something slick to say, but more than that you just wanted him inside you, so you guided him in and he had no hesitation about thrusting the rest of the way into you.

All the stress, the anger, the weight of the world that Walt always made himself carry around on his own shoulders, it all seemed to disappear for a moment. You wondered if it was because he finally found a good enough distraction, or if it was because he could channel all that anger with the world into the thrust of his hips. Maybe things just seemed a little less hopeless when he had you saying his name against the shell of his ear, asking for more.

You made it so easy for him to not have to think about anything but you. Every single part of you felt like it was there for him in that moment, and that feeling alone almost had him seeing stars right off the rip.

He could hear it in your voice, the way you gasped and whined, that you were close. Your nails raked down the side of his face, over the stubble that was getting longer by the day, searching for any kind of tether to hold onto. Your nails left a series of crescents behind, digging into his shoulder and back as you came, your hips desperately bucking up against his. He followed shortly after, reveling in the feel of you, in knowing that he was able to get you like this. He kissed you hard as he came inside you, rough enough to put a little pain in with all of the pleasure.

When the two of you finally pulled apart, you slipped beneath the thin sheet and blanket on top of the bed. Up until now it’d been perfectly made the entire time you’d been staying there. You watched Walt as he swiped his underwear off the floor, pulling them on before grabbing yours as well. He held them out slightly, a wordless question, and you couldn’t help but to laugh as you nodded and let him toss them to you.

You saw the flicker of apprehension on his face, like he was trying to figure out whether or not he should be putting the rest of his clothes back on too. “You can stay,” you told him with a nod, propping the side of your face in your hand. “No point in leaving just to be on the other side of the wall.”

He visibly relaxed at that, relief coursing through him. “Right.”

He climbed in on the other side of the bed, laying close but still leaving a bit of a gap between you. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen now, what the protocol was supposed to be. None of this had been in his plans.

Rolling over, you swiped your pack of cigarettes and your lighter off the night stand that was between the two beds. You held the pack out to him, offering him one. He took one, of course, and since you were the one with the lighter in your hand, he even let you light it for him before you grabbed one for yourself and sparked it up.

He watched as you laid on the bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling as you blew smoke rings. You looked so pleased with yourself, bedsheet pulled up over your chest as you watched the smoke rise and then disappear.

“That your party trick?” he asked.

You laughed, turning your head to look over at him. “Hardly. My last partner, the one I had before I came down here, he taught me how to do it.” You took another drag off your cigarette, puffing out another ring for emphasis. “Too many hours cooped up in a shitty car on stakeouts with nothing better to do.”

He chuckled. “Oh yea?”

“Don’t worry,” you looked over at him with an amused glint in your eyes, “I wasn’t doing this on stakeouts.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You would’ve thought of it later and never let it go,” you cut him off, giving a small dismissive wave of your hand, painting a swirl with the smoke coming off your cigarette as you did.

There was more to be said, you were sure of it. There were discussions to be had, probably boundaries to be laid out. But you didn’t want to get into all of that in the moment. It was good. Things felt good and easy after weeks of everything feeling anything but good and easy. Judging by the look on Walt’s face, he was having very similar thoughts. So you both finished your cigarettes in silence. Walt leaned, reaching over you to drop it into the ashtray. On the way back, he stopped, letting his arm drape across you for a moment. The look on his face was one of asking for permission, like he needed to know that this little bit of softness was okay after everything that had happened.

You just smiled before reaching and turning off the lamp, sending the room into darkness. Rolling onto your side so that your back was to Walt, you gently grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm around you. He slid up behind you so that his chest was pressed to your back, keeping the two of you close. This would do for now. Everything else could at least wait until morning.

[narcosmx]

protective headcannon: ismael "mayo" zambada

a/n: based on the requested prompt:

"He said what to you?!" and "He won't hurt you again, I promise." and probably tw for like insinuating dv

"He said what to you?!" Mayo's voice boomed over the phone, you could almost hear the way his vein in his neck buldges with anger. "Please, Mayo, not now" you whimper back at him. Truly, you didn't know what came over you to call your ex in this situation. It was almost like muscle memory, you felt unsafe and maybe you unconsioucly knew only one person could restore that feeling within you. "Just..." "I'll be right there, mija" Knees up against your chest, you sat in the center of your bed focusing on your trembling breath. When you hear the front door unlock, you take a unintended breath of relief. Only one other person had a key to your home, and it was times like this when you were thankful you never got that key back. "Que chingados" Mayo murmurs to himself, stepping over the broken dishes and things thrown around the floor, before calling out to you. He turns the knob to your bedroom slowly and only peaks in, as if to reassure you it was really him. But once he saw you curled up, his stomach dropped nearly running to your side. The way you at first flinch away from his touch made him sick to his stomach at the thought of what you had gone through. What he had allowed to happen to you by pushing you away. "Mirame, soy yo, mi amor" Mayo said in a low and slow tone as he reached out his hand to which you immediately leaned your head against, nearly climbing in his lap once he settled on the bed. "Did he touch you?" he questioned after a moment of silence as he gently rocked you as he held you against his chest. "He just " you groan motioning to the door where the reminents of the fight you had hid behind, as if still trying to defend them. "He touched you?! He touched you" the difference in Mayo's breathing was apparent, noticing how much work he had to put in to calming himself down. "Sabes que, I'll be back" he starts to say as he stands but you grab his arm in protest, shaking your head meekly. "You can't leave me... you can't leave me again", he wears the way his heart broke into a million pieces on his sleeve. Nodding his head, he places a kiss on your forehead before insisting he steps out to make a call. As if he needed to hide what his intentions were from you. "'sta bueno, te lo encargo" he orders over the phone before coming back to lay on the bed, pulling you onto him with little hesitation. "He won't hurt you again, I promise" Mayo murmures, caressing your thumb against your cheek "I'm a man of my word, and when I said I'll love you forever, I meant it."

[narcosfandomdiscord]

narcos october masterlist i

This masterlist is for days 1-10 of the @narcosfandomdiscord's october prompt event, which you can read about here and join in!

For days 11 onwards, check out the second masterlist and the third masterlist.

(Note: character x character indicates a romantic/sexual relationship; character & character indicates a platonic one.)

October 1 — Day of Firsts

Create a fanwork about a canon character you’ve never written about/used before.

↳ fanart by @tofuwildcard — Javi smoking, digital art

↳ Claro Que No by @drabbles-mc — Chepe x gn!Reader, 462

↳ Waiting Red by @narcolini — Isabelle x Chepe vampire AU, 600

↳ Depth Over Distance by @proceduralpassion — Mika & OC sibling backstory, 2.2k

↳ For Old Time's Sake by @garbinge — Carrillo x Reader, Steve and Javi & Reader, angst, 3.5k

↳ In the morning by @artemiseamoon — Marta x Amado established relationship, 2.8k

↳ Vengeance For Me by @kesskirata — Gustavo & Tata angst, ficlet

↳ what we do now by @ashlingnarcos — Feistl x Van Ness post-canon, 1k

↳ Tu cómplice by @hausofmamadas — Mayo x Benjamín pining, 2.8k

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October 2 — “Porque No Los Dos?” Day

Create a crossover for the original Narcos show and the Narcos: Mexico show, featuring at least one character for each.

↳ Looking On by @drabbles-mc — season 3 og DEA & season 2 mx DEA, unite! 3.5k

↳ How Do You Do This Shit For Fun? by @proceduralpassion — Walt & Javi crossover, 1k

↳ Late nights, early mornings by @artemiseamoon — Javi & OFC, Mayo x OFC, 1.8k

↳ two tests by @ashlingnarcos — Carrillo & Trujillo & Calderoni ficlet

Anything involving polyamory, ex: a fic about somebody who has two or more partners.

↳ Aggressive Negotiations by @kesskirata — Javi x Steve x Connie, 1.1k

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October 3 — Day of Music

Create and post a playlist for fic/wip of yours OR your favorite episode and explain why each song resonates for that fic/wip or episode.

↳ Three playlists by @rerorero-my-cherry — for Ramon x OFC fic Sola con mi Soledad

↳ Playlist for episode 2.1, Salva El Tigre by @artemiseamoon

Put your favorite playlist on shuffle and whatever song comes up first, that’s your prompt.

↳ Tainted by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo & Steve angst, 3.1k

↳ I need you tonight by @artemiseamoon — Amado x OFC, 1.1k

↳ on your mind by @narcolini — Javi x gn!reader ficlet

↳ Amado fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ Foldin' Clothes by @garbinge — Steve Murphy x F!Reader, 3.2k

↳ Promise by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x OFC smut

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October 4 — Day of Conflict

Many people seemed to combine both prompts for this day! Ambitious day.

Anything involving a fistfight or a gunfight.

Quote prompt: “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

↳ Who You're Dealing With by @drabbles-mc — Steve & Javi & OFC, 3k

↳ Luna de Lobo by @artemiseamoon — Ramón x OFC, Barron x OFC

↳ Country Store Cherry Chocolate by @garbinge — Steve Murphy & Reader (his sister), 1.9k

↳ Unwritten by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x OFC, 1.1k

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October 5 — Day of Visual Art

Visual fanworks: post a screenshot, meme, gif, gifset, video, or other non-fic visual fanwork.

↳ a glitchy Pachito by @tofuwildcard — fanart

↳ NUGGETS OF BENJAMAYO by @hausofmamadas — gifset + commentary

↳ If Narcos Had A Group Chat by @proceduralpassion — video of groupchat texts

↳ If Narcos Had A Group Chat pt ii by @proceduralpassion — video of groupchat texts

Create a fanwork about a character interacting with a piece of art (e.g. buying decoration for a new home, stealing a piece, hitting on a stranger at a gallery, creating art themselves, etc)

↳ Things I Should Have Said by @garbinge — Javi x F!Reader, 2k

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October 6 — Day of International Relations

Write non-English language fic.

↳ Dos Opciones by @proceduralpassion — language: Spanish, Maria Elvira x Miguel, Maria Elvira x OFC, ficlet

↳ ¿Qué? by @ashlingnarcos — language: Spanish, Eduardo x OFC, ficlet

Use a random country picker and utilize that country in your work in some way: a character is from that country, a food from that country shows up, there’s international politics, etc. You get two rerolls if you don’t like the first or second country you get. If you get the United States, reroll automatically.

↳ House Special by @drabbles-mc — county: Japan, Walt x F!Reader, 3k

↳ Lespwa fe viv by @artemiseamoon — country: Haiti, Chepe x OFC, 1.3k

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October 7 — Day of Darkness

Make something centered around non-death dark topics (we have a specific death day already). Morally or emotionally dark topics/themes.

↳ The Oil Has Run Thin by @proceduralpassion — Walt x OFC ficlet

↳ Twenty-Four Hours by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo & gn!Reader captivity 1.4k

One-word prompt: Blackout.

↳ Control pt 1 by @artemiseamoon — Verdin x OFC smut, 1.6k

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October 8 — Day of Light

A day of pure fluff: anything insanely, unambiguously, self-indulgently, luxuriously enjoyable.

↳ Moving Day by @drabbles-mc — Steve x Connie fluff, 1.1k

↳ Happiest I've Ever Been by @proceduralpassion — Steve x Connie fluff ficlet

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October 9 — Day of Gay

Create anything devoted to an LGBTQ+ character.

↳ Watching Time by @garbinge — Chepe x Pacho ficlet

↳ Bisexually-lit Dina by @tofuwildcard — fanart

Create anything with a queer and/or trans original character or reader insert.

↳ Down in the 305 by @drabbles-mc — Steve x M!Reader

↳ Would You Kill For Me, My Love? by @proceduralpassion — Pacho x OMC ficlet

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October 10 — Day of Tough Shit

Write a fic whose exact wordcount is divisible by 500 (500, 1000, 1500, etc).

↳ The distance between you & me by @artemiseamoon — Calderoni x OFC post-divorce 1.5k

↳ Four People You Meet by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo x Juliana, Carrillo & Martinez, 500

↳ Talking Heads by @ashlingnarcos — Arellano family humor, 500

↳ The Bungalow by @proceduralpassion — Amado x Reader, 500

Make a fanwork in a medium you’ve never used before. If you make GIFs, write something. If you write, draw. Etc. As long as it’s uncharted territory for you!

↳ Hi, I'm a Slut (Amado's Version) by @tofuwildcard — fanvid

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↳ narcos october masterlist ii with prompts from day 11 onwards

[narcolini]

execution

ismael ‘mayo’ zambada x gn!reader, 1715 words

warnings for guns and implied main character death

for day 27 of whumpril: forced to kneel & grabbed by collar

tagging: @ashlingiswriting @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa @empireroyals @iridescent-sol @thesandbeneathmytoes @marissa53115​ 

You know his routine well, because you know him well. As much as he likes to think otherwise, you know his habits, his likes, his inclination for fucking betrayal. Loyal to no-one but himself, no matter how many times you’ve ended the night with him tangled in your sheets.

He didn’t expect you to work it out. That, you’re sure of. It wasn’t arrogance, or a lack of care, in thinking that he could go behind your back—royally fucking you, and everything you’ve worked toward—without consequences. No, it was worse than that. He underestimated you. He didn’t think you could make the very obvious leap, didn’t think you had the smarts or the experience to catch a rat when it crawled out from the floorboards.

You haven’t had to wait long, really, just for the sun to set, for the light to sink into blue. You’re already on the boat when he arrives, because it’s always the same boat. Always the same side he leans on, forearms to the edge, Stetson in place, gaze set out over the same damn water. Every night, all year round. It’s how he unwinds. Just him, the waves, and a cigarette smoking between his fingers.

You watch him light it now. Allow him that extra moment of quiet before you step out from the shadows. It could have been something good, you and him, he could have honoured the deal you made and enjoyed the profits with you, side by side. But he works alone, right? He takes what he wants from you and then he goes it alone. He went right over your head; instead of moving the product like you’d asked him to, the product you’d shaken hands over, price already agreed, he’d gone straight to the seller himself. Made them a better deal than you had, and took the supply before you’d even laid eyes on it.

And he thought that you wouldn’t know.

He takes a drag, burning end throwing orange onto his face.

He thought you wouldn’t work it out.

‘Are you armed, Ismael?’

You take a step, then another, your gun raised to be in line with the back of his head. He doesn’t twitch to look over his shoulder at you, as you thought he might, but instead continues his habit. Smoke in, smoke out, eyes over the water.

You can hear the edges of his smile as replies, ‘You want me to get it for you?’

‘Where I can see it.’ You stop behind him. ‘Slowly.’

He parks the cigarette between his lips, straightening to reach under the back of his jacket. You knew it would be there. Knew he wouldn’t come without it, even when he’s supposed to be relaxing. He tugs it free of his jeans with one hand, slowly as you’d asked, then holds it out into the air beside him.

‘Don’t move.’ You reach forward, leaning over the balls of your feet, to take it from him. To put it in the back of your own jeans, out of his reach. Another weapon in your arsenal. The gun you’d brought is still pointed at the back of his head. At the spot where his hair curls over his collar. ‘You can turn around now,’ you say, once your feet are planted steady, and both hands are around the grip again.

He laughs once, pushing it through his nose as he returns to his lean on the edge. You watch the smoke blow up from his face as he continues on with his cigarette, like you aren’t there at all. Like there isn’t one finger twitch between life and death for him. ‘What is this?’ he asks. ‘A new game?’

‘A trial.’

‘A trial?’ You can picture his brow raising, his mouth flattening as if to say, wow, I’m surprised, maybe even impressed. ‘And you’re the jury, right?’

You rearrange your fingers, one set over the other. He’s minimising it on purpose. He knows you have a piece pointed right at him, he knows you’re playing juror and executioner alike. ‘Turn around, Ismael.’ You want to see his face. To look at him as you make him listen, it’s your right to do so. It’s the least he could give you. A final gift before parting. ‘No es una broma, ya.’

He sighs, taking a final drag before flicking the half-spent thing into the dusk in front. Over the edge, into the water. A path he’ll know well enough by the end of the night. He turns slow like he’s got all the time in the world. ‘We both know you won’t use that.’

‘You fucked me over,’ you bite, flinching the gun forward slightly. ‘I want an explanation.’

His hands go up, not fully, but elbows bent, palms hovering by his shoulders. He doesn’t look half as surprised by your reaction as you expected him to. He’s still smirking slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe in your commitment to the threat. ‘We can’t talk about this over dinner?’ he asks.

‘What, so you can lie to my face again? Tell me you can’t wait to do business together?’

‘It’s how this life goes. The better deal always wins, darling.’

‘No,’ you scoff, ‘it’s loyalty that wins.’ Loyalty that keeps you alive. ‘You really thought I wouldn’t realise it was you?’

He shrugs, palms dropping again like he’s settled on the idea that you won’t shoot him, would never shoot him. ‘I thought you would come back with a better offer.’

‘Liar.’

His head tilts. Maybe.

‘I paid you to do a fucking job, Ismael.’ It’s getting harder to keep your voice steady, to walk the line of threatening, imposing, without going wild in rage. If you didn’t want to make a point of all this, you’d forget words all together. Screaming, and roaring, and painted black metal into the side of his head. ‘You thought I would just let that go?’

‘Pues,’ he sighs, ‘no pensé en ti, de verdad.’

Right, because he only thinks of himself, over and over again. Whatever will get him higher up the ladder, further away from his competition—and that includes you, now, because you were two steps behind before he fucked it all up. You’ve had enough of it. You were starting to tire of it before all this, of him and his inability to settle. But now? Now, you can���t even spare him the breath to pull an apology, or an acknowledgement of guilt, from his snaking tongue.

‘Get on your knees,’ you say, jumping forward a page. Script thrown overboard with his cigarette.

His lip twitches, smirk hiding under the ends of his moustache.

You flick the gun down to the floor and up again, showing him where he’s got to go. You won’t relent. You won’t let him talk you out of this. ‘Kneel, or I’ll put a bullet in your thigh.'

‘Wouldn’t the knee make more sense?’

You shrug. ‘We can find out.’ You’ve already made peace with the idea of shooting him, in whichever way that falls. Any sentiment you’d shared toward him, has split the way your deal had: by his hand, at his benefit and consequence. ‘Which do you prefer?’

You angle the nose down, to his thigh first, then the knee, and then he sighs and folds before you have to take it any further. The toes of his boots scrape as he puts them behind him, denim knees to the shrimp-muck floor.

‘You want me to say sorry?’ he asks, already talking in a way that shows he wouldn’t, even If you did. He’s looking up at you, or trying to, restricted by the brim of his hat. A bored expression sits beneath the edge of it.

You take it from his head, hanging it by your side afterwards, half a mind to put it over your own hair now. One hand’s wrapped around the gun still, pointing right at his forehead. ‘I want my money back,’ you say, truthfully, ‘I want what I’m owed.’

His head tilts. His voice softens, like he’s sitting across a candlelit table, and not looking up at you from the ground beneath. ‘We can make an arrangement.’

‘It’s already been made.’

His eyebrows twitch together, gaze sharp and searching your own. He can’t even begin to imagine what that means. Doesn’t know the sort of conversations you’ve had with Sinaloa, with Güero himself. The deals you’ve struck up in his absence—and in the guarantee of ensuring that it remains.

‘Y’know,’ you laugh bitterly, ‘I had visions of us being the new jefes de jefes. You, me, a shit-load of money.’

He’s staring still, not moving at all besides the slight breeze through his hair, through the curls behind his ears.

‘But you couldn’t let up control, could you? Not even for me.’ He’d sooner throw you under the bus, strip you of product and power, than share a title with you. ‘It’s sad,’ you say, ‘you signed your own death when you made a new deal.’

He goes to respond, but there’s the slightest chance that he might make you hesitate, still, after all he’s done, that he might make you change your mind. Or at least pause for long enough, that you doubt your own ability to continue. So you don’t let him.

Instead, you grab his collar, rough and unlike yourself, to tug him upwards, straight over his knees, and bend down to meet him in a kiss. It isn’t like any kiss you’ve ever given, all malice and regret, and strange, foreign bitterness. It’s like you’ve never even touched him before now. You don’t recognise how it feels, how his mouth matches to your own. The stubble on his chin is like sandpaper. The scent of his aftershave is almost strong enough to make you grimace.

You pull back, while it’s strange still, with your teeth catching on his bottom lip. All that’s left is to put a final farewell into the inch of space between your mouths, breath on breath. 

You can’t manage to say the words. 

Goodbye, Ismael. 

Gun to his temple, cold to the damp of sweat across his skin. 

We had something good, for a while, but it isn’t worth saving.

[ashlingnarcos]

play the refrain

>>> Güero Palma x Reader, 5k words, post-canon, childhood friends with benefits, warning for implied sex & violence

It's been so long since you last saw Güero that the moment you see his face, you're stricken with doubt that you can read it anymore. A stranger would be easier. He looks frightened, you think, but that's absurd—and then the prison door slides shut with a final metal clang behind him and he blinks at the sound. No fear, just Güero squinting at you bemusedly in the harsh noon sunlight.

It still stings a little. Not to be an asshole, because the day's not about you, but it would've been nice if he'd been happy to see you, or at least tried to pretend. You've made promises. You have rituals. This isn’t his first time getting released from prison, though, given everything, it will probably be his last, one way or another. Of course you were going to come. 

From your place in the driver's seat of the car, you lean across the empty shotgun seat and open the door. 

Güero strolls across the street, not bothering to look either way. The jail’s too far out from any town for traffic, and the surrounding flat fields are completely empty. It’s just you, him, the guard up in the tower, and a whole lot of dust.

Once he’s up close, he doesn’t get in, just leans on the hood of the car with one hand, ducks his head down a bit so he can study you through the open door. Oh, you know what you look like. Two gold chains around your neck, shirt half-unbuttoned, belt buckle tacky as hell. You pop your gum at him— what you looking at? —and take your sweet time looking your fill in return. It’s only right. It’s been seven years.

That gray striped shirt’s too small for him now. He was never skinny, but he’s got shoulders and a stomach on him now that fill up the open door real easy, sort of thing that makes you want to bite into the meat of his forearm. Some things time has passed over lightly, others it hasn’t. His hair remains dark, but his beard is threaded with gray. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes have deepened. They’re noticeable because he’s smiling, and that’s noticeable because it seems oddly sad. 

“I didn’t think it would be you,” he says.

Your smile nearly slips. Why’s he talking like some kind of telenovela hero? He should know that if the two of you are very, very lucky, you might get away with just being bit players. Why is he still looking at you like that, the fucking weirdo.

“Who else would it be?” you say. “Get in before you let out all the air conditioning.”

He does. There’s something viscerally satisfying about having him solid beside you, the thud of him in the seat and the way he shifts to get comfortable—fat chance, in this car—and then the click and slide of him opening up the glove compartment, finding the lighter and pack there waiting for him. Flick. The flame, the smell of the smoke. It’s real. It’s all real. And unlike most days that you’ve spent too much time dreaming up, this one isn’t outworn by the time you touch it. This one thrums, exhales, smiles cocky beside you. Asshole, is all you can let yourself think. 

You turn the key in the ignition, rev the engine, and accelerate stupid fast. He gets slammed back in his seat, but he just chuckles, rolls the window down a few inches, and then—you catch it in a quick sideways glance—closes his eyes. 

Idly, it occurs to you to be insulted by this. That seems like a good choice. That seems better than the other ways you could choose to feel about the way he lets his weight sag against the seat with his eyes closed. You put your right hand on his thigh, feel him tense up beneath the rough jeans, and feel a little better about it.

“You gonna fall asleep on me before we even get to the river?” you say. 

Güero takes your hand in both of his, his thumbs tracing slow circles against your skin. He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t let go. 1972 was a hell of a long time ago, but apparently, he hasn’t noticed. 

Against the blast of air conditioning, his open window gives you a whisper of hot wind and an earful of rush. Still, you can hear him.

“I’m wide awake.”

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.

.

You finally reach the right place, park the car, and stretch. It’s a short trudge down to the riverside through a narrow footpath that only gets narrower every year. The scrub encroaches, nasty, scratching at his arms and yours, until you make it to the flat rock that juts out into the river here, where the river’s shallower, more like a stream. The rock is the color of sand and big enough to hold three or four people, but it’s never held more than you two, and if you have it your way, it never will. 

Güero is very careful to put his takeaway boxes of chicken and rice in the middle of the rock. He had been so excited about it while picking it up that he couldn’t even be bothered to make small talk with the kid behind the counter, who was clearly a little starstruck about the c-list criminalebrity. You toss him a mocking, fond look for the care he’s taking with his food, and he shrugs, unabashed. The fact that he didn’t open it and eat it right there in the car is proof he does remember. There’s an order to these things.

Both of you sit down on the rock, taking off your shoes and peeling off your socks. It’s a simple rhythm, a good one. The day has nearly reached its worst heat, but that’s what the river is for. You stand up beside him, bare soles soaking up the warmth of the rock, and then you unbuckle, unbutton, shuck off your jeans. Roll up your shirtsleeves. 

Looking to see if he’s looking would be a mistake, so you don’t do that. You just wade into the water, avoiding the area of the bank on the right where there’s an especially slimy kind of river weed that always gets stuck between your toes. You reach in when you see a blur of red under the clear water and pull up an airtight cooler with one heave. Güero takes it from you at once, sets it down, opens it up. You just stand there for a while with the water up to your thighs, watching him. Out here in the water, the world always feels over and done. It’s a comfort. No urgency. 

Way back when, at his first arrest, you’d been so anxious to get it right, you packed a stupid amount of food and ended up bored of eating the same thing day after day afterwards. Now, some two stays in jail or prison later, you keep it simple: some flan that your aunt made and kept extra safe an old plastic butter container. Fresh fruit. Beer. 

There’s one twisted, knotty, stubborn little tree just to the left of your flat rock. Güero reaches up into its branches and finds his brother’s old bottle opener within seconds, tucked into the spot he had carved for it. At the sound of the first beer bottle opening, his shoulders drop half an inch. He offers the bottle to you.

You wade over and accept it, but you don’t drink until he does. Then you sit down at the very edge of the rock, feet still dangling in, no longer watching because you no longer need to, the sound and the presence of him by your right hip more than enough. He makes quick work of the chicken and rice. You decline the offer to share that, but when he chooses a ripe mango, you pass him your pocketknife. 

Güero hesitates before he takes it, offensive though he meant no offense, again, did he think you’d forgotten? He likes to shave off the thinnest slices of fruit and eat them right off the blade. It used to unnerve you, the sharp edge so close to the pink of his open mouth, but now you just lean in and accept your own slices with your tongue laying low and a deliberate prickle of teeth. 

Somewhere in the middle of the river, something goes plop. You haven’t gone fishing around here in a while, not since your nephew started shunning everyone around him in favor of his obsession with some girl. He’ll be back soon enough, but until then, you should take Güero fishing. He’s easy to be silent with. Usually. Just now, he’s at ease, but not completely; he’s still angled so he can catch the path in his peripheral, he’s still sitting, not lying down, no feet in the water. But that figures. 

It might reassure him to know that you’ve taken security into account, too. 

“Chapo wants you out,” you say.

“I am out.” He licks stray mango juice from the knuckle of his thumb. 

You pretend to focus. “I mean dead.”

“I know,” he says, but it comes with a flicker of annoyance, not concern. “Can we talk about it later?”

You hum your assent. Maybe it’s nothing to do with Chapo, then. Seven years is a pretty long stretch. You’ll let that lie. You keep noticing his hesitancy with you, his wariness, but those are papercuts you can ignore; it’s what’s behind his caution that nearly ruins the sound of running water. Seven years is so long, and you rarely called as a matter of policy. Phones are always listened in on, or they can be. What happened in there exactly, you don’t know. Maybe you don’t want to know. You’re definitely not asking. 

But they’re just flickers, his hesitancies. Right now, he’s back to the slow deliberate slice and eat, cross-legged contentment. 

His shirt really does look ridiculous, the small white buttons straining. You budge over and begin to undo them, smiling a little to yourself about it; he goes still.

“I’m not rushing you,” you murmur. “Keep eating.”

With the pad of his thumb, he brushes along your skin, just behind the corner of your jaw, right where he’d take your pulse. With the hand that’s still holding the knife. There was nothing to for him to brush away, so you flick one wry glance at him: prison really has changed your tastes, weirdo, but fondly. He won’t cut you and you know it. Whatever this is, you let it pass when he offers you more mango. You just chew and unbutton, till it’s the stained white undershirt and a bristle of chest hair—half-memory, osito —and a reminder of what you forgot.

You take off his chain from around your neck, and fasten it around his. Tricky clasp, but you’re used to it by now.

 “Kept it warm,” you say. 

He chews, he swallows. Eyes you. It’s not lust or affection alone; you can’t read it, but that’s okay. You sit back, then lay down on the sun-warmed rock, and close your eyes. It’s been a while. But it’s all gonna be okay.

.

.

.

Some time later, you hear the lid of the cooler close, and you open one eye just in time to see the mango’s core sailing through the air. It lands with a plop in the water.

“Yeah?” you say.

One of the things you can’t get in prison is good food. The other is incoming.

Güero crawls the short distance to you, and then he’s on his knees beside you, looking down at you. You don’t so much as lift your head. He presses one hand to your stomach, skin to skin in the slice between your boxers and your shirt. 

The stupid does burst and it is inside your chest, but it can’t be helped. No, it’s not separate from you, it’s you. You could never help yourself for almost as long as you’ve known him, and the fact that there is no expiration date on this is something you’ve long ceased to think of as a burden and begun to think of as a promise, a reward, or a large flat rock. Play the refrain. Again, and welcome. Your hand on his jeans-clad knee, your hand on his bearded cheek; his dark eyes are hesitant, but seven years is a long time. You let him linger, enjoy it even. The warmth of his hand against you is obscene. He can feel the muscles of of your abdomen clenching. You’re sweating already, can feel it in the stickiness of your neck, bits of your hair clinging to your forehead. 

Your lips part, and he catches that.

You say, lazily, “Are you trying to make it to eight, or—”

And there it is. Mango and beer, messy, his tongue in your mouth, your neck straining because you surged up into it, his fingers slipping underneath your shirt, and sunlight everywhere. Affectionately, you think, you missed it, huh, and then you stop thinking.

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.

It’s near to dusk, but that’s fine. The sun has done its job and dried the two of you off after your long swim. You’re exhausted, but you earned it, and flan for dinner tastes so good when you’re with him that you didn’t even need any of the chicken and rice, though you had a little because he insisted. 

You’ve both updated your mental rosters, though he was ridiculous about it. Kept stopping and asking, “You really don’t know him?” about every two bit little so-and-so he ran into during Year Three, which was apparently the busiest one, though he’s still vague on the details in a way that makes you both grateful and queasy. No, osito —and here you had to break off a little so he could laugh at the nickname—no, I don’t give a fuck how many baby felons are out there praying on your downfall, to me you’ll always be that guy who still owes me a 1978 King Cobra Mustang—yes it’s ugly, that’s the whole point, you idiot.

He’d wrestled you back into the water. You really are exhausted. But it’s good now, perfectly calm. You can hear the sound of water and the sound of the little crepuscular creatures beginning to stir in the underbrush.

Güero has his head is in your lap. You’re wearing his gray striped shirt, and he, in turn, is wearing almost nothing. In a while, you’ll need to head home, but that will mean having to share him, so you’ll do the drive in the dark if you can, keep this as long as you can. When you ask him, “So, what now?” it’s only to make sure that he’s okay with being kept for longer. 

The silence lasts so long that you think he’s falling asleep, so you lean over him and bite his nose. He pushes your head away and clambers up off you, which wasn’t really what you wanted, but from the clearness of his eyes, he was awake the whole time. He’s not sleepy in the least.

“What?” he says, leaning back on his elbows, astonishingly ill-tempered. Right, fine, you’re not gonna keep him for longer.

“Where do you want me to take you first?” you say. “What now?”

He holds a blank look for a second, and then shifts just slightly. Physically, it’s not much, it’s nothing you could ever describe to anybody else without making yourself sound crazy, but this is Güero, so when you know, you know. Your face shows your alarm, and he, in turn, doesn’t bother trying to put the façade back up. 

“You know what now,” he says, quietly. 

“I really fucking don’t.” 

What makes your stomach drop is this: he’s trying to be brave. You’ve seen that look on his face before, not very often in recent decades, but all the time when you were younger, all the time, and the survival response is built into you, skittering along the nape of your neck, sharpening your hearing, where is it? Where’s the danger? You glance to the path, but it’s still, and you haven’t heard any cars whizzing along the road since a few that went by around dinnertime. It’s getting dark much more quickly now, though, and that makes it worse. There’s something you’ve missed.

“Here’s a good a place as any,” he says. 

Something clicks, way back in your head. When you picked him up, your first thought on seeing him was that he looked frightened. 

You stare at him helplessly. There’s no pushing it down this time. Every little thing that’s been wrong since you went to get him, the hesitancies, the idiosyncrasies, the odd moments where you surprised him, it all raises itself up between you, and you can barely see him anymore. Maybe you never could.

He sits up, reaches into the cooler, and pulls out the gun. 

Between the two of you, if one person is released from jail, they wait to get picked up. If they don’t get picked up, they hitch a ride down a ways and then walk to the rock. If a day goes by and the other person doesn’t show up, that means shit’s gone bad and it’s time to take the cash, the map, and the gun and make some fucking moves. It’s an insurance policy you cooked up to make yourselves feel better, to give your picnics of freedom and gluttony into something with maybe a purpose, maybe an edge. In all honesty, the worst you ever expected was that both of you would be in prison at the same time, but other than that, you never really expected to get out and not have him there waiting, or for him to get out and not have you there waiting. Stupid. Faith. Whatever. 

Güero hands you the gun. 

“I’d rather it be you,” he says.

On automatic, you check the gun, as you always check any weapon you’re handed; yeah, it’s loaded, and yeah, there’s one in the chamber. 

You look at him in astonishment.

“It’s okay,” he says, like he’s the one sparing you, and that’s when you know it’s real.

“I don’t know who told you that I would be killing you today,” you say, just barely eking out the words out, jaw tight, “but we should kill them instead.”

He still won’t look at you. 

“Héctor.” 

Chin up. He holds your gaze, then wavers, and your grip tightens. What did they tell him to make him ever believe you would hurt him? What did they do to make him think that? What did you ever do to make him think that? Was it always this way, and you just didn’t know it?

Conflicting emotions play across his face, and for that, you feel more outrage than anything else; you know how this ends, of course he walks away. Of course he gets to live. What is there for to consider? It’s him. It’s you. 

Finally, you can see certainty settle on him. A moment later, he says, “I’m sorry.” There's a little relief in it, but mostly defeat.

There’s nothing you can say to that because you’re choking on the thousand things you need to say, watching him and thinking, shouldn’t you be happier than this? You get to live, asshole, and that’s all I wanted, this was all I wanted. This hurts more than anything. But the only thing you manage to speak is your rage.

“I mean, you’re so far off the fucking map there are dragons , you shit-for-brains son of a—”

He cuts in surprisingly swift. “Did you not accept an order from Chapo to kill me?”

“Of course I did!” you say, aghast. “That doesn’t mean I was going to do it. Just how stupid are you?”

He doesn't answer, because he can't. You both know stupidity has nothing to do with it.

In the back of your head, you note that he has an informant at least as high as you are in the organization, and kept that from you too. 

You're all but shaking now, the whole warm day curdling to poison in your stomach. He walked over to you, got into your car, laid his head in your lap and closed his eyes—the whole time, this? You don't understand it and you don't understand him and that is worse than any sentence you've served. The rock is gone in every way that matters. You never saw this coming.

"Why did you come to me, then?" Why deliver himself to the slaughter? He's been so many things, you've chided him for so many things, but meekness is not one of them.

His dark eyes are direct but ashamed.

"I'm tired," he says, simply.

You can only look at him now. There’s nothing left to say. The sun has set and the air’s becoming cold; that’s the desert, enough heat to kill you or none at all. So he’s willing to die. How long has it been like this? You can’t even hold onto your anger anymore, and once that goes, you’re left empty-handed. Empty.

Héctor’s voice rises half an octave, like you’ve accused him. 

"They killed my—” He stops himself, tries again. “I don’t—” 

He’s not clamoring against his lot, only against your judgment. 

“What do you want from me?" he says. 

"What about—" As soon as you realize where the sentence ends, you shut your mouth. What about me. Vestigial. The last of your mistakes, the foundational mistake; what you had taken for granted that you never fucking should have. The idea that you’d matter. The idea that you’d be enough.

He goes to you then, far too late. Apologetic, he cups your face in his hands, and you want to shrink away, but that would be giving away your hurt pride, wouldn’t it? You’re not enough, and he decided this. You can’t even look at him anymore. A thought is forming, though slowly, and you give it time as you push him away and get to your feet. If you’re not enough, then—and there you stutter as the world around you holds fast. It takes forever to catch hold of it, because you don’t want to. But it’s too obvious to miss. You know what you have to do. This is the last time. 

Fuck it, you think, though it hurts so bad you can feel it in your body. If he wants to lay down on the highway, you won’t be the fatal car, but you don't have to stick around to hear the crunch, either.

You put on your jeans. He’s hovering, though he knows enough not to move closer, not to touch you. Wordlessly, you tuck the gun into your waistband—this is the last time, but you’re not gonna make it that easy on him, you’re just not. 

In the shadows, your last look at him is a gleam of his eyes, the eyes of boy you knew very well in a face of a stranger. Then you turn and go. As you make your way back up to the road, crashing through the underbrush with vicious satisfaction in snapped twigs and scratched arms, you hear him say your name. There’s so many things you could say to hurt him now, but what would be the point? There’s nothing you can do that they haven’t already done. 

"You can walk home,” you say, and feel a dull, muffled pride in the flatness of your own voice. He taught you well.

"Home?” he says. “Where the fuck is that?" 

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.

.

You’re whizzing north so fast that when the cop car lurches out from its hiding place on the side of the road and gives chase, you’re almost happy to see it—you could beat it, if you wanted. But in this territory, you don’t get stopped without reason. Not for something stupid as speeding. So instead, you hit the brakes, with a great screeching and a cloud of dust, grimly enjoying the drama of it and not even pulling over to the side of the road. Maybe someone will drive up behind you. So what? Let them go around.

The cop turns out to be Abel, a calm, moon-faced captain, curious choice for traffic duty. He parks alongside you, rolls down his window, and waits with dull patience as you stare at him through the glass of your own window. Dull patience. He’s used to dealing with you and your type. What a shame he’s not here to fight you after all. You roll down your own window after a while.

“Do you want my license and registration?” you say.

Again, Abel gives you nothing but patience. 

“Because I haven’t got any.”

“Chapo has new plans for the body,” Abel says. “Where did you bury Güero?” 

Ah. With all the heat of your argument with Güero still clouding, you hadn’t bothered to figure out what came next, and so what you do next comes automatically. You lie. 

“I didn’t bury him yet,” you say. “I was going to ask Chapo if I could bury him in his family’s plot, with Lupita and the kids. As a favor.”

Patient, yes—but Abel is no fool. His expression barely changes, but you suddenly realize he has not come out of his car for a reason. He doesn’t trust you. He shouldn’t trust you. Seven years isn't long enough for any veteran of the force to forget about what you and Güero have gotten up to together, not even if the vet's corrupt—especially if the vet's corrupt.

“So where is he?” Abel says.

You pretend to think about lying, and then you pull out a defeated look. Not a well-practiced one, that look, but passable. 

“In the trunk,” you say grudgingly. “I’ll shift him from mine to yours; you take him to Chapo.”

“I don’t—”

But you’re already getting out of the car, wearing a look of distaste, walking round to the back, so Abel gets out of his car too. 

“You’ll have to help me lift,” you say. “I could barely get him in on my own.”

“Chapo just told me to escort you there with the body, not take it there myself.”

“You think I want to see whatever he has planned?”

Abel shrugs unhappily. “I have orders. Just open the—”

His reflexes are too good for you to knock him out at once; he catches the intended blow on his forearm, and then you’re both down on the ground, grappling. It’d be really nice, trying to catch hold of him, trying to win. It’d be perfect, really, except that gaining the rank of captain in your area is no picnic, so he’s good and he bloodies your nose and you’re not really getting to play with your food. By the time you have him in a chokehold, your adrenaline has spiked but you can’t even enjoy it. It’s not quite right. He’s not the one you want to kill. So you cut it short, with your elbow clamped around his throat, cutting off his circulation, your ribs taking the brunt of his elbow trying to slam back into you, his back pressed sweaty to your front. You almost feel bad for him.

“Abel,” you say, with infinite weariness, “I really will kill you.”

He stops struggling. You hit his head against the asphalt just hard enough to knock him out. 

Two minutes later, you’re driving back the way you came, with Abel in the trunk of his own car. They’ll find him in less than a day. He’ll be fine.  

You nearly miss Güero in the dark, you’re driving so fast; you brake, and then reverse, and then it’s a mirror of you picking him up at the jail: you leaning over the shotgun seat to open the door for him. He’s wearing your shirt. He looks over at you with dull resentment, and then sees your bloody nose; one glance down the deserted road, and then he hops inside.

“Yeah?” he says. 

“I just fought a cop,” you say. For you goes unsaid. Then you hit the gas. 

You’re looking down the road at what lies ahead. There’s nothing for a couple miles, and then there’s one huge truck coming along the opposite way, a big one. Nothing local, if you’re lucky. You drag the sleeve of his shirt across your mouth, under your nose. Blood smears the striped gray fabric. You were a mess to start with and this makes no difference. That’s the argument you’d like to make, anyway. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it. 

“Thank you,” Güero says quietly. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Your voice is too loud, but you don’t apologize, and you don’t take it back. Maybe you should.

On the other hand, he doesn’t actually shut the fuck up. He speaks, again, in that weighty, quiet voice, that voice you hate because there is an intimacy you can only get when he’s that quiet, and you don’t want to want it any more. You are on the same side, sure, yeah, of course. You don’t want to notice it. 

“Lean forward,” he says. 

You do, and he reaches over, pulls the gun from your waistband, and checks it. You glance over at him, quick. In the dark of the car, there’s not much to see, but he was the one who taught you how to handle a gun and you quickly surpassed him in discipline on that front, so you could simply imagine him checking a weapon and it would look the same. The thin gleam of gold is his chain at the nape of his neck. You give up. You look back at the road.

“Go to sleep,” you say, quiet like he is. “It’s a long drive.”

You hear what happens next more than you see it. He’s a flicker in your periphery. He puts the gun in the center console at his side, leans back, sighs. He’s probably closed his eyes. Maybe he’s asleep by now.

“Thank you,” he says again. 

“Shut the fuck up, Héctor,” you say, gently, and that’s all. 

[uchispeach]

Empire (Pt. 1)

Dark! Drug Lord x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Possessive and manipulative behavior, obsession, death threats, gang violence, guns & drugs, kidnapping, non-con groping & kissing, manhandling, age gap, Sheltered! Reader…

Summary: The moment Rafael Caro Quintero laid eyes on you, something inside him snapped. You weren’t meant for his world—too innocent, too untouched—but that didn’t matter. He wanted you. And when Rafa wanted something, he took it.

Oblivion could be blissful, except when the order of things is unexpectedly changed from one day to another.

Reality can give devastating hits, that’s why most people decide to hide under ignorance—to sit still until it all explodes on their faces. You were one of those people, just not willingly.

Your dad knew you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed; a sweet and gentle soul like you wouldn’t survive a day by yourself. At least, that’s what he told himself when cutting every single feather of your freedom wings, prohibiting you to even dream about leaving home one day.

It’s not like many questions were asked, you were never a rebellious child—always latching to your dad’s side after your mother’s abandonment, probably afraid of being left behind once again.

The bubble you lived in felt pretty stable, all filled with calmness and warmth. A loving father, a nice house and a calm city, that’s all you had known for 19 years.

“Good morning!” You stopped chewing in order to cover your mouth, pronouncing each word with effusiveness. Your father looked neat, a perfect ironed shirt accompanied by his signature vest. “Good morning, pretty girl!” His polished shoes squeaked funnily against the wood flooring.

Adding to his serious look, a black leather suitcase hung from his arm. Your eyes focused on his flared nostrils, admiring his ability to smell food from meters apart. “Oh, just what I like” His tone leaked with excitement, followed by desperate hands reaching for the utensils.

Each meal was spent together, one of the various rules you had been imposed since a young age. You weren’t opposed to it at all, gladly enjoying your father’s company when eating yet another home cooked meal.

The Kitchen’s layout was just the same from any other middle class home, classic and cozy—causing the electronic device in front of you to stand out.

A TV was one of those things you could never convince your father to like, too modern and distracting for his academic taste. However, with enough begging and birthday wishing, you could finally get to bring it home.

“Police are still investigating the sudden death of José Naranjo and his brother, Pablo Naranjo. Two recognized business men in Guadalajara, owners of multiple restaurants and hotels spread all over the city-” The news reporter looked dull, monotone voice combining his inexpressive features.

“Turn that off…breakfast is for spending time with family not staring at a screen.” Your dad looked at you through sharp eyes, adding authority to his demand. You complied immediately, rushing to press the button.

“Pft. Business men, I can’t believe that’s what they call them nowadays.” The silver fork suffered under his grasp, eyebrows tightened together showing discontent. Meanwhile, confusion decorated your face—quickly puzzled by the sudden complaint.

“What do you mean, daddy?” The last mentioned sighed heavily. “I’m just saying…people don’t get killed for no reason.” You froze, limbs feeling heavy at the cruel assumption. “Don’t say that, dad!” A hint of indignation tickling your throat.

Unfortunately, your father was right. The Naranjos weren’t your common old money family. In fact, they didn’t even come from generational wealth, more so from new opportunities. Two guys that knew exactly who to bribe, who to be friends with and who to eliminate. The pair of drug lords who ran your state.

The grey haired man decided to ignore your newfound empathy, clearly aware that it came from naivety.

One would think the extinction of yet another pair of assholes was a great input for humanity, and it was. The only problem being the empty vacant waiting to be filled by a crueler competitor.

Either way, none of that seemed to affect you from the Ford Pinto’s passenger seat. Too occupied admiring the city’s morning glow—unaware of the growing revolution happening on the same land you happily stepped on every day.

(…)

Punctuality above anything else, that’s what had been preached at home since the day you came to this world. Still, you always seemed to find new ways to distract yourself on campus.

But who could blame you? No one, not when a middle class girl with mediocre grades like you got to attend one of the most elite universities in all the country. “Ugh, thank God…at least, we’ll be late together.” You flinched at the intrusive arms wrapping around your shaky shoulders.

Sofia’s timeless face stared at you in playfulness, her pink lips stretched on a confident smirk while her gold earrings swinged around. “I wouldn’t be so relieved if I was you…” Your voice shook with each long stride you took.

“Oh, come on. I’m sure being the teacher’s daughter has its perks.” The brunette’s hair bounced smoothly with each movement, accompanied by her flared jeans and girly purse.

A slight frown morphed your features. On one side, you were deeply grateful for your father’s efforts, recognizing he was the only reason you ever got to step foot in the building. But on the other, it was exhausting—having to perform under his perfectionist supervision could be dreadful.

“Knock.” The tall girl threw at you, standing lazily next to a closed door. You shook your head in horror. “No. You knock!” Even with all the noise coming from the corridor, you could still hear the grey haired man lecturing the class of rich kids.

“Whatever…” Sofia’s green eyes rolled with annoyance, followed by his rough hands turning the metal handle. You took a deep breath, chest rising rapidly at the crowded room’s sight.

“Miss Conesa…and companion.” He looked strict, with his straightened back, puffed chest and one foot ruler pointing straight at you. Warmth started flowing to your face, feeling overwhelmed by the possibility of being berated in front of your juvenile classmates.

“Just…take a seat.” His sigh echoed through the tall walls, hurrying you to take a seat upfront. Quickly, your hands scattered through the infinity of notebooks, hoping to not anger the professor any further.

(…)

“And that’s the difference between permeable and impermeable surfaces.” The sun leaked through the huge windows, reflecting its beautiful light on the chalk drawings. Your heart rate had finally stabilized after a few minutes of inhaling and exhaling frenetically. Leaving you in a relaxed state while attentively listening to yet another geographic explanation.

The soft hand held your jaw with gentleness, a common pose you took when being deeply entertained. Your dad sure knew how to give a class, making you feel a sense of pride while seeing him talk through every topic with professionalism.

He looked so composed, right in his element. Suddenly, his face morphed into a surprised one. His normally straight eyes opened up like two big plates, staring abnormally at a foreign presence.

Perhaps three foreign presences. Deep in thought, you had managed to ignore the heavy boots unapologetically stepping into your learning zone.

The door was left wide open, blocked by three brutish looking men. Their features were rough, just as their burly bodies, which flexed proudly under old T-shirts and torn jeans. They had dirt on their shoes and arms, making them stand out from the crowd of ironed dresses and Italian loafers. Still, none of those characteristics were as astonishing as the pair of handguns hanging from their side.

“Class is over.” The taller one stepped forward, leaving his two henchmen behind. Funnily enough, he was the only one without a weapon, nonetheless, he had the scariest presence out of them all.

His voice was deep and demanding, his frame nothing but small. He was all big muscles and scarred skin, a clenched jaw adding authority to his already outrageous behavior.

The two dark orbs posed themselves dangerously over your father, making you gasp quietly. “What the fuck?” Sofia whispered from beside you, following the crowd’s confused murmuring.

“Didn’t you hear, motherfuckers?” The shorter one shouted aggressively, making you jump out of your seat with shaking legs. “Get moving! Get the fuck out of here!” Big surprise hit you like a truck when every single one of your spoiled classmates started abandoning the room, a few of them encouraged by the frenetic trashing coming from the armed individuals.

The stiffer ones were not-so kindly moved by violent pulling and pushing, quickly kicked out onto the hall. The turmoil of emotions had you frozen in place, weak knees barely holding you up.

Fear clouded your senses, making you fail at recognizing the angry man approaching you from the side. “No. Wait!” You struggled to move under the tight grip, one of the aggressive goons dragging you by the forearm and onto the room’s entrance.

Meanwhile, the leader stomped his way to your father. Maniac glint in his gaze while approaching your trembling father. You trashed harder against the mean guy’s chest, planting your feet on the wood floor. “My babies are dying…Because of you, asshole.” Spit flew to your dad’s face, making him squeeze his eyes together in a mixture of disgust and fear.

“But don’t worry, you’re going to fix this.” In one swift movement, the delinquent grabbed him by the collar. “Let go of him. Dad!” Voice broken making your demand sound much less intimidating, and much more pitiful.

Slowly but confidently, the wild beast turned his head around—attention focused on a new target. The tip of his lips stretched sickly across his face, making you question whether a smile had even been a kind gesture to begin with.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. You’re coming with us too.” His calloused hands yanked your father back, making him stumble over his desk. “Chapo, start the car. We’re leaving with both princesses.” The last thing you saw was a shameless wink.

And as you were forced to keep your sight down, you couldn’t shake the feeling of two dark orbs burning holes into your skin.

(…)

"Honesty is the root of trust," your father used to say each night before tucking you in. "And families trust each other."

It’s funny to look back on now, considering the number of times you caught him in a lie.

"Trust needs to be earned," he'd add, as if to justify the weight of his words. Now, that made more sense. Harsh but true. You weren’t worthy of trust—not in his eyes. He’d made that clear, thousands of times.

Like when he lied about where your mother was—told you she was just "gone for a while," but you saw her things packed up in the car days before.

It wasn’t hard to see, the avoidance of your dad’s stare was noticeable—even for a hazy girl like you. Either way, there had been no time for confrontation, both of you being quickly thrown into an unknown car.

The thick fabric covering your face made you feel suffocated, preventing your eyes from wandering around. All you sensed was the heavy smell of a cigar, mixed with a strong herbal note. A beer bottle rolled all over the vehicle’s floor, occasionally crashing against your feet.

Rafa—that was the leader’s nightmarish name. You’d heard the four letters being thrown from one of his men, in the midst of imploring for mercy as dozens of curses flew their way. Rafa wasn’t a merciful man, though, fueled by his never-ending rage.

“Fucking imbeciles,” he barked through clenched teeth, hitting the compartment with a tight fist once again. “Geologist, you better sort this shit out or I’ll fuck you up…”

A vein popped on his forehead, his wild curly hair barely covering it, while sharp teeth flashed in a wolfish smirk. Your eyes couldn’t admire it, but your mind couldn’t help but imagine it. “…real bad.” His last words were buried by a thick cloud of smoke, followed by a cruel laugh.

Northern Mexican music blasted through the vehicle’s radio, making you feel overwhelmed—alongside your companion’s anxious leg constantly bumping against yours.

Would honesty had been of any help?… Perhaps it could’ve kept you from hysterically sobbing against the leather seats, but knowing yourself, it would’ve given your fear deeper roots.

Guadalajara’s sun scorched your exposed skin, the flimsy sundress offering little protection. A pair of dark eyes fixated on you, trailing over your trembling body as their owner licked his lips in anticipation.

The car lurched to a sudden stop, the jolt making your limbs feel impossibly heavy. “Stop crying, doll. You’re in good hands.” A pair of rough, calloused hands yanked you forward, fingers digging harshly into your wrists as you collided with a firm chest.

The scent hit you first—leather and tobacco, laced with the cold, metallic bite of money. The path beneath your feet was uneven, sharp rocks tearing at your delicate flats, a cruel contrast to the heavy boots beside you.

Rafa’s large palm settled firmly on your nape, forcing you deeper into the unknown. His grip was suffocating, his presence inescapable. Dust swirled in the air, the distant murmur of men blending with your father’s ragged breathing. A sea of outlawed cowboys surrounded you, their watchful eyes tracking your every move.

Suddenly, you were held still, the big hand applying an unnecessary force to your neck. A hurt whine resumed your tears.

The first thing you saw was a precarious floor, all dirt, no pavement. Such a contrast from the cosmopolitan city you were forced out of.

A languid moan alerted you—your father’s formal clothes turned a mess as he kneeled down. The men surrounding you wore rough features, all crossed arms and mean stares. “They’re drier than your ass.” Rafa’s remark made the goons laugh.

Dope, kilometers and kilometers of weed—dying herbs starting to look brown at the lack of hydration. Your lips opened in surprise, a loud gasp leaving them unannounced. The plantation was immense, its illicit leaves flaunting almos mockingly at you.

Blink after blink, you weren’t able to take in the grandness of it. Your fixation denied you from awareness while your father stuttered at the mob’s complaints.

“Don’t lie to me. You know about this shit!” The furious man kneeled down, accusing the innocent man with a pointed finger. “That day, when I visited you in your classroom…fuck, you told me it was here.” The rant was endless, insult after insult burying your father deeper into desperation.

“Geography isn’t an exact science.” You expressed, reaching a pair of intolerant ears.

The thing about ignorance, it’s that it's often followed by recklessness. His orbs were a dark brown, making them almost match his black hair. But when he focused his gaze at you, they grew even darker than the inky strands.

“Is that right?” The slow roll of his shoulders as he stood up, the way his fingers gripped his belt—it was a silent warning, a display of dominance wrapped in effortless ease. “I don’t fucking care…” Your breath hitched when his hand reached out for your jaw—silver rings pinching your soft cheeks. “…You better find my water,” Every word was enunciated with contained violence, husky voice fanning your ear lobe. “or I’ll kill you both.” Rafa gave you a last tug, shaking your brain with aggressiveness.

Your knees wobbled as his helped him back up confidently. Without breaking eye contact, his fingers snapped condescendingly. A short armed guy ran to his side, providing him with relief—the fat blunt was instantly lighted by another man, allowing Rafa to take a slow drag from it.

(…)

The sun had long withdrawn, fading the heat, and quickly replacing it by the cool breath of the desert wind—that stirred the sand in soft whispers.

The moon, high and full, bathed everything in an ethereal glow, casting long shadows of the illegal crops. The goosebumps traveling down your spine were starting to become insufferable, representing the chilling cold penetrating your bones.

Rafa, on the other hand, seemed to be just fine. His shirt had long abandoned his torso—leaving a wide chest only covered by multiple gold chains.

Your tears had dried out, leaving salty paths down your puffy cheeks. You could barely focus on the map, your fingers tracing the faint lines that Rafa, with his commanding presence, had insisted you hold steady. Your gaze, despite your best efforts, would drift to him — to the way his broad shoulders moved as he worked, digging into the earth with purpose. The muscles of his back rippled with every movement, each twist and turn of his body making the air seem heavier, more intoxicating.

He was relentless, his focus unwavering, even as his chest rose and fell with the exertion of his labor. The sweat that clung to his skin glistened in the moonlight, the gold chains around his neck catching the light in a hypnotic way. His vulgar curses would occasionally make you flinch, alongside the smoldering gaze he would direct to you each time the wind lifted your skirt.

Most of his men had drifted to sleep, exhausted by the long hours of being overworked—their snores barely drowned by the sporadic explosion of a grenade.

“Fucking bullshit” An animalistic grunt flew your way as Rafa climbed out of the huge hole he had just dug. His heavy lidded eyes leaked with frustration, making you step back in precaution.

Heavy boots made the floor creak. The man with black hair stomped his way back into the thatched-roof hut you had previously used to take refuge from the sun. Shyly, you followed right behind.

“Sons of bitches” He murmured between greeted teeth, violence in his eyes at the sight of a sleepy crew. A bottle of beer crashed onto the floor, purposely thrown by the fuming boss.

With both dirty hands, he took a whole batch of boxes with him. Effortlessly, he carried the explosive filled thing.

“Rafa, I don’t think that’s a good-” Your opinion went half heard, a concussive rumble numbing your ear holes and everyone’s around.

Men’s grunts and gasps were heard from all around, the explosion having woken up the sleepy crew. “What the fuck, Rafa?” The one they called ‘Chapo’ spoke in a raspy tone. Still, nothing seemed to get the maniac to stop.

This time, a whole box was thrown, “God damn it. You’re going to kill us all.” The black haired man pulled the pin of the last grenade with a slow, deliberate motion, his fingers steady despite the chaos humming in the air. The metal clinked as he rolled the explosive between his palms, like he was savoring the moment. But, just before he let it drop into the dark abyss below, he turned his head—just enough to catch your gaze. His eyes, wild and electric, gleamed under the dim light, a wicked grin stretching across his face, as if it was all just a game to him.

“Back up, back up.” Your father’s voice in the background did little for your nerves. Instinctively, your eyes shut together in distress.

The first explosion ripped through the silence like a thunderclap. Fire erupted from the impact, a shockwave tearing through the air, sending dirt flying in every direction. Before the dust could settle, a second detonation followed, louder, angrier. Then, absolute silence.

Nothing but the occasional chirping of a cricket interrupted the stillness. Until, it happened. A thin trickle seeped through the fractured soil. The trickle grew, turning into a steady stream, then water started surging upward in sudden bursts.

The liquid soaked you entirely, making you fear nearing hypothermia. “No fucking way, man!” Excited shouts numbed your brain, causing dizziness to attack you.

People jumped up and down in excitement, causing the ground to tremble beneath the force. Your confusion made you stumble around, no real direction in mind.

A pair of strong arms kept you steady for once, shameless digits gripping onto your hips. Dangling chains and sweaty chest pressing against you.

You felt him, the heat his body exuded was suffocating—as well as the invasive rubbing on your waist.

His breathing was ragged as it fanned on your hair. Big palms travelled to your jaw, handling it to the right angle—making you meet his dilated pupils.

He towered over you, mentally and physically. Every single one of his pores leaked cockiness, accompanied by that unbeatable grin, the type of grin only a powerful man has.

You were at the beginning of his empire and he would make sure you followed until the end of it. "You just secured me a shit ton of money," he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours, teasing, taunting. But there was no choice to be made, no escape from the crushing weight of his presence.

Before you could react, he took what he wanted—mouth colliding with yours in a brutal, possessive kiss. His grip on your jaw tightened as his tongue forced its way past your lips, swallowing your muffled protest like it was nothing. The world around you erupted in chaos—gunfire cracking through the air, cheers ringing out—but all you could feel was him, suffocating, unyielding, claiming.

.

.

.

[kabuki-writes]

AVIOTHIC

Aviothic(n.) - The strong desire to be up in the air or to fly.

one-shot

pairing: Amado Carrillo Fuentes x f!reader (Note: I am not romanticizing the real Amado, this is about his character interpretation in Narcos: Mexico played by the amazing José María Yazpik)

summary: In order to establish an aerial smuggling network, Félix Gallardo sends Amado to find an airplane hangar in Juárez. His old contact and pilot teacher Alejandro "Águila" Medina became his top choice, but Medina Aviation changed since the last time they had met with a new boss handling the business now.

warning(s): mention of drugs | NSFW | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything

word count: 5k

It has been more than ten years since the last time Amado had seen Alejandro Medina, the man people called "Águila" (engl. eagle). It was safe to say that this man was one of the best pilots in all of Mexico and kind of a rare fossil nowadays. Back when Mexico allied with America in World War 2, the young Medina was part of the "Aztec Eagles", a squadron of fighter planes that participated directly in the Philippines campaign alongside the United States Air Force and Royal Australian Air Force. After the war, he first stayed in the Mexican army to train fighter pilots before starting Medina Aviations with his brother – a private aircraft company and flight school with aircraft maintenance services located in Culiacán before moving to Juárez. Back when Medina was living in Culiacán, Amado had taken flight lessons at his school because he was a friend of his uncle and given the enormous amount of hours the two of them were cramped in an old Cessna, they developed a lasting friendship. Without exaggeration, Amado saw in Alejandro Medina more of a father than he did in his own. Without him, he wouldn't have been where he was now: A fucking pilot and a good one on top.

Given their backstory, it was no surprise that Amado instantly thought about his old mentor, when Félix Gallardo asked him to establish an aerial smuggling network in Juárez, which included finding a free hangar to store and maintain planes that would bring cocaine from Colombia to Mexico. Even though they haven't seen each other in years, he had no doubt that Medina would be a good contact for this. And if the friendship wouldn't be enough, the payment he could promise Medina for this whole project probably exceeded anything that had ever happened to him before, making it a once-in-a-lifetime deal.

The sun was bright on this cloudless day, burning down on Amado once he opened the door of his personal Cessna with which he flew the all the way from Guadalajara to Juárez. He'd brought the plane perfectly down the landing strip and parked it right in front of the big hangar hall, in which a couple of other models waited for their maintenence or their next take off. In between them, an old man came right into his direction, dressed in oil-stained dungarees with an even older buttoned shirt. The age had caused his wild hair to turn white a while ago and a big moustache decorated his lips. Despite the deeper wrinkles on his face, Amado instantly recognized him as Alejandro and pulled him into a warm, friendly hug.

"Águila, I'm glad to see that you're still alive!"

"Ah, shut up, Amado! I may look like i'm going to drop dead at any given second, but as you can see i'm still standing", the old pilot laughed and patted the shoulder of his former student, even though he had to stretch himself a bit to reach it. "So, i haven't seen you in years, mi hijo. What brings you to Juárez? And don't tell me it was just the wish to see me, we both know that's a lie." And with those words, he slowly walked over into the open hangar, where a small seating area waited for the two. An old couch and a couple of wooden armchairs together with a makeshift table and a refrigerator filled with beer. Through moments like these, Amado remembered why he had missed Alejandro. This old man was kind of a dickhead, but one, that had his heart on his tongue. There was no way he could lie to him about the criminal parts of the'business deal' he was about to offer Medina, given the fact that he was from Sinaloa himself and knew his uncle 'Don Neto'.

"Listen, Águila, i don't want to waste your time in any way with this, so i'm going to be honest: I am searching for a hangar that can provide parking space and maintenance services for an airplane fleet of two smaller Cessnas, like the one i came with, two mid-sized Beechcraft Super King Air and one Boeing 727 i'm going to get in a few days."

"Are you mad, Amado!? You understand that this is a private hangar, with all those planes around, Medina Aviation has no space for other customers –"

"Exactly, that's the point," Amado shot back and took his sunglasses off, which he secured on his black buttoned-shirt. "I said, i'll be honest with you. We need all of this to build up an air-bridge from Calí in Colombia, to smuggle cocaine to Mexico." Why lying? Even though Alejandro seemed to freeze for a moment, too stunned to speak by the sudden explanation, Amado trusted him enough to not call any police or shit on him. "We're paying good, trust me. There's no chance you'll ever earn more money than with this exclusive deal. I wouldn't come to you if i wouldn't trust you on this. You're one of the best fucking pilots i know and and experienced mechanic."

The old man had to sit down on the couch, staring at the Narco as he continued talking. But before he could lay down his full offer, Alejandro shook his head. "I am sorry, mi hijo. As much as i like you, i can't just decide this on my own."

"What do you mean, this is your business, right? Your brother already retired, as i heard."

"Yes, which is why i took another partner in. Just look at me, Amado – i am old! I can't even get up on a wing with this back. The only reason why Medina Aviation still exists is because of my granddaughter. A talented girl, I taught her how to fly and repair planes myself. Couldn’t be more proud of her how she ran this place so far. She's the boss now, i'm just more of an advisor."

Now that info hit Amado as surprising as it would've been a bullet. Eyes widened, he looked confused at that man sitting on the sofa, scratching the back of his neck, while he tried to figure out how to deal with this new turn of events.

"Okey wait, i have to get this clear, you already handed all of this over to your what? Your granddaughter?!"

"Is that a problem?" A female voice suddenly appeared behind Amado, causing him to turn around. Here you were, Alejandro Medina's granddaughter and it was the very first time his former flight student had ever seen you. A young woman dressed in a washed-out blue working overall, your hair tamed in a messy bun and rather than flashy make-up, your face was tainted with black oil and dust. No wonder, you’d just sticked head first in the motor of an old propeller plane, something Amado seemed to have overlooked, when he had entered the hangar.

„No- umm-“. It was clear that the Narco was caught off guard by your question and he tried to regain his confidence as fast as possible, while you took a wet cloth from a working bench to clean your face. „Why did you never told me that you have such a beauty as your granddaughter?!“

„Careful, amigo ,“ Alejandro warned his guest, before he leaned back and left the rest to you, knowing damn well that you were a woman, who could handle herself. Ignoring Amado's comment fully, you stepped forward and started. „You said the payment is good, then tell me what you can offer us. We need our expanses covered: Kerosin, spare parts, as well as the working hours and a security fee. If your boss expects an exclusive treatment here, then he‘ll have to pay for it.“

„Of course, of course. We’ve thought about a monthly fee of 25,000 dollars-"

„Do you think I’m dumb?“, you shot back at him in an instant, causing Amado to stare at you with confusion. "No, not at all", he answered quickly, still sticking to his offer, while looking at you. It was almost comedical. The tall Narco towered over you with about one head and you knew that guys like him had probably a lot of corpses in their trunk, yet you held your ground with the negotiation ambition of an american businessman.

"I know the price range for cocaine – my brother lives in Miami and flies those rich gringos around, who snort the white Colombian shit like cars on a highway. And since the price is still going up, i want profit sharing. Ten percent for each plane that lands here."

A huff came from Amado's lips, followed by a chuckle that almost came off like he didn't take you serious. Actually he was quite impressed. "You're a tough one to ask for that sum, Cariño." You just responded to those words with a waiting smile, still ready to discuss further.

"Five percent," the Narco suddenly offered, but just a second in between and you said: "Eight."

For a moment, Amado stopped and looked straight into your eyes. In his mind he already calculated the numbers, at least roughly. His jaw clenching as he knew he would need to explain all of this to his boss. "Seven. Last offer or i'll find another service."

"You won't find a better one, seven it is then", you agreed with a smirk on your lips, stretching your hand out for an agreement shake. For you, the deal was still a big win given the enormous amount of money the cartels were making with coke. Amado on the other hand had to surrender himself to the thought that your pretty face had distracted him from being harsher in this negotiation. Felíx will probably rip his ass open for that.

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

The months passed and the hangar and landing strip of Medina Aviations became the number one hub for aerial drug trafficking from Colombia to Mexico. Every day flights set off to Calí or came back from there with precious cargo: loads and loads of cocaine. The partnership with the Guadalajara cartel had already proven itself and it became a Win-Win for both sides. You made so much money that you were able to expand the hangar, buy the latest mechanical gear on the market and spare parts to have them in stock – of course with the rest both you and your family were able to live very comfortable in a newly built mansion near your working place. On the other side Amado and his plane fleet did got the 'exclusive treatment' you had promised him. The planes of the Guadalajara cartel were the only ones that were allowed to land, park and start from here, and for storing the coke, you had organized the building of a storehouse right next to the hangar. Whenever a plane had a problem, whether it were the propeller or the engine, you took the task very seriously and even worked through the night if necessary to fix it. It was this dedication that Amado started to admire in you, whenever he came to Juárez. Well, not just this of course. After you two had started off a little bit rough, it didn't took long until the ice between you two finally broke. Not only were you becoming a very reliable partner in a business sense, the way you always welcomed him with jokes on your lips and didn't back off when he teased you, which usually ended in a playful argument, slowly forged a friendship.

Of course, Amado being Amado, he was a big flirt at heart and you were quite the sight. He didn't care that the men around him find it boyish when a woman wore unisex workwear like the blue overall with the Medina Aviation logo, which your grandfather frequently wore too. But for him it was part of the charm, only underlining your pretty face and your coquettish smile. However, to this day, you successfully resisted every flirt that came from his mouth, even when he called you by a pet name, with the most frequent being Cariño, Pajarito or Ángel. You didn't tell him to fuck off either, so in a way, all of this just added an extra level of ambition he found in himself to get you.

It was one of those days, where Amado flew his own Cessna from Guadalajara to Juárez to get it checked, before he would do a jump over to Colombia, for a business meet-up with Calí cartel godfather Pacho Herrera. Owning a plane and flying to destinations whereever and whenever he wanted was one of the things Amado just loved about being a pilot and working in a job that gave him unlimited freedom in terms of money. Once he'd landed safely, he brought the plane right in front of the hangar, where you were already working on another aircraft. The moment he climbed out and adjusted his sunglasses, his eyes went up to you standing on the wing of a mid-sized drug trafficking airplane in the heat of the day, the upper half of your workwear jumpsuit was tied loosely around your hips, while it exposed the fact that you just wore a bikini top underneath. It took a while for Amado, while he was standing there and staring, before he finally got words from his lips. "Is this part of the service too?!", he called out in a teasing tone.

"If so, i should charge you extra," you shot back, not caring about your appearence in this moment at all. Oh, how he'd missed this. "I'm right there, just a second!" With a few precise handles you finished the work you'd done on the propeller and jumped off the wing to greet your business partner with a smile. "If that is not 'El Señor de los Cielos' in person, what can i do for you?", you asked directly, as always, skipping the smalltalk to get right to the task, although Amado had no interest in taking off that fast again. "I need you to take a look at my Cessna's engine... it makes a weird rattling sound i hadn't heard before and i need to get to Colombia without crashing over the ocean." Your hands were already on your toolbag and you signaled him to follow you. In no time, you opened up the nose of his airplane and let him help you to take off the cover, revealing the motor for a check.

While you examined the engine, you were fully aware that Amado's eyes were glued onto your back and torso, clearly stunned that you simply ran around like this. "I know that you're staring," you commented, not even turning around.

"Well, can you blame me, Cariño? You're the one running around like this and expect me to keep my eyes shut, i am just a man."

"Ah sorry, i forgot about that", you teased back with a chuckle, while you finally had the problem right in front your eyes. It was time for an oil change and there were a few metal nuts missing, who weren't tight enough and probably fell off during the vibrations of the motor. "Alright, i am going to fix this, no problem. It shouldn't take long either. But we need to do a test flight, before i can let you take the whole way over to Calí."

And you held your word as you fixed the engine in about an hour including a cleaning and motor test. Once the cover was back on, Amado seemed to wait before he got onto his plane again. He simply opened the door, as if he wanted you to step in first. "Remember the last time you told me that you've never flown one of those latest Cessna models? Now is the chance, Pajarito. After you."

The sudden offer caught you a bit off guard, while you were cleaning your hands from the motor oil. You knew that Amado called this Cessna his baby and he wouldn't let anyone else fly it if it wasn't a question of life and death. Given this chance however, you nodded quickly with a smile on your lips, before would he could get a chance to think this over and it didn't take more than a few seconds to get you into the pilot seat. What a feeling! You've regularly flown older models, but this one was the newest with the latest technical equipment and a beautiful interior. It even smelled new. Amado closed the door and took the seat next to you, while you were already preparing the start of the engines. "Beautiful, right? Flying this Cessna feels just like sex – okey, almost", he joked and it got him a laugh out of you, as you were adjusting the headset and drove the plane into starting position. "Now that we're here, i just noticed that i've never seen you fly a plane before."

"Bad for you, because i learned from the best."

"Just like i did", he grinned as you referred to your grandfather, who was without a doubt a legend for both of you. And with that you took off perfectly, no shaking, no rattling sound, just a soft transition from the ground to the sky. And it was the feeling you fell in love with, every time you were able to pilot a plane. It was what made you and Amado similar as both of you craved the feeling to be up in the sky, where nothing and everything seemed to matter all at once. It was exciting and relaxing at the same time, while there was no other way for humans to come closer to the freedom birds held when they flew through the sky. Once you got to a certain height, you adjusted the Cessna's position as you softly balanced the plane during your flight over Juárez. And it was in this moment, Amado took the chance for a chat with you, asking a question he actually wanted to ask for quite some time. "So, be honest, anyone waiting for you down there, Cariño? Boyfriend, husband, whatever?"

The sudden question made you chuckle, as your eyes went to him for a quick moment, studying if it was just another one of his jokes. "Are you asking this because i cannot jump off now and escape the question?"

"Maybe. I just want to check out if i'd have any form of a chance", Amado answered with a playful smile, a little tease, but it carried honesty, as he'd known you for quite some time now. It would've been a fucking lie, that he never thought about taking a step forward. Maybe a bolder step than just flirtatious words.

"First: As if you are the person to back off if it would be the case, Amado Carillo Fuentes. Second: What if i tell you that no, there's no one right now?"

"Then i would ask, if you just lied to me, because in no damn reality a girl like you wouldn't have a bunch of men waiting in line."

You laughed again, a soft shimmer of red appearing on your cheeks. It was hard to get you out of your carefully crafted shell. Being a woman in a male-dominated field meant that you always had to prove yourself, even more despite the good work you did. It was true that for a long time, you hadn't really allowed yourself to be more open to the advances of men that caught your interest as well. And the truth was, that Amado had grown on you. Lately, you even caught yourself missing him, internally waiting for the next time he would come to Juárez.

"In all honesty, you're not the first one asking me something like that, but i am aware i am a difficult person myself and on top of that i hate to deal with idiots around me. I have my standards."

"Standards, huh?", the man next to you smirked in response to that, leaning back in his seat, while he clearly calmed down whenever he was sitting in a plane. "And i can assure you, you're not as difficult as you might think. I would even think that no one actually is."

"Is that so? Then enlighten me."

"Maybe i will, once we get back to the hangar", he said with his usual happy-go-lucky smirk.

"Now you're the complicated one", you commented in response, but the words still caught your interest. Maybe it was time for you to take a step forward as well?

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

The flight over Juárez turned out to be one of the most pleasant ones you had for a long time. Even though you wouldn't have to take so long for a test flight, you stretched it out of purpose to have the sunset marking the point, when you would return Amado's Cessna back to the hangar. Just as smooth as you took off, you landed the plane and brought it back into its parking position, perfect for a last Kerosin fuel-filling before your business partner can safely make his flight to Calí. But before you would let him go, you promised Amado a cold beer, conveniently out of the refrigerator that was standing around the seating area of the open hangar. You took out two bottles and opened them directly on the edge of one of the work benches, which earned you an impressed whistle from your guest.

"What are we toasting to?", you asked him, after you handed Amado one of the beers and leaned your back against the work bench behind you. Instead of simply taking a seat, he had followed and just took his place standing right in front of you, setting up a more intimate moment without even thinking further about it. After a short moment of thinking, Amado announced with a smirk. "Why not toasting to this wonderful flight with more to come? And to us of course."

With a bright smile you nodded and clang your bottle against his before taking a good sip from the cold, tasteful beer. You and Amado were the only ones left here, given the usual timings of the smuggling flights and the fact that your grandfather used to finish his work about an hour ago. Knowing this too, Amado's eyes were still locked with yours and it could've been seen as an attempt to read your mind in this moment – even though you were probably thinking the same right now as you placed the beer bottle right next to you. He couldn't even say a word, when you suddenly stepped over the line that was already hair-thin between you two, with your hands grabbing his black shirt, pulling him down for a kiss.

Maybe he had underestimated you, when it came to that, but hell, he would never complain about this either. Quite the contrary. He didn't waste any time now as it was an invitation for his hands to wrap them around your waist. Having you still wearing that jumpsuit half-zipped, it was an easy access to touch your soft skin underneath his fingers, a sensual feeling he'd craved for... too long actually. Amado leaned into the kiss and started to dive into your mouth with his tongue, continuing this intense dance with you like he was about to savour the fucking fountain of life.

"Time to find out what's better, flying a Cessna or having sex. What do you say, mi Hermosa?", Amado whispered against your lips, when you parted the kiss for a moment to catch a breath. His nose softly touched yours as he waited for your answer. You could push him away now, if you'd wanted it to and he would never touch you again. But he already sensed that you were not the type of girl that would back off now. And your coquettish grin told him anything he needed to know. "You're driving me crazy, i hope you know that...", he added, his lips still close to yours.

"I know", you whispered teasingly, while you grabbed him by the belt and pulled his hip between your legs, feeling the bulge in his pants he couldn't really hide anymore. "Maybe we're both not very complicated..."

Amado chuckled, nodding in approval to your words, before he shut your mouth with another kiss. His hands started going upwards, opening your bikini top, which made it conveniently easy for him. The fabric quickly dropped down to the ground, before his hands cupped your breasts and started kneating them. His fingers playfully squeezed your hardened nipples, the soft sensual pain brought you to gasp into the kiss. It earned you a pleased and excited smirk of the man that had caused it and Amado couldn't deny that he had his eyes on you for a long time now, actually from the very first day he had seen you. It was the way you kept up with him and the playful disputes you two had, followed by nerdy chats about planes and pilot shit. And topping this, you were one of the most beautiful women he'd ever laid his eyes upon, an angel. Now he was finally able to show you how much he really craved everything that you were.

With one hand still on your tits, his other one crept down your belly, right under the fabric of your jumpsuit and the string you wore underneath. Once his fingers reached your clitoris, you instantly bit your lip, knowing that he was able to feel how the heat of the moment had captured your body already. "What's that, huh? So eager for me, Cariño?", Amado mumbled against your ear, touching you with practiced motions of his fingers. He slipped them easily between your dripping wet folds, leaving his thumb rubbing over your clit – this man knew exactly what he did and it had its power over you. Biting your lip didn't help in any way as he forced you to moan in response to his hand treatment. "Fuck–", you hissed, while your hands searched for a hold on the or the work bench, as he pushed you further and further. "What, don't tell me you're already giving up?"

He hadn't even spoken the words fully, when your hands were already opening his belt and his jeans, with one of them grabbing his hard cock. "I could enjoy this treatment all night long, but i think you're the one, that can't wait anymore", you whispered your tease with a shaky voice, massaging his length, which caused him to groan out of pleasure. Despite your work as a mechanic, for some reason you had still those neat and soft hands that just wrapped perfectly around him. But hell, he wouldn't let it end here in any way as he didn't want to have the first time with you just jerking each other off by hand. So with a sudden grab, he pulled his hand out of your jumpsuit and yours from him. Instead he wrapped his arms around your hip and lifted you up from the work bench, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you over to the old couch of the seating area. In a rush of dominance, he pinned you down on the cushion and bent over you. His lips found your neck and started to create a pattern of small hickeys.

"Do you regret provoking me, mi amor... i could just leave you in your heat now, begging for my cock," Amado whispered against your ear, which sent a shiver down your spine. "Oh you wouldn't do this now, would you? I don't think you get your jeans up again with this thing ready," you purred back, while your hand gently stroked the hair on his neck. It needed just your touch for him to thrill him even more. Amado had already the tip of his cock ready at your entrance, which made it hard to stick to his threat now more than ever.

"You're right, fuck this–" he mumbled – too heavy was the wish to finally feel you, to finally make you his. And with a sudden thrust, he shived himself into you, conquering your tight pussy with his hardened length up to his balls. A dark moan came from his lips, as he stopped for a moment to enjoy the perfect feeling, while his eyes were locked in yours. You were like a painting for him, with your mouth open, your beautiful eyes half-lid open and focused on him, moaning his name while he took you now. It encouraged him to bring you over the edge first, to give you the best fucking time you had, so that he will be the man you craved for in every dream from now on. "Scream for me, Cariño! I want to hear my name from your mouth", Amado demanded with an excited grin, while his hips moved against yours and the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air around you, an orchestra of your shared pleasure mixed with those pretty moans. He hit the perfect spot over and over again, it became harder for you to pull yourself together. So you gave him what he asked for and screamed his name again and again. "Amado– !" Your fingers digged themselves into his skin in a desperate search for a hold, while you came to the height of your lost. He pushed you over the edge and the electrifying feeling of an orgasm errupted in your body. With your walls tightening around his cock, there was no way he could keep himself from coming too. Just as he'd hoped for, you and Amado were sharing this perfect moment of pleasure, while his arms wrapped tighter around you. He pulled you closer to feel your skin against his, while his heart felt like it would jump out of his chest soon.

With a half-roll, he switched the position with you, so that you were able to lie down on his chest, as you both tried to catch your breath from the intense moment you had just shared. Softly, Amado's hand reached out to push some of your wild strains of hair out of your face, before he left his hand on your cheek.

"Now this... this was the only thing better than flying," Amado whispered with a blissfull smirk, before he placed a tender kiss on your forehead.

[feasibilities]

Se acabó la clase ⚒︎

Warnings: Angry!Rafa, Oral S3x, Spanking, Degradation, Teasing, etc.

Author's Note: My first Rafa fic after watching Narcos: Mexico over and over. Enjoy! ⚒︎

The monotonous lecture of your professor was interrupted by Rafa & his comrades bursting in. You were shocked to see him as you broke it off with him last week—over the phone. He pursued you heavily until you finally relented. He had become too unruly for your liking, so you wanted out before you got in serious trouble. This obviously didn't sit well with him. 

"Se acabó la clase." Rafa announced to the class. Everyone looked around confused. You saw fire in his eyes when they landed on you. You looked down & acted like you were taking notes. 

"Fuera, ahora!" Rafa's comrade yelled, pulling out a gun. Everyone gathered their things & walked out in an orderly fashion. The professor was escorted out with a gun pressed to his back. Following his orders, you tried to escape in the organized chaos. Rafa suddenly grabbed your arm and pulled you back. You huffed in defeat and sat your bookbag on the desk. He slammed the door behind you, making you flinch. 

“You didn’t even have the courage to end this in person.” He hissed. 

“I know, Rafa. I just can’t risk it. You live such a dangerous life and-“ You confessed.

“You didn’t have a problem with my lifestyle when we were fucking or when I was buying you jewelry.” He interrupted, pulling you closer. 

You finally realized why he was so upset—his ego was hurt. He thought he got played by some rich college girl. You had him wrapped around your finger & he hated it so much. However, it was a thrill for you compared to the mundane life of a politician’s daughter.

“Let me make it up to you…” You cooed, feigning innocence. You kissed the corner of his lips gently. You then started to unbutton your blouse. He had no choice but to surrender to your seductions.

You watched him intently as you knelt in front of him. You undid his belt & unzipped his jeans at a painstakingly slow speed. You kissed up & down his shaft.

“Don’t tease, perra.” He warned.

Ignoring his demands, you gently slapped his manhood on your tongue. You made sure to stare into his eyes to rile him up even more. You watched his anger transform into pure desperation. You took his length in your mouth & bobbed your head slowly. The obscene noises you made his eyes roll back.

Feeling him throb, you sped up your movements and held his thighs tightly. Saliva  dripped down your chin & neck. Tears blurred your vision as you struggled to breathe. Rafa uttered a multitude of obscenities at you in Spanish, but his eyes were full of love. He took a handful of your hair & thrusted into your mouth as he came. 

“Traga cada gota, amor.” He purred. 

You followed his orders & sat back to catch your breath. He thought you were so beautiful like this—mascara running, hair messy, blouse unbuttoned. He wished he brought his camera so he could add this moment to the filthy polaroids he had of you.

“So beautiful…” He whispered, running his thumb across your moist lips. You smiled and kissed his thumb. He pulled you up on your feet and bent you over the professor’s desk. You pulled up your skirt to reveal that you didn’t have on panties. You couldn’t see Rafa, but you felt his lustful gaze on you. 

After a few hard spanks, you felt him slide into you & hold your shoulders tightly. You moaned in response. His thrusts were so merciless and reached your deepest depths. Your eyes teared up at the sting his actions left. The sounds of skin hitting skin filled the lecture room. Rafa couldn’t care less if any unsuspecting students heard you two from the hallway.

Your mind went blank as you orgasmed. You convulsed and screamed in pleasure. Rafa held you up & watched as arousal spewed out of you. A perverse smile came across his face. He reveled in the thought that no one could fuck you like him.

[cositapreciosa]

Can I please request an Amado x reader fic where he slowly starts to fall in love with her? and, if it's possible, can she be a non-fluent Spanish speaker? Somewhat like Mimi. Thank you so much!

By proxy

Amado Carillo Fuentes x female!reader, (mention of you wearing heels/skirt/painted nails/lipstick, no warnings, the usual for the show) 1545 words

a/n : hopefully this is what you had in mind ! let me know how you like it

As always it's the fictional, not the real deal, enjoy xx

When he arrived, you were already seated in the chair next to his assigned one. Sunglasses perched on your nose, colored lips matching your nails, and satellite phone opened to your ear, ushering things in the receiver he couldn’t understand. Amado wouldn’t usually pay attention to all those details, but the space between the seats is narrow and you don’t seem to realize he needs you to get up so that he can finally sit down.

The heat is unbearable today. Of course he knew Belize was going to be hot, but the humidity mixed with little wind is making sweat run down his back. A temperature you don’t seem to mind, deeply invested in whatever conversation you are having, with your freshly pressed shirt, not a bead of sweat on your forehead. He has to cough to get your attention, and the look you give him makes him feel like he is intruding, your palm cupping the receiver so as to not disturb whoever is on the other side.

‘’ Puedo ayudarle? ‘’

That is when he notices your accent, the way the r comes out round and unrolled. You speak English, he thinks, but he can’t figure out more. He’s never really been one to notice the subtleties between accents.

‘’ That’s my seat, ‘’ he begins in English, ‘’ Do you mind if..? ‘’

‘’ Oh. ‘’

You are quickly on your feet, pressing the back of your knees to the chair to make more space for him to pass through. He can smell your perfume, feel the softness of your silk shirt as his hand brushes your elbow as he moves forward. You sit back down at the same time as him, one of your legs moving on top of the other. Before he can even say thank you, you are back on the phone, throwing phrases and fancy words he can’t understand. Is English is good, but it clearly wasn’t fluent enough for whatever business conversation you were having. You close the antenna with a snap.

‘’ I’m sorry about that, not very lady-like of me. ‘’

There is no point for you to try talking to him in Spanish anymore, and as much as he can’t shake away his own accent, he knows his English is probably better than your Spanish. You don’t really mean it, half an apology, half small-talk, too focused on what is happening up front, the first plane being manoeuvered on the tarmac. He offers you a polite smile nonetheless.

‘’ It’s all good. ‘’

The plane isn’t even stopped behind the podium that the auction starts, loud voice coming from the speaker, bragging about the size of the crew cabin, the space in between the seats. Nothing he needs to know, nothing that would make a difference in the type of business he plans on making with those buys. Rip it all out, he would say, start loading it up. It goes pretty fast after that, when the auctioneer finally stops talking about the whys and the hows and starts selling the plane.

He can feel you watching, chin turning his way every time he buys a plane. Probably because, compared to him, you haven’t bought much so far, no one did really.

‘’ May I ask you what all those planes are for? ‘’

You are bold, he can give you that, biting your questions, answers rolling off your tongue just as quickly. He doesn’t even realize when he started smiling, cheeks touching the underside of his sunglasses.

‘’ I could ask you the same question. ‘’

Your bite the inside of your cheek, as if you are thinking it through, if you should actually give him an answer or just another question in response.

‘’ Fair enough. Maybe our bosses’ business isn’t for us commoners to talk about. ‘’

‘’ Oh, no, you’re mistaken. I’m the boss. ‘’

That catches your eyes, knees turning to his side, body following shortly as your own sunglasses slide down your nose with the movement. He knew it would, maybe that is why he said it. There is something fun about you, carefree, that feels like it could turn this chore into something enjoyable for once. He never liked making small talk, but he does appreciate this back-and-forth that is happening. Amado watches as your elbow drapes over the back of your chair before you speak.

‘’ What’s your name again? ‘’

You do be asking many questions, he realizes, but he gives you his name nonetheless, finding himself to enjoy it when you give yours back.

‘’ Then, Amado, ‘’ You continue, ‘’ Why do the dirty work? It’s hot as hell on this tarmac. No budget for shades, the paddles are plastic, no wine bar, what’s in it for you? ‘’

‘’ Good company, clearly. You seem to be doing those a lot. ‘’

He loves the way his name sounds coming out of your mouth. You barely acknowledge his statement, raising your own paddle for a small luxury plane as your attention turns back to the front. A few second passes, before the gavel smashes the podium. As the applause dies down, the auctioneer talks into his microphone, voice booming and with more spectacle than he usually enjoys.

‘’ Told my boss I could speak Spanish, but I’m more at a 4-year-old level than anything else. You mind translating that for me? ‘’

He can tell you are flirting, trying to keep the conversation going. Your eyes are playful, meeting his and twisting his insides, sparkling warmth to his chest. This feels different, and he wonders if he has gotten too old for this. Still, he plays into it.

‘’ He said the plane’s all yours, mija, but that you have to pilot it back to the US if you want to keep it. ‘’

Your laugh makes the people in front of you turn, you don’t mind them though, continuing to look at the vendors as they parade the planes around.

‘’ I would crash the damn thing. You don’t happen to know a good pilot, do you? ‘’

He leans his head to your side, close enough to smell your perfume again, almost tasting the salt from your skin.

‘’ Hmm. I got someone in mind. ‘’

‘’ Well I hope he’s any good, I plan on coming back in one piece. ‘’

You are raising your paddle again, two, three times until the sale is yours. He is sure you get more Spanish than you let him on, or maybe you just go for looks and hope the plane fits your budget, if you have any. You haven’t talked much about why you are here either, and he can’t help but wonder who would buy almost as many planes as him. It is not as much, clearly, he is here to buy the biggest ones, all of them, but you have been weirdly focusing on the smaller ones, the cleaner ones, rivalling all the white heads on the tarmac.

‘’ Don’t worry, ‘’ He says as he adjusts himself on the chair, ‘’ I’ll land us safe and sound. ‘’

You find this funny, beaming at him, smile wide and refreshing in the heat. He can tell your eyes are curious, squinting from the sun as you look at him over your sunglasses.

‘’ How romantic. ‘’

There is no real implication behind your words, mostly mocking him, brushing off your actual surprise that he is in fact a pilot. Amado buys the last three planes, it is a quick process, raising his paddle, gavel knocking, and before he knows it you are on your feet, heels clacking on the asphalt the moment they end the auction.

He watches as you pull down your skirt, gathering your things in one hand while the other moves towards him, wide open for a handshake.

‘’ Well, Amado, the pleasure was all mine. I guess I’ll see you at the next one? ‘’

Probably not, he thinks, but he gets the sentiment, appreciates it even. He shakes your hand, your warm palm against his, a fingernail grazing the inside of his wrist.

‘’ I thought I was supposed to fly you back home? ‘’

‘’ Are you asking me out on a date? ‘’

‘’ Maybe. Are you saying yes? ‘’

You don’t answer him straight away, sizing him up and down. He can’t tell what you are looking for, but the small smile on your lips makes him think whatever he is doing is working. You take your hand back, pushing hair behind your ear.

‘’ I’m staying in San Ignacio tonight. The hotel’s bar is pretty good if you’d like to drop by for a drink. ‘’

You don’t wait for him to answer, turning on your heels and walking down the aisle, waving to a man in a suit that is quick to walk you to a black suv. He can do nothing but mirror your smile, pushing his sunglasses up his head. He wouldn’t mind doing the drive, especially if it means he could see you again.

He doesn’t have to think more about it, you had him at ‘bar’, ‘drink’, the notes of vanilla in your perfume. A cold Whiskey actually sounds like a good idea.

[axkirak]

Renegada♱

Taglist: @707otto @juxt4p0siti0n @arcticversed (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )

Pairings:  Amado Carrillo Fuentes x f!reader(Latina Reader) x Walt Breslin  [From Narcos: Mexico TV Series]

Content Rating : Mature 18+  Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Synopsis : Since surviving the Aruba assassination attempt, you've been plagued by recurring nightmares. Amado's attempts to comfort you begin to unsettle your mind, blurring the line between duty and desire. (Soft Amado,Fluff,Hurt/Comfort)

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𝙍𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙙𝙖♱ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

➡  Previous : Next (Soon)

[8]ᅳ 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐬 ✟

Walt is not the only one facing nightmares. Everyone has their own nightmares—those born from imagination, from guilt, or from memories.

And on the remote, solitary island of Aruba, thousands of kilometers away from the violence in Mexico, nightmares haunt you too. 

Throughout the tormenting periods of pain and unconsciousness, under the influence of painkillers that need to be taken every six hours, you're not sure what they are. If it's not Nalbuphine [1], it must be something stronger and nerve-pressuring, helping to alleviate the symptoms but also potentially addictive, just like drugs.

Every time the bitter pill slides down your throat, the foggy veil of memories rises, like the wrecked ship stranded in the depths of pain and the haze of painkillers. It becomes hard to distinguish between dreams and reality. Often, you wake up with rapid, shallow breaths and a racing heartbeat, unable to remember what you dreamt, but it leaves you scared and crying every time you sleep. The moist face and teary eyes upon waking up are clear evidence of this.

However, there are many times when you can feel it during the twilight of sleep, between endless nightmares and midnight screams. Someone comes to embrace you tightly, providing warmth enough to calm you down. That was the only time the nightmares seemed to fade away, as if they had never existed before.

Initially, you thought it might just be layered dreams—tiny good dreams sneaking in to erase the pointless nightmares. But you soon learned the truth when your body was strong enough to move, and Amado decided to take you outside for short walks to exercise. When his arms wrapped around your shoulders to support you, it felt warm, just like a dream. You realized that all of that was real. He had been there with you every night. But he never mentioned it in front of you, and you never thought to ask him about it either.

It's embarrassing for you. To be in such a state, fragile both physically and mentally, and unable to help yourself in any way, Even walking to the bathroom requires much more patience than usual. You try to remain indifferent to the sharp pain in your abdomen, clenching your teeth in frustration and bending down to splash water on your face before reluctantly raising your head to look at your reflection in the old bathroom mirror above the sink. There, you see what you've always seen—a mentally fragile and confused young woman, unsure about her choices and actions.

“Mija, you shouldn't be moving around by yourself. Why didn't you call me to help you?”

Your eyes shifted away from the mirror, and you looked at Amado, who was standing leaning against the bathroom door frame. He was dressed in his usual black shirt and still looked as good as ever, hardly resembling someone whose life had been in danger, especially when compared to your recent appearance reflected in the mirror.

“I had to handle some personal matters. Do you want me to change my clothes in front of you?”

Amado shrugged. “Why embarrassed? I've seen it before, you know.”

“When?” Your eyes widen in shock. Your surprised face made Amado break into a smile—the kind of smile that had been annoying you all week.

“I'm the one who cleaned your wounds and stitched them up, Mija. I probably wouldn't be able to do it if I didn't take off your clothes first.” Amado's tone was calm when he spoke. like seeing your naked body is not important to him. 

You tapped on the wound that had started to heal. The rough stitches would later turn into a repulsive scar. Amado told you yesterday that it was almost time to remove the stitches, meaning you would have to take off your clothes in front of him again.

Shame has long vanished from your thoughts since you've been with him here. However, it was still somewhat annoying to think, "Gracias, but I'd rather do it myself."

“But I don't mind. You can take off your clothes now if you'd like.”

You furrowed your brows, looking at the tall man with a face that wanted to slap him if you weren’t already injured. And Amado knew well what you were thinking. He laughed heartily, amused by your sour mood.

That's a part of what has been happening between you and him since you started living together here. You both constantly exchange words, like a married couple living a boring life together for many years. Perhaps that's Amado's only way to alleviate boredom; he never misses a chance to tease and provoke you.

You want to be more angry at him, but you can't. You're exhausted from everything. And more importantly—something you don't want to admit—Amado has taken care of you as best as anyone could in such a dire situation. Always helping with small things that you couldn't manage yourself or bringing painkillers even when he risks going outside. He also comforts you from nightmares at night. Part of an unbelievable tenderness from the dangerous man who makes you calm enough to sleep dreamlessly.

Maybe it's due to the haziness caused by the pills, making your emotions more fragile than usual. Just temporary sensitivity. It's not empathy, not attachment—nothing more than that. This is what you've been trying to convince yourself of.

"Hey, Mija, is everything okay? You don't look well."

"It's nothing serious," you deny, better than letting him know what you're thinking. "But do you still have some pills left?"

Amado looks back with a knowing glance.

"You're becoming a junkie, you know?" he says. "But today, I have something better than pills."

Amado refuses to say more about what it is, only insisting firmly that he'll take you to see it for yourself.

'Something' that Amado mentioned was placed on the wooden table in the house when he took you there. It was a regular whiskey bottle with two glasses. You quickly turned to look at him in surprise, seeing the smile he sent back with his words, "No need to thank me."

A bottle of whiskey might be something commonly found, costing at least three hundred pesos [2] in Mexico. But in your eyes, it looked no different than an oasis in the middle of a hot desert. You missed whiskey as much as you missed cigarettes, and your old life before ended up in this place with Amado. 

At least having a bottle of whiskey made the present life a bit more bearable.

Amado poured the liquid into both glasses equally before handing one to you. His eyes locked on yours as he sipped from his own glass. "Reminds me of our first date in Cuba."

"You told me Cuba had a terrible mezcal." You chuckled, slowly sipping the whiskey.

"Because the mezcal from my hometown is the best." Amado paused before raising his glass for another sip. It wasn't just you who missed old life; he missed it too. "Once we get out of here, I'll take you to taste the mezcal there."

It wasn't a casual remark like before. You felt the whiskey taste even more bitter when meeting his sincere eyes.

You didn't immediately respond. You glanced at the nearly half-empty glass of whiskey, deliberately avoiding his gaze. However, Amado noticed the subtle anxiety beneath your calm facade.

"Do you think it's possible?"

Your voice cracked slightly, carrying multiple implications in that statement: Is it possible to survive this? Is it possible for us to be together after this is over? Is it possible that there won't be any more losses?

"We'll make it out together, and I promise it won't happen to us again."

Promises were a curse for you because every time there was a promise involved, it often ended up being broken.

Ever since Farris promised over the phone to come back to you safely, he ended up facing torment and dying at the hands of the criminals. And Janet, the friend who promised revenge for you, A promise that never came true, especially when you were the one who decided to bury a bullet into your own friend's head.

Everything that has happened has made you distrustful of anyone's promises.

But this time, you couldn't help but hope that Amado's promise would be true.

You felt the warmth from his large hand holding yours and the gentle squeeze that conveyed comfort without the need for words. You locked eyes with Amado again in silence. At that moment, you felt something, just like the time you locked eyes with Walt. Something delicate was emerging between you and him.

Some things you had to hold back before it got too much and before you had to regret later.

"Don't feel regret later" Amado once warned you. However, you felt no trace of regret when you made the most foolish decision—you kissed him.

Before, you had imagined what it would be like to kiss Walt, but you never had the chance. For Amado, it was different. Even if it was just a simple kiss filled with the taste of cheap whiskey, it happened amidst raw, genuine emotions without pretense. There was nothing profound or delicate about it, but it was a mixture of fear and relief revealed after a near-death experience. And it taught you the meaning of 'Fuck it'

You and him might die tomorrow, or might go separate ways without ever meeting again. At the very least, you wanted to follow your heart just once, even just once.

His dark, intense eyes were wide with the same desire as yours—a desire to feel closer and more intimate. His large hand began to trace from the shoulders, down the collarbone, and to the waistband. But when you pulled back slightly in pain, everything ended abruptly. Amado quickly withdrew from you with a sense of urgency, confusion evident in his face and eyes for a fleeting moment, before he took a deep breath, straightened up, and rubbed his own face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," he murmured just loud enough for you to hear, filled with regret and an attempt to restrain his emotions. "I should let you rest."

Amado stood up without looking at you again. But you managed to grab his wrist before he could walk away. You accidentally licked your own lips when his eyes met yours again. "You can stay with me tonight if you want," you said.

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by your request. Before he could accept or decline, you quickly added, "Just to sleep, that's all. It's like when you used to come and cuddle me at night when I had nightmares."

For a brief moment, you saw embarrassment in the face of the tall man for being caught. And for the first time, you began to genuinely feel that Amado was cute when he was shy.

There was no more teasing or arguing that night. Eventually, Amado yielded to your simple request. In fact, it seemed he didn't have much choice after you made it clear you knew about everything he had secretly done.

The large old bed seemed cramped when two bodies lay together. You tensed slightly as you turned your face toward Amado. He wrapped around you cautiously with both of his arms, feeling the warmth in a way you had felt from him many nights before.

Even in the darkness, it was hard to see anything, but you could vividly feel that he was looking at you, just as you could feel his breath gently caress your face. Then the man leaned in closer and gently pressed his lips against your forehead, whispering softly as he pulled away. 

"Sweet dreams, Mija."

And what Amado said turned out to be true. You didn't have any nightmares throughout that night.

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[1] Nalbuphine is a medication for treating moderate to severe pain, which contains opium extract. The medication acts on the brain and nervous system to numb the sensation of pain. It has various side effects and can cause addiction

[2]The Mexican Peso is the currency of Mexico. The currency code is MXN and it uses the symbol $.

[drabbles-mc]

Out of Time

Amado Carrillo Fuentes x F!Reader

For Day 29 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: surrender

Warnings: 18+, language, angst

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: In true drabbles-mc fashion, I have no idea what happened here with this one but I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. We love fics all based on vibes in this house lmao. Also, thank you @hausofmamadas for giving me a little nudge out of my comfort zone. tqm, df 🥰

Narcos/NMX Taglist: @thesandbeneathmytoes @garbinge @winchestershiresauce @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @buckybarneshairpullingkink @boomclapxox @nessamc @southotheborder @supersanelyromantic @padbrookcottage @mysun-n-stars @raincoffeeandfandoms @justreblogginfics @ashlingnarcos @proceduralpassion @artemiseamoon @narcolini @cositapreciosa (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Once it all started to unravel the way that it did, Amado decided that there was no other choice. Surrender was never going to be an option for him, not the way that it was for the godfathers. He wasn’t going to turn himself in and simply do his bid. What would it all have been for, then?

So there he was, packing his bags. All the work he’d put into his beautiful home, or rather, all the money he’d put into his beautiful home making others do the work, and now he was going to take off and leave it vacant. It was a small loss, he supposed. With the money he had he could afford to make just about anywhere home. It was a skill that was going to come in handy, too, because he didn’t know how long he was going to have to be on the run before he finally settled down somewhere quiet enough for him to live out the rest of his life in quiet, secluded luxury. That’s really all he wanted now: to be left the fuck alone.

The suitcases that were on the floor beside his bed were already filled with clothes. The zippers on them were strained, nearly to their breaking point, but they still held. There was another still on his bed, open and only half-full as he continued to pack away more clothes into it. Part of him felt like it was a bit ridiculous, packing up his clothes and some of his other easily replaceable belongings, but he still found himself doing it. Maybe it was sentimental, he wasn’t sure—there wasn’t enough time for him to sit back and try to figure it out.

He was the only thing in the entire house making noise, so it wasn’t difficult for him to hear the sound of someone else coming up the stairs that would lead to the hallway that held his bedroom. He reached for his gun even though he wasn’t quite sure who it would be. If it had been the cops, or the feds, they would’ve already caused a scene. They wouldn’t have been able to make such a quiet entrance—they wouldn’t have sent one man in alone.

He moved quickly, quietly across the floor of his room. He positioned himself so that he was hidden behind his open bedroom door. His breathing was slow, controlled as he listened to the footsteps slowly but surely get closer and closer to his room.

Through the sliver between the door and its frame, he caught the silhouette of the person as they started to step into his room. The second he was able, he stepped out from his hiding place, grabbing them and pushing them back towards the wall of his room with his gun pressed underneath their chin before he even had a moment to stop and check and see who it was.

When the wall stopped him from being able to keep pushing the person, he finally looked to see who it was. His eyes widened when he saw that it was you, the nerves that had been mounting went away, replaced instead by guilt when he saw the fear in your eyes with the mouth of his gun pressed harshly against your chin.

“A-Amado?” you stammered out, unable to even get your arms to cooperate enough to try and push him away from you.

He lowered his gun, tucking it back into his waistband as he loosened his vice grip on you. “Querida? Qué paso?” He knew that he should’ve been apologizing for nearly splitting your skull in two, but the question came out first instead.

There were still goosebumps on your skin even though the only thing still touching you was Amado’s warm palm. His fingers curled around your bicep, thumb tracing back and forth to smooth over the way that he’d gripped onto you so harshly before. You were trying to get out the words that you wanted to say, but it was proving to be more effort than you thought it was going to be.

“Estás saliendo?” you finally asked, a slight tremor to your voice.

He hesitated at that for a moment. The answer was evident—he knew that you knew. He wondered if you just wanted to hear him say it. Maybe you were looking more for the answer to the question that was coming next: Why? Although you were also smart enough to put together the broad strokes of the answers to that question as well.

Stepping back from you, granting you some more breathing room but with his hand still on your arm, he nodded once. He watched you look at the suitcases on his floor, the one sitting on top of his mattress. Your eyes traveled around the room—it was the only spot in the house where things were looking like they’d disappeared or were out of place. All that square footage and the only room with things that mattered enough to take with him was his bedroom.

“Cuándo…” your voice trailed off, not quite sure if the answer mattered once you started to ask the question. The exact time of his departure wasn’t what your real concern was. Whenever it was, it was clearly soon. Too soon.

Selfishly, the next question you wanted to ask was, “Were you just going to leave without telling me?” but you couldn’t manage it. It seemed small, childish even, to ask that when hardly two minutes before he’d had his finger on the trigger of his gun that was pressed against the bottom of your jaw.

Clearing your throat, you allowed yourself to lean back against the wall behind you for support, taking what you could get. “Adónde vas?”

He gave a slight shake of his head before shrugging. He made just enough of a motion with his arm, like an attempt at throwing his hands up in defeat without truly committing to it. “No sé.” He huffed out something that would’ve been a laugh if the air surrounding the conversation between you hadn’t felt so heavy. “Lejos de aquí.”

You nodded slowly, trying to process what he was telling you, still trying to process the scene that you were seeing in front of you. For as much of a mess as Amado’s life could be, his house had always been spotless. That was one of the perks of never having the time to be there—it never got to the point where it looked lived-in. The only person who had been around enough to even try to make a mess had been you, and you were always careful. But now his room looked like it had been pulled apart, broken down like an old car in search of decent scraps to put into a new one.

Pushing yourself off the wall, you slowly walked over towards his bed. Aside from the wrinkles at the foot of it where he’s been rotating out his suitcases, it still looked perfectly-made. The pillows were all in their correct spots, the blanket and sheet by the head of the bed still folded and set to perfection. You found a spot beside his suitcase and sat down, trying not to think about the way that he was watching you so intently.

You reached into the suitcase, fingers dragging along the fabric of one of the last shirts that he had thrown into the bag. The black cloth passed so smoothly beneath your fingertips. An impulsive part of you wanted to ball it up inside your fist, leave a set of wrinkles that he would have to contend with whenever he got to wherever it was that he was going. Leave him some nuisance to sort out that would make him think of you once he had left you behind. You thought about it, pressed the pads of your fingers harder into the fabric, but then you stopped and just smoothed over it with your palm instead.

“Esto es el fin?” you asked, “Para nosotros?”

For us might’ve been a little presumptuous on your part. But you still deserved an answer. After all, you’d caught the man getting ready to leave without offering you so much as a goodbye or a warning first. If you were here, you might as well make him to through the effort, the pain of stating the obvious. You’d earned that much at least, you’d like to think.

He frowned at the question, and you tried to figure out if he was frowning in confusion because the answer seemed obvious, or if he was frowning because he was actually sad about leaving you behind. Maybe it was something else entirely. Still, you waited patiently for his response.

He shrugged, pausing a moment, his brows knitting like he was trying to think of an answer that wasn’t the most obvious one. “Sí…” he dragged the word out for a beat longer than necessary as he reached up, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment.

“Amado,” you said as you shook your head, sadness plaguing your voice, “what the fuck?”

His eyes snapped back to you at that. You weren’t sure what caught him more off-guard, the sudden switch or the heaviness and sadness that accompanied a question that was usually shouted between the two of you in anger.

He walked over to the bed, positioning himself so that he was standing between your legs. He looked down at you, silently waiting for you to look up at him. “Qué quieres de mi, mija? Hm? Digame.”

“I—” you started, stopping yourself short as you shook your head. The reality of it was that you weren’t really sure what you wanted from him. A heads-up? An invitation? For him to go back in time and not wind up on a path that led to him having to make the choice to either live on the run or to surrender and die in prison? Sighing, you dropped your chin towards your chest as you admitted, “Yo no sé.”

“Hey.” He rested his hand on your shoulder. When you didn’t look up at him, he said, “Mírame.” When you finally looked up at him, he repeated his question. “Qué quieres? Quieres salir conmigo?”

You found yourself shaking your head even though you weren’t quite sure if that was your real answer. You tried not to think too hard about the way his hand warmed your shoulder, about the look in his eyes that you almost thought meant he wanted you to say yes to the question.

“No puedo…” you started, stopping and shaking your head, “I can’t just…”

He tilted his head, like he was curious, almost confused. “Por qué no?”

You leaned back, shock all over your face, “Por qué n—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head, unable to believe that he really just asked you that.

Maybe you should’ve expected it. The rest of the people in his life could pack it all up and leave just like he could, after all. You were the one thing that wasn’t like all the others. You were the only one in his world who couldn’t trade it all in with the flip of a switch. Maybe that’s what the offer was, though, an opportunity to change that.

Despite the fact that you’d thought about it, contemplated it for longer than you thought, you knew that you weren’t going to go. It was an easy choice for Amado. If you had been left with the same choices that he was, you’d probably pick the same thing. But those weren’t the choices that you had. There was so much more left for you here than there was for him, and despite every hopelessly romantic bone in your body, you knew that neither one of you was enough to sway the other. Amado was going to leave no matter what you said, and you were going to stay no matter what he offered.

Reaching, you took his hands in your own. You tried not to think about the tears gathering at the edges of your eyes as you gave him a small pull towards you, trying to coax him to come just a little closer to you before he left you for the last time. You watched him, all of him, the slight slump in his shoulders when he made the decision to give in, when he realized the answer you were going to give him.

He knelt down in front of you, putting himself just below eye-level with you. Your fingers were still threaded through his. Your lips twitched as you tried to keep your tears from spilling, keep your bottom lip from trembling. Leaning forward, you rested your forehead against his.

Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice shaking more than you’d ever admit to after the fact, “Tu sabes…”

You felt the rise and fall of his shoulders and chest from the deep breath that he took. Precious seconds that he didn’t have an excess of anymore, still being spent on you, for you, with you. “No puedes salir,” he said, his voice heavier than you thought it was going to be.

He didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Just a few minutes ago he was ready to leave without even saying goodbye, knowing that for one reason or another he wasn’t ever going to see you again. He’d been ready for that. Maybe the melancholy would catch up to him when he finally slowed down, maybe then he’d feel a passing twinge of regret. What he felt now though was so much more than that, heavier on his shoulders.

Leaving without telling you would’ve been all on his terms. He was in control of it. He wouldn’t have had to stick around to see the pain on your face over it, either. By then he would’ve been long gone. Also, if he had just left without telling you, he wouldn’t have been stuck in the situation he was currently in—he wouldn’t have been getting rejected by you.

Taking one of your hands out of his and resting it on the side of his face, you traced your thumb along his cheekbone, over the stubble that was growing longer, somewhere between unruly and an actual beard.

“No,” you finally said, your voice soft.

The two of you lingered that way for a moment, letting that one word hang between you, the short, simple confirmation that this was the end of the road for the two of you. It didn’t have to be, but it did. Amado couldn't resign himself to what life would look like if he chose to stay, but you could. You had to.

He took a deep breath, and for a fleeting moment you thought that he was going to have something profound to say, something that would shake the foundations of the entire situation. Or maybe he’d kiss you, something so fierce that it would blot out the heart-wrenching reality that the two of you were facing something that would sweep you off your feet one last time. But he didn’t do either of those things. Shaking his head with his forehead still pressed against yours, he let out the breath he’d taken in before getting back up onto his feet.

Neither of you said anything else as he went back to packing up the last of his things. Every item he put into the pile, you found yourself running your hand over it. The next shirt, each pair of pants, rinse and repeat.

By the time he was done, with all of his bags now stacked by the door, you were hoping to have something more to say. He was hoping you’d have something more to say too, because this part had never been the part that he was good at.

Walking from his doorway back to the bed, he sat on the mattress beside you. He let his hand wander, allowed his fingers to hook into yours. He was looking down at your joined hands rather than in your eyes. “Estas segura de esto?” he asked.

You chuckled quietly at that, the sound a little sad beneath the humor of it. It felt like you were supposed to be the one asking him that question. He was the one leaving everything behind to start over somewhere else, drop his old life in favor of a new one without knowing how it would play out. Your life was staying startlingly the same. The only thing that was going to change was that Amado wasn’t going to be in it anymore.

Finally forcing himself to look you in the eyes again, he saw the hint of a smile on your face. He mirrored your expression, knowing exactly what you were thinking. He gave your hand a light squeeze. “Ven conmigo.”

Your smile widened a bit at that, the tears in your eyes growing. “Es mi última oportunidad, yea?”

He nodded. “Yea.”

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his. It was soft, drawn out longer than it would’ve been any other day because you both knew that it was going to be the last one. He leaned back into you, not the way that he usually did, not in a way that was aimed to escalate or rile you up. He was soaking it up, savoring the feeling in a way that he didn’t take the time to do nearly enough before.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still closed for a few seconds longer. You studied his face while you could. When he finally opened them, all he said was, “Lo siento.”

Your automatic reaction was to tell him that it was okay, but you both knew it would’ve been a lie. Part of you wanted to make a joke about how he should get going before he missed his flight, both of you knowing that the humor lied in the impossibility of it. But nothing was making it past your lips. Instead, you leaned in and kissed his cheek, unbothered by the stubble when maybe on a different, better day you might’ve been.

With more effort than he thought it would’ve taken, Amado forced himself up onto his feet. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the top of your head before walking towards the door. He picked up his bags, lingering in the doorway as he turned back to you. You could spot the lingering sadness in his eyes that hadn’t been there when you’d shown up. Still, he managed to give you a smile.

“Disfruta la casa, yea?” He took another step back out into the hallway. “Para mi.”

You nodded, the sad smile on your face pairing a little too well with the tears that were beginning to trickle out onto your cheeks. You desperately wanted something more to say, but the same emotions that were clouding your mind were also choking out any chance to give him a comeback, to end things on the same note that they’d started so long ago. But you couldn’t, so you watched him turn and disappear out of the doorway, the last of your seconds with him finally spent.

[hausofmamadas]

| Our man in Mexico |

⁂

Pairing: Andrea Nuñez x Horacio Carrillo

For @narcosfandomdiscord Summer of Smut Alphabet: July 1 - [A] Angry sex

Word count: ≈ 2.5K

TWs: smut, biting, slapping, hair pulling andrea being her bestest, most cuntiest self

“Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I need you.” After the fall of Escobar in Colombia, everyone's favorite hot-headed, helicopter-shucking Colonel Horacio Carrillo has managed to make it out with not just his life in tact, but with a clean enough reputation to make the DOJ's shortlist of military officials to head up a new military investigation of the alleged collusion between General Jesus Guttiérez Rebollo and the Juarez cartel. He's stationed in Tijuana, Rebollo's last base of operations, where he personally and professionally crosses paths with rebel-with-many-causes journalist Andrea Nuñez, still reporting for La Voz. But when he puts a gag order on all things related to the Rebollo scandal in an effort to protect her, Andrea's fed tf up. And tells him as much. right to his face. Only one question remains: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Carrillo fucks around and finds out.

⁂

“Señorita! N— no puedes entrar ahí, por favor! He’s in a meeting. I can’t— If you don’t have an appointment, I can’t let you back there!”

Andrea walked over to the door of the embassy office without a word and barged through, tearing down the hall. The secretary scrambled from behind the desk like a spooked rabbit, little kitten heels click-clacking on the tiled floor as she struggled to keep up with Andrea’s long, steadfast strides. And this, ladies, is why it pays to wear sensible footwear. The poor woman was just doing her job but her frantic puttering and cries of, “Señorita! You can’t be back here!” only served to build the rage in Andrea’s chest more.

She stopped so cold and turned around so fast, the woman’s forehead nearly slammed right into her own.

Andrea crossed her arms. “Mira, vieja. You haven’t even called security, so unless you’re going to tackle me to the ground and throw me out yourself, and—“ she glanced down at the woman’s heels, eyebrow cocked smugly, “—you could try but I don’t think you’d get far in those— I’m getting into that goddamn office one way or another.”

The woman sputtered something unintelligible. Andrea couldn’t be bothered to let her piece a proper sentence together before cutting her off with a curt, “ya eso es lo que pensaba.”

She turned back and kept on tearing down the hallway, closer and closer to the door marked, ‘Colonel Horacio Carrillo’ in block letters that were just as uppity and patronizing as he was. Or maybe it was just because it was his office, the arrogant prick.

Sure, he was a legend back in Colombia. Sure, he helped take down the biggest, baddest drug trafficker the world had ever seen. But if this asshole thought a gag order was gonna fly in the wake of Rebollo’s mess — which, oh by the way, she helped to expose — he was deader than General Jesus Gutiérrez Rebollo’s reputation. She refused to be cowed by the AFO goons who followed her to her car on late nights after work. She certainly wasn’t going to be intimidated by this Colombian haircut. He wasn’t even threatening to slash her tires. So, what was a bit of healthy confrontation between friendly colleagues? Making an appointment would’ve just spoiled the mood.

As her hand landed on the door handle, she smirked at the sound of muffled voices inside. Huh. So, he really was conducting business. In Mexico, “he’s in a meeting,” was usually code for he’s actually chain smoking at his desk, on the phone chatting away with his mistress on company time. But no, it seemed Carrillo hadn’t been dodging the press. Maybe just her calls.

For a split second and against her own will, the image of him sitting at the bar flashed in her mind. The night she met him. Well, not him, him. Not as she knew him now, no more than a stranger, dressed like a dad, but in well-tailored khakis and a grey polo that fit far too smartly for him to actually be anyone’s dad. She’d come to find out he was divorced, no kids, so a dad he certainly wasn’t which, if the rumors she’d heard about Search Bloc were true, made more sense and still wasn’t comforting in the slightest. But she didn’t know about any of that yet.

Around here, strangers in dimly lit bars were seldom safe and fewer troubled themselves to even establish a pretense of safety. But he was a different, safer kind of stranger. She didn't know how she knew but she didn't. He must’ve been anyway, since she didn’t usually make it a habit of taking strangers back to her car after some pleasant, cheap conversation and a few shots of even cheaper bourbon.

And yet, that’s where he ended up. The back seat of her stationwagon, his firm lips encased against hers, breath deliciously hot and sticky on her neck, fingers ruthlessly digging into the flesh of her hips as she ground them down onto his, car windows all smudged with insistent palm prints that said something along the lines of, ‘mmm, that’s right. Yes, just a little closer.’ A couple of months later and those stupid smudges were still there. She noticed them crossly when she’d parked outside, moments before accosting the man’s poor secretary. She'd wondered aimlessly if he’d even know what they were if he saw them. Would she want him to? Maybe that’s why she was in such a foul mood. She didn’t know.

Shaking her head, the indecent image dissolved noncommittally into thick, black ink behind her eyelids, like answers disappearing in a magic eight ball. Outlook not so good, ask again later. Oh whatever, fuck off. I don’t even have enough sense to regret the whole thing. So just fuck off.

The momentum of the door swinging open fueled her ire again, and she breathed it in, soaking it up., letting it fuel her. When the handle smacked against the wall, three heads whipped around to stare at her in shock. It looked so rehearsed, she couldn’t resist the urge to crack a sly smile. Carrillo’s nostrils flared. Yeah, that’s right. Fuck off. She strode between the two suits seated at each corner of his desk, to face him across it. He barely moved an inch, elbows propped up on the armrests of that big, obnoxious executive chair he sat in behind the desk.

Leaning forward, knuckles pressed flat on the papers strewn across like all of it was hers, she said cooly, “Sorry to interrupt, Colonel. But you’ve been dodging my calls, so thought it best to pay you a visit. Call it professional due diligence.”

He was fuming, dark eyes lit with indignation and what else was it? Maybe panic. But all that Boy-Scout-School-of-the-Americas training must’ve kicked in because he didn’t miss a beat. “Mm. Due diligence? About what, exactly?

“To ask you a simple but very important question.”

He waited.

“To ask how— after only a few months, just how is it that you think you already own the journalists in this city? I thought the point of bringing in an outsider was to avoid corruption, not perpetuate it by silencing the people’s right to free press. Or is that how you rolled back in Colombia? You and your Search Bloc.”

He knit his brows and, as if he just remembered they were there, glanced at the two men still seated, who watched them with a combination of confusion and the voyeuristic enthusiasm of a housewife watching her favorite novela.

“Gentlemen,” Carrillo cleared his throat and motioned to the door, “we’ll have to pick this up later.” His jaw hardened, eyes moving from the door to Andrea, going from resigned to livid in mere seconds. “It seems, despite her due diligence, Ms. Nuñez must not be that great a journalist because she doesn’t know how to take ‘no comment’ for an answer.”

That was a low fucking blow and he knew it. Well, what the man lacked for in hospitality, he more than made up for in emotional range. One of the men tipped his hat as he stood up and gave a sheepish shrug before heading to the door. The other nearly tripped over his chair on the way out, seemingly unable resist the temptation to observe them with wonder like a couple of zoo animals. Two fingers to her forehead, Andrea gave them a tiny salute filled to the brim with disdain.

Once the door closed, she rolled her head back around to face Carrillo, who looked like he could throttle her right there.

“If I were a man, you’d hit me right now, wouldn’t you?” she said like it was a dare. Ignoring the blaze of shock all over his face, she continued to press, still leaning over the desk. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Carrillo opened a drawer and rifled around for something. He came out with a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, lit it, and then leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

“Well?”

He took an infuriatingly long drag, and exhaled the smoke in her face, so that an opaque cloud now filled the space between them. On purpose. Naturally. This wasn’t his first rodeo with angry reporters. But this was his first rodeo with her. She straightened upright, waiting for him to speak.

“Well, before I can answer that, I have a follow-up question.”

She crossed her arms, swinging one hip out to the side, “O, sí?” inviting him to continue treading on dangerous conversational ground.

Nodding, “Sí, sí,” he flashed a cynical smirk that dissolved into a glare as he looked up at her and gave a perfunctory tap of his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk. “Just who the fuck do you think you are, barging into my office like this?”

“Just who the fuck do you think you are, putting a gag order on all press inquiries relating to Rebollo’s trial?” she shot back.

He dragged long and deep from his cigarette again like it was an oxygen mask, then said dismissively, “It’s a big case. A lot of moving parts. You know the judge makes that call, not me.”

“Wow, you really must believe I am that bad at my job if you think I’m naive enough to buy that bullshit. As if you have no sway with Mexican judges who can be bought for less than a few pesos.” She laughed bitter as battery acid, “Venga ya pues. No me shingües con esas mamadas, cabrón.”

There was a beat of silence before he stood up, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray, saying through gritted teeth, “No. I don’t think you’re bad at your job.” He rolled his eyes, grumbling, “That’s the entire problem. Cierto? Sí porque eres una cachorra con un pinche hueso entre tus dientes.”

Her eyes narrowed. What the fuck was he playing at paying her a compliment like that.

“What? What am I supposed to say? Thank you?”

A tacit desperation crept under his glare now, an equal measure of anger and pleading for her to understand.

Oh, no. That’s when she put it together. Oh, hell no. Her face fell and she dropped her arms to her sides. No. No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

“No. No me digas que t—“

His glare melted, eyes full of nothing but pleading now as he stepped around the desk to join her on the other side.

“Okay, yes I talked to the judge. But Andrea, I only sugges—“

“No.” She backed away, dropping her bag on the ground. “Don’t do that. You don’t get to say my name like you know me well enough to patronize me this way.”

“You have to underst—“

“Understand?? What do I need to understand??? Hmm? What? That I might get hurt? That my job is dangerous? That journalists in this town have a short fucking shelf life? Or oh, that you what? You care now? You’re what? Trying to protect me?”

“Look, Andrea.” She wished he’d stop saying her name. “I know you're tough. You can take care of yourself. But this is bigger than you and you're not bulletproof. The pockets this Rebollo had his hands in? They’re more dangerous than some thugs following you to work or harassing you in the street. They’ll ruin your reputation, your livelihood, take anything you have, maybe even have you killed.”

“That’s never stopped me before.”

Carrillo pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Andrea. After you’re gone, they’ll come after your colleagues, friends, family.” She could tell he was growing more defensive by the way he strained to keep his voice level. “Corruption on this scale does more than just ruffle feathers. The more you uncover, the further you dig, the easier it is to bury you and anyone you care for. And that’d be too hard to bear for anyone who might be starting t— well, maybe— who does care for you.”

Her chest burned. She was roiling with indignant fury, practically breathing fire, nostrils flared, hands balled into fists at her side. Este pinshe pendejo. They’d been working together for weeks now, and not once did it step outside the confines of professional conduct with the exception of the— well, it was just the one time. She’d assumed they were moving on because of course they were. What was one night in the backseat of her car when they were nothing to each other? Nothing. But now this, all of a sudden, out of the blue. Why? Because. Because he cared. Well, he’d neglected to fill her in on the feelings and the caring before taking it upon himself to violate a boundary, meddling in her work ostensibly on her behalf.

Oh, she was positively— she wanted— but no, she couldn’t— oh, but she fucking could though. She would if she could— she really could actually fucking punch him.

As she stood there, vibrating, ready to go nuclear, he stepped closer. “Now who’s the one who wants to hit someone?”

Barely beyond strangers, and yet, he understood her implicitly. It only made the whole thing all the more aggravating. He stepped closer again, until they were nearly chin to chin.

“Do it.”

She looked up, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“Do it,” he said again quietly, eyes virtually unreadable. “If that’s what you really want. Hit me.”

He was inscrutable. There was no more pleading. No humor. No anger either. Something else. Something baser. She thought about those smudges on her car window.

Her hand moved so quickly, he didn’t even have time to flinch. She slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him back a couple of steps. The blood rushed to his cheek, angry and red, as he turned back to face her with an expression of something like dazed admiration. He began to speak but before he got a word out, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close to bury him in a kiss so deep, the force of it nearly hurt her teeth. She inhaled the rumble that escaped from the back of his throat like it was a breath of life, before breaking away and shoving him back to sit on the desk.

Hooking his fingers in the belt loops of her jeans, he yanked her close, positioning her between his knees. She felt a tug at her hair as he pulled out her hair band. Catching his hand on its way down her shoulder, she brought it around her waist, sinking into another brutal kiss that had them both gasping for air. As one of her hands slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair and the other traveled down to palm the bulge in his pants, his hips bucked against hers and she felt a sharp sting as he bit her bottom lip. On reflex, she scrunched her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck and pulled so hard, he hissed.

Oh yeah, that felt good. She’d liked how it sounded and how he looked, head back like that, chin up, throat exposed. Getting lost in those deep, dark brown eyes, she kept him pinned in that position, regarding him for a moment. She suddenly found herself thinking about those nature documentaries on the Discovery Channel, ones where the lions take down gazelles, sharp canines puncturing their throats right there. His skin tasted salty as she tongued his neck in that very spot. If she were a wild animal, he’d be bleeding out on the floor for what he’d done. Trying to save the poor damsel-in-distress reporter from her own recklessness because oh, she can’t possibly know what’s good for her. That wasn't what it was until he made it that way. Co;onel Horacio Carrillo, our man in Mexico, nothing but a mouse in her trap.

Then she said, sincere but grave, “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I need you. I’ll never need you.” To soothe the wounded expression on his face, she planted a soft kiss on his mouth and trailed a few more along his jaw, mumbling as her lips made their way back down to his throat, “And that’s exactly why you love this.”

═

taglist: @drabbles-mc @narcolini @ashlingnarcos @cositapreciosa @narcosfandomdiscord

[narcosfandomdiscord]

narcos october masterlist ii

This masterlist is for days 11-25 of the @narcosfandomdiscord's october prompt event, which you can read about here and join in!

For days 1-10 of the event, check out masterlist i, and for days 26-31 of the event, check out masterlist iii.

(Note: character x character indicates a romantic/sexual relationship; character & character indicates a platonic one.)

October 11 — Day of Fun

Create a non-visual, non-fic fanwork: quiz, game, playlist, incorrect quotes.

↳ Narcos Incorrect Quotes by @proceduralpassion — many characters from OG & MX

October 12 — Day of Death

Kill a character who lives in canon.

↳ Behind The Curve by @drabbles-mc — Hugo Martinez Sr. & Hugo Martinez Jr, 1.4k

↳ It's You by @proceduralpassion — Rafa x Reader

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October 13 — Day of Life

Create a fanwork in which a character avoids their canonical death.

↳ Adamant by @drabbles-mc — Enedina x Claudio, 2k

↳ Undefined by @artemiseamoon — Danilo x OFC, 1.1k

↳ I'm The Sky To You by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x OFC, 1.1k

↳ Chasing ghosts and choices by @hausofmamadas — Enedina x Claudio, 1.7k

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October 14 — Day of Support

Create a review, response, or analysis of a Narcos or Narcos Mexico fic, in the style of an Amazon review or a NYT book review or something like that. Please keep it constructive and positive, no roasts.

↳ In defense of Wonderbread White: Eureka!Character moments by @hausofmamadas — Steve-centric fanfic analysis

↳ she's got the range by @ashlingnarcos — analysis of the #narcoctober fics written by @drabbles-mc

Quote prompt: “I got you.”

↳ Debts Paid by @drabbles-mc — Navegante & Salcedo ficlet

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October 15 — Day of Absolute Filth

Create a smut fanwork that includes three different kinks and/or sex acts (basically you could tag it with at least three tags that are Pure Filth).

↳ Control pt 2 by @artemiseamoon — Verdin x OFC 1.5k

↳ First on Speed Dial by @drabbles-mc — Steve x F!Reader 1.5k

↳ XTASY by @proceduralpassion — Rafa x Reader 1.4k

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October 16 — Day of Surprises

These prompts were revealed at the start of the day.

Create a fanwork that focuses on dreams, either literal or metaphorical.

↳ not in this life by @narcolini — Güero x Reader ficlet

↳ Crumbled to Dust by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo x F!Reader (+OC Diego Ramirez), 1.2k

↳ TO THE SMASH N GRAB CREW by @hausofmamadas — Smash & Grab Crew, also Kenny x Cici, gifset and meta

↳ One Uniform by @proceduralpassion — Trujillo focused ficlet

↳ To live and leave fast by @hausofmamadas — Andrea x Carrillo angst and smut, 2.3k

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October 17 — Day of Rare Treasures

Create a fanwork about a character that only shows up in one (1) season of the show. the rarer the better honestly

↳ Marta fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ One day at a time by @artemiseamoon — NYC hairdresser from Narcos S3, trauma recovery, 1.2k

↳ Cómo Puedo Ayudar? by @drabbles-mc — Sal & Cece Garza, 1.7k

↳ Denouemont by @proceduralpassion — Dani x Walt ficlet

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October 18 — Day of History

Create a fanwork about characters experiencing, participating in, or witnessing a real life historical event (could have been depicted in canon or not) e.g. moon landing.

↳ The Moon Landing by @garbinge — Javi & F!Reader, 1.3k

↳ Get To You by @proceduralpassion — Javi x OFC, 1.2k

Create a fanwork about two exes meeting unexpectedly.

↳ Ninety Days by @drabbles-mc — Walt x GN!Reader, 2.9k

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October 19 — Day of Hurt

Create a fanwork about a character so emotionally or physically hurt that they can’t help but start crying even though they don’t want to.

↳ Could've Been It by @proceduralpassion — Javi x OFC ficlet

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October 20 — Day of Comfort

Create a fanwork about a character getting exactly what they need from someone unexpected.

↳ Best Bet by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo & Connie, 1.3k

↳ Walls Closing In by @proceduralpassion — Amado x Reader ficlet

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October 21 — Day of Women Who Will Step On You For Free

Create a f/f-centric fanwork.

↳ At Your Service by @drabbles-mc — Andrea x F!Reader, 1.3k

↳ Don't Question by @proceduralpassion — Maria Elvira x F!Reader ficlet

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October 22 — Day of Cross-Fandom Pollination

Create a fanwork that includes at least one Narcos character and at least one character from another fandom.

↳ Flying In (1) by @drabbles-mc — Narcos OFC & multiple Narcos and Mayans MC characters, 2.8k

↳ Family Reunion by @drabbles-mc — Steve & Rick Flag (from Suicide Squad), 2.3k

↳ A Bad Habit by @artemiseamoon — Chepe x OFC, Lalo Salamanca x OFC, Better Call Saul crossover ficlet

↳ Borgias & Narcos Mexico crossover fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ And You? by @garbinge — Jax Teller (Sons of Anarchy) & Steve ficlet

↳ The Job by @proceduralpassion — Billy Russo (The Punisher Netflix) & Miguel ficlet

The occupational hazards of living by @hausofmamadas — Rust Cohle (from True Detective) & Barrón, 4.5k

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October 23 — Day of Threes

Create a fanwork that includes three items you can currently see.

↳ Sweet Dreams, Angel by @proceduralpassion — Steve x Connie ficlet

Create a fanwork including three canon characters. extra difficult version: three canon characters that have never met.

↳ Acquaintances at Best by @drabbles-mc — 3 characters are: Steve, Jorge Salcedo, Don Berna, also Steve & Javi, 2.7k

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October 24 — Day of Monsters

Create a fanwork about a character turning into a supernatural creature.

↳ Wolf Pack by @artemiseamoon — Ramón & OC ficlet

↳ Amado as an angel fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ Night of the Comet by @proceduralpassion — Walt x Reader ficlet

Quote prompt: “The world isn’t made up of heroes and monsters. Just broken people balancing between the two.”

↳ Hard to hate up close by @hausofmamadas — Andrea & OC, 3.2k

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October 25 — Day of Wow, That Escalated Quickly

Create a fanwork that begins in a canon-compatible place, but ends up going somewhere more dramatic.

↳ Distant Echoes by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x Juliana ficlet

[narcolini]

not in this life

güero x gn!reader, sort of pining, sort of enemies, 795 words for day 16 of narcoctober: dreams a/n: plot? i don't know her! AU? quite possibly! don't ask questions because i do not have answers <3 tagging: @narcosfandomdiscord @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa @ashlingiswriting @hausofmamadas

There’s no opening, no invite, no explanation. No route that he can remember. Only you and him, in the home you’ve never stepped foot in, because you didn’t know him then. One minute elsewhere, and the next—

‘Güero?’

He hums, head lifting from nothing, to find you across the room. 

‘Can I?’

You’re standing by his wardrobe, fingers dug deep into the shirts within. Ready before he’s even answered.

He shrugs. ‘If they fit.’

‘Of course they’ll fit.’ You pull a brown striped one from its hanger and put it over your shoulder, freeing your hands to unbutton your own. ‘I told him the colt was a bad pick,’ you say.

‘He’ll learn.’

‘Acosta, or…?’

‘Don’t.’ He sighs. ‘Both.’

You’re pleased with that, his warning and his submission. He clocks it on your face before it’s away again. ‘But seriously,’ you continue, ‘how long will that take?’

‘How long have you got?’

You laugh, half turning toward him. He watches it twitch out of you, watches your rib cage go in and out again afterwards, between the column of open buttons. In this world, he’s allowed to look. That’s obvious without asking, or hearing you say it, that’s beneath the bones themselves. In the blood. 

He can look. You want him to look. 

‘Shingamadre's ruined every shirt I’ve put on this week,’ you complain, moving again to show him the horseshoe stamped onto your checkered back. There must be a matching one beneath the cotton, raised and discoloured, hot to the touch from the swelling, but you turn again as the shirt drops; he’s left staring at your chest when you pull on the replacement. His shirt over your shoulders, his buttons bracketing your navel.

‘It doesn’t hurt?’ he asks.

A smile slings across your cheeks, point to point. ‘Not at all.’

He can’t match it. His head shakes. ‘You’re crazy.’ 

Then you’re in front of him—in exchange of a reply—having never moved, or raised a foot, but being right there all the same, hot breath to his neck, hands comfortable on his collar. ‘Crazy enough to say no to?’ you ask.

‘No.’ 

‘Never?’

‘I don’t like boring,’ he explains. ‘You aren’t boring.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I do,’ he says, ‘but this is a dream, so it doesn’t count.’

You pull back. You kiss him. You don’t touch him at all.

‘What?’

He says it again into the black. ‘This is a dream.’

*

When he wakes, you’re standing over him. You as you are every day, in your own clothes, with that usual indifferent expression. It sits on him like that was what summoned him back, not the sudden awareness of himself, of his false consciousness, but the call of that look you give him every fucking day. 

It’s not quite hatred, but it’s a distaste constant enough to sting just the same. 

‘You fell asleep again,’ you snark, tossing his car keys onto his chest. They land with a thud, cold metal hitting his gold chain. ‘I’m bored of waiting.’

He sighs, dragging a flat, dry palm across his face. ‘We’ll go then.'

‘They’ve called twice already.’

‘I said we’ll go.’ 

‘You also said you were done sleeping on the job.’

He sits upright, unable to stop the low groan that follows. This couch was never made for naps. It’s barely made for sitting at all. He flexes his shoulders to no avail, then gives you a look instead of a warning, also to no avail. 

‘You could have driven yourself,’ he says, low and unconvinced of the idea. He’s only saying it to say it. And because there’s enough sleep around his tongue to lead it astray. 

You don’t move as he stands, putting him and yourself face to face in defiance. ‘Are you dreaming still?’ you ask, scoffing in between. ‘Drive myself?’

‘We’re going.’ He pushes past you, avoiding your shoulder, avoiding the image of your shirt, un-done to your waist. ‘But it’s the last time.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ You’re following him, mocking him. ‘Because that’s your decision to make.’

It will be, one day. Once he’s left the dreams behind and the ranks under his feet. Once you’re the one driving him. 

‘Do you know horses?’ he asks, light like it’s small talk and not an anchor in the deep.

You’re frowning, no doubt, he can feel the scrutiny in the back of his head. But you humour him with an answer all the same, ‘No, never liked them.’

‘Good,’ he says, ‘then it’s a nightmare, not a dream,’ and he doesn’t expand, and you don’t ask. You just walk in silence, car keys rattling from the hook of his finger. He’s awake and welcomes it, all thoughts of borrowed shirts and unbroken colts, left on the shallow couch behind.