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spooky-pomegranate · 9 months

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Pablo's Ghost (Part 4)

Colonel Carrillo x F Reader (18+) 🔥 Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: After ten months apart, Carrillo shows you how badly he’s missed you. (Part 1) (Part 2)(Part 3)

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There’s something to be said about expectations. While it’s true they often unceremoniously faded away when life can no longer compete with the vivid nature of dreams, expectations are born from observations. They’re created after listening, watching, and experiencing the world and people around us. They’re a dream of what could be based on what has been.

And your expectations of Carrillo were no different. They were created from your memories, from the years you had spent watching him, listening to him, and yearning for him. You didn’t mean to craft them, but they existed within you just the same.

During your time in Colombia, you’d seen Carrillo use his strength to be rough. His powerful arms pushed, grappled, and tossed his enemies around like they were nothing more than rag-dolls. His large hands clawed, punched, and dug aggressively into the flesh of those who dared to cross him. And his deft fingers jabbed, scratched, and squeezed around the throats of sicarios who tried in their wicked ways to tear his country apart.

But as you lay there beneath him, feeling his weight press down upon you every expectation you had of Carrillo was challenged. Where you had expected him to be rough he was soft. Where you had expected him to be fast he was slow and where you had expected him to be mean he was gentle.

The same arms that threw men to the ground carefully held you against him. The same hands that left bruising marks on his enemies, traced delicate patterns across your ribs. And the same fingers that squeezed the triggers of violent weapons, caressed you with a touch so loving it took your breath away.

When you had crawled onto your bed and spread your legs open for him you had meant it as a challenge. You’d hope he’d snap like a wild animal deprived of food and devour you whole. But he hadn’t. He’d told you he wanted to give you more than that. He told you that you deserved more than that. And it was then you knew that Carrillo wasn’t going to fuck you. He was going to break every expectation you had of him and he was going to make love to you. He was going to leave you satiated in ways you had never imagined.

It had started when propped up on your elbows and spread wide open, you had begged him.

“Horacio, I have never loved anyone the way that I love you. I want you. All of you. So please Carrillo… please, I can’t wait any longer. I want to lose myself in you.”

And then he smiled and answered you with a honeyed question.

“Then how could I ever deny you, mi amor?”

It was then he had moved slowly toward the foot of your bed, reaching for the hem of his polo and carefully lifting it over his head. His broad chest was exposed to you for the very first time and you couldn’t help but trail your eyes over his muscles, his beautiful skin, his patch of tufted dark hair that trailed deliciously from his lower stomach into his trousers.

And then you saw them—the healed marks, the remnants of Pablo’s fury, the bullet wounds. There were half a dozen of them, each small, round, and pinkish. The scars were a reminder of how hard Carrillo must have fought to get back here… to come home to you. They made your heartache and you whispered his name.

“Carrillo.”

At the sound of your voice, he moved.

Underneath you, the bed dipped as he sunk one knee onto the mattress and then the other. His hands tenderly reached for your ankles, his calloused palms touching you with a reverence reserved for the most delicate and holy of creatures. Then his lips followed, giving each joint a fleeting and dulcet kiss.

You wanted to tell him how beautiful he looked revering you, but your words caught in your throat. You were entirely too enraptured with the view before you. He was a vision you never expected. He was something so much sweeter.

Carrillo continued his adoration, touching and kissing every inch of you: your legs, your knees, your thighs, your stomach, your ribs. Nothing was left untouched, nothing was left unworshipped. And every time he reached a new place you managed to find a way to breathlessly thank him for his affection. Your hands stroked his arms, you brushed back his soft hair, and you trailed lingering lines across the taut muscles of his abdomen. All the while you offered him bawdy praises that’d dripped from your mouth like sugary syrup.

“You feel so good.” “You look incredible.” “You’re so strong.” You had said.

And that’s how you found yourself here with Carrillo’s body hovering over you and all of your expectations of him completely and utterly shattered. But it was perfect and you couldn’t get enough.

He brought his lips up to the shell of your ear.

“Let me see all of you,” he whispered and you willingly obeyed.

Wordlessly, with one arm you reached behind your back and unclasped your bra. Your breasts spilled out before him and Carrillo groaned. The vibrations of his moan reached straight to your core, and like adding fuel to a raging bonfire, your desire for him burned hotter.

Carrillo’s lips left the shell of your ear and he kissed down the side of your jaw, to your neck, and then lower until his mouth found your breasts. His tongue swirled slowly around your nipple before he sucked it gently into his mouth.

Still propped up on your elbows you couldn’t help but arch into his touch. You whined as Carrillo slid his hands behind your back to pull you closer. He continued to lick, suck, and kiss you until his mouth moved from to your other breast and again you cried out as he lavished it with the same rapt attention. It was all so much and at the same time not nearly enough.

“Please…” you whimpered.

You reached down and thread your hand through Carrillo’s hair, tugging at him until, with a loud and wet pop, he finally let go of your peaked nipple.

“Si, mi amor?” He asked innocently.

Carrillo's gaze met yours and you nearly melted in a puddle. The combination of love and lust he held behind his chestnut eyes was too perfect. But still, you wanted to see something more. You wanted to see him come undone.

“I want to taste you, Horacio,” you said before pushing forward and kissing him, your tongue swirling inside his mouth.

Carrillo pulled back, before resting his forehead against yours. He took a deep breath.

“Do you mean-” he started.

“Yes.” You didn’t let him finish.

Carrillo buried his head into the crook of your neck.

“Aye dios, dame fuerzas,” he mumbled into your skin before quickly pinning you to his chest and rolling you both over. You yelped in surprise at the abrupt way Carrillo moved you both with such ease. It made him laugh and it made you smile.

Your legs were straddling his still clothed thighs and your hands rested on his bare chest. You could feel his heart beat rapidly underneath your sprawling palms as you pushed yourself upright. His chest rose and fell more rapidly than it had before. You could tell that he liked this, you on top of him, his head resting against your pillow that smelled like your perfume. You wonder if he wanted this from the moment he entered your apartment. You wonder if he’d fantasized about this while you were apart.

Carrillo slid his hands down your back to your hips and his grip tightened ever so slightly as you leaned forward to give him another gentle kiss. At the feeling of his fingers digging into your skin, you unconsciously rocked your hips forward. And then you felt it… Carrillo’s desire for you, rock hard and still trapped underneath the fabric of his khakis.

“Mhmmm,” he groaned.

The bonfire inside you became an inferno. You rocked your hips again. Carrillo’s groan became a growl.

“Cariño,” he said looking up at you, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them, “are you trying to tease me?”

Your eyes closed and your head fell back as you slide your hands down his chest and over his scars until they brushed the waistband of his pants.

“No. I just…” Your voice faded into silence as your fingers played with the button on his khakis.

“Are you nervous, mi vida?” Carrillo asked his own voice husky and low. You sighed before answering.

“No. I just want you so badly. I’ve wanted this for so long. I… I can’t believe you’re real. I can’t believe you came back to me.”

You leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss over a scar just below his right shoulder. Your lips lingered around the mark before moving to another scar on his chest. His skin, tan and smooth, tasted salty against your lips. Carrillo closed his eyes and stayed silent, letting your lips trace over every healed wound. When you’d kissed the last scar by his waist he reached for your cheek, gently cupping your face in his hands.

“You asked me to fight and I promised you that I would cariño.” You looked up at him, your eyes wide and glossy. “You have to know by now that I would do anything for you. Anything you ask of me, I’ll give it to you.”

“Horacio.” You whispered his name with the same holy reverence he had touched you with and it made his heart skip. He wondered what he’d done to deserve something as sweet and beautiful as you.

You slide further down Carrillo’s legs and as you did your eyes immediately fell to the place where you had ground against him. A wet spot remained, darkening the light fabric. With anyone else you might have been embarrassed but with Carrillo it only made you more aroused.

You made short work of the button and zipper on his khakis before Carrillo lifted his hips and you pushed his pants and boxers off his frame. And then the world stopped. Your breath caught in your throat. Now sprung forth from his underwear, Carrillo again subverted your expectations. He was slightly bigger and so much thicker than you ever could have imagined. The tip of his cock was reddening and a single bead of pre-cum leaked down the side.

You reached out tentatively and took hold of him in your hand. As you ran your thumb over his tip you tried to imagine him inside of you. You immediately felt a thudding pulse in between your thighs.

“God, you’re so big,” you whined as you began to stroke him slowly up and down, your fingers brushing over his bulging veins. Carrillo groaned and his hips shifted forward seeking more of your touch.

“I know cariño. I know. You don’t have to- hughhhh,” Carrillo’s voice cut out as your lips wrapped around his cock and you pushed him deep into your mouth. His head fell back against your pillow as you bobbed up and down, taking him as far as you could without choking. You hummed around him, enjoying his slightly salty and musky taste.

“You look so pretty like this,” Horacio hissed, after propping himself up on his elbows so he could watch you better. And god was he ever enraptured with the view. Your lips were stretching, your cheeks hollowing, your saliva dripping everywhere… god you were making him feel so good.

You pushed your head way down to his base and Carrillo dug his hands into your hair… fuckkk maybe you were making him feel too good.

“Querida…” he said, practically begging. “Easy, mi amor. I don’t want to be done with you so soon.”

Your heart fluttered as you pulled away and looked up. He was panting, his body strung tight with tension. He reached for your hands and as you interlocked your fingers with his he pulled you back towards his lips.

There was more fire behind his kiss this time. It still wasn’t bruising when he slot his mouth over yours and chased after your tongue but it was more intense. It was more possessive. It was more demanding. And it was unquestionably more exhilarating too. Knowing you had this kind of power over the strongest man in Columbia made the inferno growing in your chest spread.

You felt like you were burning. He felt like he was burning. You didn’t know how much longer you both could tease each other like this. You were going to explode. But Carrillo must have sensed your patient was running thin because he moved quickly, rolling you over again so your back was on the mattress and he was pressed on top of you.

You smiled so big that he couldn’t help but smile back at you.

“I like when you do that,” you said, squeezing his hands that were still interlocked with yours, “I like it when you toss around me like I'm nothing.”

Carrillo's eyes turned dark. He realized maybe he didn’t need to hold himself back as much with you. Maybe you wanted things to be a bit rougher, a little bit more aggressive. He could do that. He could be that man for you. He let go of your hands.

And then Carrillo reached in between your thighs and in one quick and powerful move ripped away your underwear, pulling it off your body and tossing it to the floor. You yelped again and his smile inadvertently turned wicked. He liked coaxing these noises out of you. These little whimpers and whines… they were better than anything he had dreamt about over the past ten months.

He slid his hand down your ribs, over your stomach, and then to your thighs. But before he could sink his fingers into your wet cunt, you pulled at his wrist, yanking his hand away.

“I don’t want to wait anymore. Please…” You begged as you pushed your hips toward him, rubbing up against his hard cock.

“Mierda,” he hissed before grabbing your hands again and pinning them above your head on the mattress. Carrillo kept you there with one hand while his other hand grabbed his cock. He lined himself up with you.

“Are you sure, mi vida? Tell me you’re ready.” Carrillo asked, his voice practically a growl as he slowly stroked himself.

“I’m ready,” your voice was ragged and desperate, “I love you.”

He pushed into you and you whined again, loudly. You really hoped Steve and Javier weren’t home right now, because you knew this was just going to be just the beginning of the noises Carrillo was going to draw from you tonight. You squeezed your eyes shut and dug your fingers into his hands, searching for something to ground you to bring you back to earth. The pain and pleasure coursing through your body made your head spin. It was perfect. He was perfect.

Carrillo didn’t know if he could move. He didn’t know if he could breathe. You felt so good wrapped around him that his mind was going totally blank. For a long moment, you both froze. You stayed motionless and joined together with his throbbing cock halfway inside you.

But eventually, Carrillo moved again, finding the strength to set a steady and slow pace. It was intoxicating and you knew he felt it too. Carrillo struggled to stay silent above you. He groaned and mumbled a slew of incoherent Spanish phrases in your ear. There was something about how pretty you looked, how tight you felt, how sweet you sounded.

And with every thrust, every roll of his hips, every single growl he gave you, it pushed you closer to the edge. You felt a knot tighten in your stomach.

“Horacio I’m going to…”

“Come for me, mi amor.”

Then with a particularly vicious snap of his hips, you felt the knot uncoil as the world went white and fuzzy around you. You called his name again and again as your back arched off the mattress and he finally let go of your hands. You wrapped your arms around his neck and his hands found purchase on your back.

“Me estás volviendo loco,” he said as he pulled you upright.

You both were kneeling together on the mattress as he continued to thrust up into you. The new angle sent you hurtling toward another orgasm. He was deeper now, inside you completely to the hilt.

“You’re so good for me, cariño… so good,” he breathed into your ear as one of his hands slid up your back and into your hair. You rested your forehead into the crook of his neck, trying desperately to hold on. But when he spoke next, you couldn’t control yourself. His words were too sweet.

“Te amo más que a nada. Mi corazón es tuyo… tuyo.”

That was it. You let go. You dropped off of a cliff and slipped out of your body as you fell. Carrillo felt your orgasm take claim of you. The pulsing waves of your orgasm were sluggish and each undulation took its time washing over you in long drawn-out swells.

Your body went weak. Your cunt spasmed around his cock, squeezing him, pulling him further inside you. Carrillo couldn’t control himself. He groaned low and deep and with one final thrust, he joined you. The knot you had felt in your stomach had tightened around his cock and you pulled every drop of his warm cum deep inside you. With heavy limbs, you clung to one another.

Carrillo gently laid you both down on the bed. You curled into his massive frame, resting your chin on his shoulder and your leg draped over his hip. He drew small and delicate circles over the skin of your ribs and your side. You both stared into each other’s eyes as you tried to catch your breath. Carrillo smiled at you enjoying the feeling of finally having you, holding you, being with you… but eventually, his smile faded and so did yours.

“I’m sorry cariño…” he whispered breaking the tender silence. His voice was so soft that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.

“What?” You whispered back in surprise at the sudden shift in his mood. “Why are you sorry?”

“I should have come back to you sooner.” He said buring his head against your neck. Your heart ached. You thread your hand into his hair before kissing the side of his face.

“Why… why didn’t you? Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

Carrillo sighed before pulling back from you to look into your eyes.

“I wanted to be as strong as I was before.” He paused. You could see from the way his jaw was clenching and unclenching that he was trying to consider his next words carefully.

“I wish I could just run away from here with you and leave this all behind but…” his voice faded into the night. His heartbeat felt uneasy in his chest.

How could he be so stupid? Now that he had you he didn’t want to leave you, but surely you would leave him. Surely you wouldn’t want to go through this hell with him again. And he shouldn't ask you to. You’d been through enough pain already. You should just leave him tonight and never look back. That would be best for you.

“You can’t,” you said dropping your hand from his hair.

“No. I can’t. I’m sorry cariño. I know you deserve more, but I can’t let him win. Someone has to stop him.”

You sat up and Carrillo’s heart stopped. Was this it? Was this the moment you told him you couldn’t watch him fight Pablo again? Was this the last happy moment he would have in this god-forsaken country? Was this the last happy moment of his life?

Fuck. He should have said this to you right away. He should have told you the moment he walked in your door that he was still going to go after Pablo despite it all. Despite the odds stacked against him. Despite the fact that he’d nearly been put in the ground twice already. Despite the fact that he loved you.

Carrillo couldn’t look at you. Tears filled his eyes. The room felt cold as silence took hold.

But then your soft hand reached out and cupped his cheek.

“I know who you are Horacio.” He met your eyes and you smiled. “I knew if you came back to me you would still be the man you always were. A fighter. A leader. A warrior…” you paused, breathing deeply.

“You’ve always been what Colombia needs Horacio. It’s always been you.”

Carrillo felt like he’d surfaced from the depths of icy cold water. Oxygen flooded back into his lungs, burning him with a bitter sting. He sat up alongside you.

“I won’t let you do this alone.” You continued, your voice as sweet as honey. “I’ll stand next to you through it all. I love you. Te amo.”

Carrillo pushed forward and kissed you again. You were the most perfect thing he’d ever known. You were his beautiful and perfect cariño. His voice waivered as he whispered against your lips.

“Te amo. I love you.”

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#horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo #narcos #maurice compte #colonel horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo x you #colonel carrillo x reader #horacio carillo x you #horacio carrillo x reader

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mlmxreader · 2 years

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Alone Together At Last | Horacio Carrillo x gn!reader

Anonymous asked: Yeah, I think my request might‘ve been swallowed.

No worries though!

I requested a Carrillo x gn!reader fic where his sir kink sorta slips out. Reader responds to something he says with a "yes sir" as a joke but he goes just a little bit feral… hehe

Also, a prompt!

"You gonna be good?"

summary: Carrillo doesn’t usually have days off, he rarely takes them, but he’s awfully glad when he finally does and when he’s finally got you all to himself.

tws: biting, grinding, Sir kink, praise kink

word count: 1087

MINORS DNI

Finally, Carrillo had a couple of days off, it wasn’t much but at the very least it was something and it actually gave you a chance to spend some time with him privately; a chance to actually be alone together, to drown in the presence of each other without having to worry about someone walking in, without having to worry about him being pulled away from you after a phone call. A chance to be alone together. A chance to stop missing him so fucking much all the time. You would visit him when he was at the office, but that… that was never enough; it was not enough to sit in some cramped and humid room at opposite ends, hardly being able to know that he was there, never to touch him, never to kiss him unless he was going somewhere, unless he was leaving. But now you didn’t have to worry about that, when you woke up with your head on his shoulder, able to feel the warmth of his flesh on your face as you realised that one hand was on his stomach, able to feel it rise and fall gently as you slowly became more awake; he had one hand on your bicep, keeping you close as the other laid on his stomach, just out of your reach. The warmth of the late morning was starting to creep through the curtains, a golden haze peeking through the gaps in the thick red; the sound of the radio playing quietly on the other end of the bedroom. You couldn’t stop yourself from humming along to ‘Dr. Feelgood’ by Mötley Crüe; you never could resist the likes of them, even going so far as to gently tap his stomach, drumming your fingers on his soft and warm skin.

Carrillo grumbled, but made no effort to move as he opened his eyes and looked at what you were doing, daring to smile a little when he caught the sound of the song. “Can you stop? Some of us are trying to sleep, tigre.”

“Yes, Sir,” you laughed quietly, ceasing to drum his skin. He almost missed it. “Sorry.”

A soft growl escaped him as he made a move to get you beneath him, slowly and lazily pinning you down with his forearms either side of your head as he tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brows. “What did you just call me?”

“Sir,” you breathed out, putting your hands on his chest as you dared to smile, but when he ground against you, you couldn’t help but to whimper quietly. “Fuck…”

Carrillo didn’t hesitate, pressing his face to your neck and pressing an open mouthed kiss to the skin before he bit down, tugging at it and sucking it into your mouth, the vibrations from the growl that escaped him echoing across the flesh in his mouth. Leaving the marks from his teeth imprinted on you when he pulled away and bucked his hips against you. “Say that again.”

“Sir,” you could feel it in your stomach and within your bones, a bubbling excitement that made you bury one hand in his short hair, the other at the back of his neck as you desperately tried to keep him close, hoping he would keep biting you. “God, please, Sir… don’t stop.”

“You gonna be good?” Carrillo asked hoarsely, his voice still groggy and thick with sleep as he dared to lick at where he had bitten you. “Huh?”

“Yes, Sir,” you nodded, so fucking eager and so fucking needy as you rolled your hips against him, desperate for more. Needing and craving more. “I’ll be good for you, Sir.”

“Good,” he praised softly, sinking his teeth into the next spot, the one right next to your throat that always made you so fucking weak for him. Knowing exactly what he was doing when he moved one hand down between your bodies and rested it on the waistband of your boxers. Your skin was so warm, and the taste of it when he bit and sucked and licked at it was more than intoxicating; if he could have, Carrillo would have spent eternity like that.

Biting and licking and sucking at your neck, grinding against you and revelling in the way that you called him Sir; he could have stayed like that forever, but when you started begging for his touch, he had to pull away, he had to leave that sweet paradise so that he could look into your eyes, could see the way you were already pleading for him. So well behaved. So good.

“Behave for me,” Carrillo started, gently running his finger from your temple to your jaw before tenderly taking your chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilting your head back against the soft pillows so he could get a better look at your eyes as he smiled. “Be good for me, and I’ll make sure you’re rewarded… understand, tigre?”

You nodded, which got you rewarded with a soft slap to your waist and a sharp reminder to use your words. “Yes, Sir, I understand. I’ll be good. I’ll behave.”

“That’s it,” he praised softly, daring to press a kiss to your forehead. “Be good and keep using your words. Keep telling me what you want, what you like - and I’ll make sure you’re rewarded for it.”

“Yes, Sir,” you swallowed thickly, almost gulping audibly as your breath hitched in your throat for a moment, excitement getting the better of you for just a split second as you kept your eyes on him. Fuck, he could ruin you and the only thing you would do in return was thank him. “Please, Sir, I want you to keep biting me and to keep grinding against me - please. Sir.”

“You’re so good for me,” Carrillo praised gently as he ground his hips against you, daring to sink his teeth into your neck once more, doing his best not to smile when you shuddered and whimpered out a beg for him to keep going.

“Please, Sir,” your voice was ragged. “I’ll be good.”

The morning, as it turned out, was going to be more fun than Carrillo had first expected and had first thought, but he couldn’t wait to see what would happen; sure, it was late in the morning, far later than he usually got up on most days, but he had you all to himself at last. He could finally be alone with you, you could be alone together at last.

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG

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flightlessangelwings · 6 months

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Ktober 2023 Day 31- Free choice

Fee use orgy with the Narcos boys

Horacio Carrillo x Javier Peña x Steve Murphy x fem!reader

Word count- 2.9k

Warnings- s.mut (18+ ONLY!), restraints, blindfold, free use, group sex, piv, anal, oral, pussy slapping, overstim, multiple orgasms, fingering, praise, no use of y/n (there's a lot in this one so please let me know if I forgot anything!)

About this reader- stated to be involved with both Carrillos but I left it vague so it's open to interpretation, also mentioned she used to be involved with Javi but again it's open to interpretation, hinted to be bisexual but can be left up to you how you read it, no physical descriptions other than body parts

Notes- Going out with a bang here literally lol! Oh I had so much fun with this one so I hope y'all have just as much fun reading it! And by far this is the longest fic of the month. Prompt list made by me! Enjoy!

@flightlessangelwings-updates is myupdate blog so please follow that too and turn on post notifs to stay up to date on my new fics!

“Peña. Murphy. My office,” Colonel Carrillo ordered the two men. It was late in the day, and only a skeleton crew still lingered behind.

The two agents looked at each other with a serious expression before they silently stood and followed the Colonel. He seemed stiff, and his expression was unreadable. Neither Steve nor Javi knew what to make of him at that moment.

Carrillo glanced around the empty office as half the lights shut off on their own, leaving the three men in shadows. He inhaled deeply, puffing out his chest as he did so.

Once Javier and Steve reached the doorway of Carrillo’s office, he paused and turned to them, “It has come to my attention that the two of you have been working too hard lately.”

“And?” Steve huffed as he crossed his arms. Javier mirrored the action.

Carrillo flashed a smirk before he opened his office door, “This way.”

Javier and Steve exchanged one last glance before they followed into the dark office. Carrillo was right behind them, and they noticed that he closed and locked the door before he flicked the lights on. And when the two men laid eyes on what surprise the colonel had in store for them, their mouths dropped open in shock.

“Hello boys,” you purred from where you were laid out on the desk.

“Wait a second,” Steve sounded flustered as he tripped over his words.

Javier just grinned, “I didn’t think you had it in you,” he turned to address you by name, “How did you get roped into this?”

“This is some shit Javi would think up. Not you,” Steve interjected.

Carrillo raised his hands in surrender as his eyes dropped to the floor, “This was her idea actually,” he sounded uncharacteristically sheepish at the confession.

The grin never left your face, entertained by the expression of shock and confusion on Steve and Javier’s faces. Finding you naked and tied to Carrillo’s desk was the last thing they expected. But, you had a feeling this was just the perfect remedy they needed.

“Horacio has been under a lot of pressure lately,” you explained, “Juliana and I can tell when he’s off. And… We came up with this arrangement,” you shimmied your shoulders as much as you could while bound by Carrillo’s tight binds, letting the rest explain itself.

Steve and Javier looked at Carrillo. Then, Steve turned to Javier, “How do you know her then?”

“We have a history,” Javier left it at that. His eyes never left the Colonel, though, surprised to find you of all people involved with him.

“Wait, wait,” Steve protested, “I have a wife, you know.”

“You could have brought her too,” you smirked, giving Steve a wink when his eyes locked with yours.

That made Steve blush. Javier covered his face to hide the proud smirk at the fact that you accomplished that. But, his own gaze wandered back to your tied, naked figure spread out of Carrillo’s desk. He clenched his fist as he thought about everything he would easily do to you while you were like that. He couldn’t help the thoughts that popped into his head.

Feeling his gaze on you, you looked up to meet his eyes and your breath caught in your chest for a moment. It wasn’t until you saw Carrillo move from around him and saunter over to you that you remembered to breathe again.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Carrillo’s commanding voice broke the tension in the room, “She is here for us to use. Get whatever shit you’re holding onto out. And tomorrow, we start fresh.”

Carrillo looked you over, admiring his handiwork. He reached out and gently caressed your body with the back of his hand, causing you to gasp. Your eyes fluttered shut as you savored the light, teasing touch of him, and goosebumps erupted on your skin wherever his hand grazed. Knowing exactly what spots drove you wild, Carrillo gave you light pinches and squeezes, murmuring your name with praise.

“You know your signal if you need to stop,” he spoke softly in your ear as he pulled something out of his pocket.

“I do,” you whispered back as you opened your eyes and were met with his handsome face just inches from yours.

“Good,” Carrillo leaned in and kissed you deeply as he yanked the bandana in his hand taut. Vaguely, you both heard groaning from the other end of the room, and you knew the others were enjoying the little display. He broke away from the kiss, placing one last light one between your eyes before he tied the bandana securely around them, blocking your vision and leaving you even more helpless.

You couldn’t stop the moan as a rush of excitement ran through your veins. It had been a secret fantasy for this to happen, and when the opportunity presented itself, you jumped on it. You arched your back as you felt a hand, Carrillo’s, ran across your chest and stomach, tracing a random pattern until it grabbed your breast firmly. You cried out as he pinched your nipple and rolled it between his calloused fingers.

Javier and Steve watched with sharp eyes as Carrillo caressed your body. They felt the heat all the way on the other side of the office, and they felt just as captivated as you were. Javier had no qualms about what Carrillo proposed from the start, and he unbuttoned his shirt and belt without another word. Even Steve, who was hesitant at first, felt drawn to you, and he too loosened his shirt.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she?” Carrillo smirked with pride as he squeezed your breasts again, making you moan.

The way Carrillo had you tied left you on full display for the men in the room. Your legs were tied to each corner of the desk, spreading them wide and leaving your dripping pussy fully exposed. Your arms were tied together above your head at the other end of the desk, pushing your breasts up. The binds were so tight that you could barely even wriggle from side to side, but you assured Carrillo before he went to get the other two that you were comfortable like this.

You were going to be here for a while after all.

“She is,” Javier murmured as his eyes landed on your cunt. His cock involuntarily twitched in his pants, but all he could think about was devouring your pussy.

Faintly, Steve hummed in agreement as he unzipped his pants.

Javier dropped down to his knees, careful not to touch you so that it would come as a surprise when he finally did. It took a great deal of restraint, but once he was settled between your bound parted legs, he reeled forward and covered your pussy with his mouth, immediately sucking at you hard. You let out a loud scream and arched your back at the sensation.

“That’s it,” Carrillo cooed as he watched Javier lick at your folds.

Without your sight, every move was a surprise, and it only turned you on more. Feeling the tongue against your clit drove you wild, and your moans quickly grew louder and louder. Suddenly, you felt another pair of hands on your breasts, and you cried out when your mind caught up to you and you realized all three men were touching you now.

Not knowing who was where added to the thrill for you. Yet, you had a feeling that it was Javier who was currently between your legs, licking and sucking at you with abandon. The two pairs of hands that caressed your breasts kneaded you harder, and one hand trailed up your body to push two fingers into your mouth. You wrapped your lips around the digits, running your tongue up and down and sucking at the tip without hesitation. The groan the hand’s owner let out went right to your core.

Javier groaned into you, feeling the pulse of need. He grabbed your thighs and picked up his pace with his tongue, rolling it up and down your folds before pushing it into your entrance a few times. His cock ached with need as he tasted you, but he wanted to make you fall apart first. And soon, once his tongue hit your clit again, Javier got what he wanted.

You came without warning, your legs shaking on either side of Javier’s face as you screamed loudly around the finger in your mouth. In the darkness of your blindfold, you saw stars as Javier didn’t relent, working you through your orgasm until a second one hit before you even came down from the first.

Javier broke away with a loud breath, taking in fresh air for the first time. He sat back and admired his handiwork as your pussy glistened before him. He murmured your name as his hand caressed your cunt, running his fingers up and down a few times before he pushed two inside of you.

“That’s it,” he purred as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, making you moan again.

But, just as he was about to pick up his pace, Carrillo grabbed his wrist and forced him out of you, causing both you and Javier to let out sounds of protest. Carrillo looked at Javier with a sharp expression as he shook his head. The message was loud and clear without the words needed: don’t hog her.

Carrillo chose not to speak on purpose, he wanted to keep you guessing who was where, and he wanted every action to surprise you. Without your sight or ability to move, he accomplished just that.

You whimpered when you felt one pair of hands break off of your breast, but immediately screamed when you felt a hand slap your pussy. You jolted in your restraints as the hand slapped your pussy again and you cried out in pleasure.

Steve watched as Carrillo slapped your pussy again, and he couldn’t ignore his down needs. So, he pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pushed his pants down to his ankles, freeing his cock. He stroked it a few times before he gently slapped your cheek with it in a silent order for you to open your mouth. You complied, parting your lips for whoever was next to you, and Steve couldn’t help but praise you.

“Good girl,” he groaned as he slipped his cock past your lips and into your mouth. He let out a low growl as your warmth engulfed him, and you played with his cock with your tongue. Fuck, you were good at this, he thought.

While your mouth was busy with Steve, Carrillo and Javier turned their attention to between your legs. Both men ran their fingers along your already spent cunt, causing you to gasp around Steve’s cock. But, their next action took you even more off guard.

You felt two fingers enter your pussy, easily since you were already so turned on and wet from cumming twice. You moaned around Steve’s cock as you felt the thick fingers fill you up, and your mouth dropped open when they crooked and hit that sweet spot inside you. As those fingers continued to massage the inside of you, you felt another finger poke at your other hole, making you gasp.

Slowly, carefully, the finger entered you, and you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. You felt a hand on your breast, squeezing and caressing your sensitive skin while the other fingers pumping in and out of your pussy. Tears filled your eyes as you felt a second finger enter your backside, stretching you out even more.

All three men watched with awe as you took two fingers in each hole while Steve’s cock stayed in your mouth. You looked so beautiful like this, completely helpless for whatever the men wanted, and it only made them want you more. Steve couldn’t stop himself, and he grabbed your head and thrust his cock deeper down your throat as his emotions overwhelmed him.

Javier and Carrillo watched with burning gazes as Steve fucked your face, and in that moment neither of them could wait any longer. They glanced at each other and nodded, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. Slowly, they each pulled their fingers out of you, and they knew you let out a whine around Steve’s cock.

The two men quickly stripped themselves, holding their cocks in their hands and reading themselves for you. It took a little maneuvering, but Jaiver and Carrillo found a way to enter you at the same time. Both of them lifted your hips slightly to expose your body more to them and in doing so gave them the perfect angle to fuck you.

One entered you right after the other, filling you to the brim. You gasped around Steve’s cock as you felt both your holes being filled simultaneously. Tears soaked the bandana as the other two cocks filled you, and you had no idea who took you where. Steve froze for a moment, lost in awe as he watched the other two fill you, and he pulled out of you for a moment to let the screams flow freely.

You gasped for a moment, and it took a second for you to realize that your mouth was free. But when the two cocks pushed deeper inside of you, you let out a loud scream that echoed in Carrillo’s office. Pain mixed with pleasure as you had never felt more filed, and you knew you were safe when you felt hands caressed and roamed all over your body, and you heard soft words of encouragement from all three of them, though you weren't sure which direction each voice came from.

“You’re doing so well, querida.”

“That’s it, just a little bit more.”

“Such a good girl. So fuckin’ pretty.”

Just when you thought you couldn’t feel any more full, Steve thrust his cock back into your mouth, pushing it deeper down your throat and almost making you gag. You felt like a ragdoll as the three of them all started to rock their cocks in and out of you, all at different rhythms and speeds. Never in your life had you felt so helpless, and never if your life had you been more turned on.

Moans and groans filled the room as Steve, Javier and Carrillo all fucked you at the same time. It almost turned into a competition on who could cum first, and who could fill you up the most. They all let out growls as they eyed each other before turning their attention back to you. Losing themselves in the moment, all three men fucked you harder and faster, all chasing their own climaxes.

And the way all three growled went a pulse of need through your entire body, making you clench around all of them.

Steve came first, letting out a loud groan that gave him away to you as he filled your mouth. “Fuck!” he grunted as he watched as you swallowed as much as you could. His hips stuttered as he grabbed your head and yanked you against his hips. You made an obscene noise around his cock as you gasped, but you couldn’t do anything to stop him. Not that you wanted to.

When he was spent, Steve pulled out of you, leaving a trail of spit and seed as the only thing to still connect you both. He watched as your mouth dropped open, taking in a deep breath of air, and his cum splattered all across your lips. You looked a mess, but fuck you looked gorgeous. Steve gently cradled your head, “Good job, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Carrillo watched with a grin, but when you clenched around him, he knew he wasn’t going to last long. He picked up his pace and he growled a mix of curses and praises. His hips slapped against your body as he lost control and after just a few more thrusts, he came hard deep inside you. You gasped as you felt him fill you up, and you moaned as a shiver ran up your spine.

Javier rocked into you even harder, determined to make you cum along with him. He felt your inner muscles clench around him, gripping his cock hard. He reached for your clit, rubbing it with just the right amount of pressure when he felt like he wasn’t going to last any longer.

It didn’t take long for Javier to get what he wanted, and you screamed as your third orgasm crashed into you. Javier kept up his pace as his own followed right behind, his groans drowned out by your cries of pleasure. He kept his pace up and long as he could until he buried his cock fully inside you with one final grunt.

All three men stayed still for a moment, catching their breaths. Carrillo and Javier stayed buried inside you, neither wanting to leave you just yet. But, Carrillo could tell you were getting sore at this angle, and he tapped Javier, indicating what you needed. Slowly, reluctantly, they both pulled out of you, causing you to gasp and whimper.

“It’s alright, querida,” Carrillo’s soothing voice comforted you.

“Are you alright?” Javier asked.

“Never fucking better,” you replied with a soft smirk once you caught your breath. You let out another sharp exhale when you felt hands all over your body once more.

“Ok, I’ll admit,” Steve interjected, “That was fucking hot… And just what I needed.”

Javier nodded in agreement as he eyes trailed up and down your figure, “You were amazing, cariño,” he purred.

“Good,” Carrillo’s tone dropped, “Because we aren’t finished here yet…”

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ithebookhoarder · 1 year

Note

Javier Peña req (and Steve as bestie). Y/n is their partner and is feeling extremely burnt out; running on empty, coffee, cigarettes and not much else. She’s barely sleeping or eating and constantly has a tight chest and racing heart. They both know something is up with her but she just shrugs it off until one day, Javi is out on a raid and she reaches her breaking point. Steve manages to get her home but can’t reach Javi until he gets back to the embassy etc. Also, please could you throw in a little Carrillo cause😍

Burned Out (Javier Peña x F!Reader)

A/N: I’ve missed Narcos and my DEA boys, so thank you for this prompt, whoever sent this in. I really appreciate it. I’ve been in a bit of a slump recently with writing for this blog, so it’s great to have something to focus on and pour myself in to - hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: Swearing, smoking, alcohol, reference to depressive / self destructive behaviour, description of a panic attack, mild smut, canon-typical violence, death, reference to drugs / overdosing.

Masterlist

You knew exactly when it started. When you began to feel yourself beginning to sink downwards into the quicksand that was your life.

It was a bad day… well, a worse day, if you were being honest, given that life in general in Bogota was hard and full of bad days that left you feeling numb inside. Whereas you were normally able to banish the darkness by spending time with the friends you had collected since your arrival to the city, not even Javi’s gentle kisses or Steve’s dirty jokes or Connie’s homemade deserts could do the trick.

The day had been bad for many reasons.

One, you’d lost a contact with direct links to Escobar, that you’d spent weeks working on.

Two, you had lost them in a drive-by shooting that had killed not only them but countless civilians too.

Three, some of your asshole colleagues decided to spill coffee all over your files meaning you were forced to work late to re-type them up for a briefing the following morning. Even though you had got it done, you knew you had likely missed some details, the ink far too smudge to even begin to try and understand what had previously been written.

However, that day had only been the start of it. The start of the downwards spiral you found yourself tumbling into.

Sure, the others had noticed there was a change about you. Yet, it wasn’t as if they knew what was causing it or how to fix it.

Javi especially knew what you were like - you were like him after all. Spilling your guts wasn’t your natural reaction to handling things. You kept your emotions bottled up inside of you, cramming more and more in, forcing that lid to remain firmly screwed in place even as the pressure began to build.

And if the lid did threaten to pop off? Well then, you lost yourself in him. In the love that existed between you, and the intimate knowledge you shared of one another. After all, Javi had said it himself, “who needed therapy when you had sex and good whiskey?”

A night of passionate fucking was all it took to take the edge off… to let a little pressure escape, delaying your inevitable eruption… But that was just it; you would erupt. It was inevitable. There was no way on earth you could sustain the relentless routine of long hours spent at work, with coffee doing its best to act as a replacement for your bed.

Hell, you could feel the toll it was taking on you both mentally and physically, from the way your hands shook slightly, to the way your chest felt too tight to breathe sometimes. Then there was the fact your clothes were starting to get baggy, whereas they’d once clung to your frame like they’d been tailored for you.

“Here,” Javi had smiled one afternoon. You could smell the sandwich in his hand before he even set it down on the desk in front of you, accompanied by a packet of chips and a can of your favourite soda. “Grabbed that for you on our way back. Figured you’d forget lunch - again.”

A weak smile tugged at the corner of your lips at the kind gesture. “Thanks, Javi.”

“Anytime, hermosa.” He said it so calmly and easily that you felt your heart skip a beat as you realised how lucky you were to have someone who cared about you so deeply. It was why you made sure to tear a corner off of the sandwich and pop it in your mouth.

The relieved nod Javi granted you told you it was the reaction he’d been waiting for, as he took a step back to let you finish eating and working in peace.

You knew he’d be back to check you’d finished it in a matter of minutes. So, you were quick to chuck the rest of his lunch in the waste paper bin behind you, burying it further under a pile of discarded documents you’d already finished looking through.

It was fine. You’d eat later. Maybe you’d even try and cook dinner for you and Javi… an apology for being so distant lately…

Somehow, despite lacking the gift of prophecy, you knew deep down that that was unlikely to happen. Just as you knew it was unlikely Javi would even make it home tonight. For the last week straight, both he and Steve had been called out on some last minute, late night errands by Carillo - not that you minded all that much.

Not having Javi’s arms to fall into meant you felt less guilty about working late yourself. About only making it back to your empty apartment long enough for a quick shower and a power nap each night.

It was ironic to think of Carillo, though, given that your brief conversations with the Colonel in question had been the closest you’d come to finally releasing some of the hurt and the pain inside of you.

You didn't know what it was about him, but somehow, the Colonel had an ability to draw you out. To make you open up and share things you would never otherwise dream of.

Maybe it was his candour? You’d noticed that about him since you'd started working together; he had a blunt demeanour, saying what he thought regardless of the affect it could have on another person.

Now, it wasn't done with malice, per say, but rather as the result of a man who had the weight of an entire army on his shoulders and an impossible task. He just didn't have the time to bullshit anyone - especially when you both lived in a city full of people all too willing to lie and cheat.

It also came from a weird sense of respect, of seeing people as equals, deserving of the truth just as he expected the same in return. No matter how painful it may be.

Needless to say, it was one of the reasons you'd grown to respect the man - and dare you even say, like.

Still, when he decided to loiter on the other side of your desk, late one night, you felt yourself stiffen, as if suddenly all too aware of every little gesture your body made and what it gave away.

The Colonel missed nothing.

“You look like shit.”

Wow. Don’t beat around the bush.

“Jeez, your wife married a charmer, Colonel,” you scoffed, dragging on your cigarette, sparing him a fleeting glance. “Speaking of, doesn’t she want you back home? Or do you prefer my company that much that you’d rather stand at my desk at 11 o’clock at night?”

“She’s out of the city, visiting her parents,” he rebuffed, clearly not taking the bait as he dropped into the empty seat opposite. In fact, he decided to reach across and steal one of the cigarettes from the packet on your desk, lighting it for himself in a gesture that made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere for now.

“Good for her.”

“Yes, it is. I think time away from this place is good for everyone.”

You could feel the accusation lacing his words, as well as the heat from his continuous stare. “Then why didn’t you go with her? Not enough vacation days?”

He scoffed, a bitter smirk twisting his lips upwards. “You’re funny; I can see why Peña likes you so much. Like calls to like, as they say, even if you try and hide it behind that smile of yours.”

You bit back a laugh. “What can I say? I lucked out in that department and got my Mom’s smile. My sister was not so fortunate. She always had my dad’s features - meaning she looked more often than not like she was sucking on a lemon.”

“This is the sister that died from an overdose, correct?”

“Yes.”

“The anniversary is this week, is it not?”

He asked it so calmly and casually that anyone would have thought he’d asked you what the weather was like outside, or what your favourite record to listen to was.

At least his concern now made sense. It was the kind of detail he would remember, and you were honestly more surprised by the fact it had taken until now for him to bring it up.

He’d probably been itching to ask you about it all day, aware of the date even if your two partners were not. Well, they might have been, but neither had said anything which was your preference if you were being honest. Hence your rapidly cooling demeanour towards your colleague.

“I’m fine, if that’s what you're trying to fish about for, Colonel,” you sighed, staring back down at your desk again in an attempt to dismiss him. “You don't have to worry about me. I’m good. Thanks. So can I get back to work in peace? Or did you have some other question for me?”

Carillo sighed, simply choosing to smoke his cigarette, letting the tension linger along with the steadily growing haze around you both.

He didn't need to say the words aloud; his actions did all the talking for him as he reached over and helped himself to a file off of you desk.

He didn't buy this ‘calm, cool, and collected’ act you were pedalling. Not for a second - something his stare alone gave away, even if he refused to say it. Instead, he chose to read, and work, and smoke along side you so that you would not be alone.

He had his eyes on you... watching and waiting for the moment that your carefully constructed walls came crashing down... the only question was would they crush you in the process?

It was about a month later that the inevitable happened; that you finally hit rock bottom.

It had just been a causal remark that did it, of all things. A casual remark that sent you tipping over the edge.

You had just returned from lunch and hadn’t even sat back down at your desk yet when you noticed that someone was missing.

“Yo, Steve?” you queried, quickly glancing up at the empty seat next to you. “Where did Javi go?”

Now, you couldn't be a hundred percent certain what Steve said next but you knew he’d said something about Carillo, a lead, and a raid ...

“What?”

“I said, Javier went with him,” Steve repeated, staring at you with growing concern. You realised he must have already repeated himself. “What? Why? What is it?”

“Javi went too? He… he’s there? On that raid?”

“Yes, y/n, that’s what I just said - hey! Where you going?”

You didn’t even realise your feet had started moving, not until you heard Steve’s confusion as he yelled after you.

But you didn't stop.

You couldn’t stop, not until you were outside - not until you were far enough from that place that you could actually stop and fucking breathe.

When did it become so hard to breathe?

When had the room become so small?

Why did your mind suddenly feel the need to go to the darkest place possible?

It was just a raid... one of hundreds Javi had gone on since arriving here in the country, just as you had also gone on your fair share. So why was your head suddenly picturing him... lying there... injured, or worse... dead.

The number of bodies you’d stared at, lying in the streets in a macabre tableau that had become all too familiar by now - all part of this fucking job. A job you signed up for, hoping to vanquish the bastards who had taken so much from you and those you loved… yet, every day, it seemed you had failed as more and more innocent people suffered… and to think, that Javi - the man you loved more than anything - who you had neglected terribly to the point you couldn't actually remember the last time you’d woken up next to each other - could be amongst them…

It brought you to your knees.

“Whoah, y/n. Easy. What’s wrong?”

Steve’s voice sounded distant, as if you have been submerged beneath water. Yet, you could tell he was beside you, dropping down onto the kerb before hauling you close. The warmth of his touch was enough to tether you to him, to reality, as everything around you seemed to spin in dizzying circles.

You could feel it as his hands rose, cupping your cheeks, turning your head and trying to get you to look at him.

When you finally did, he could see immediately that your eyes were glassy, like you weren’t really seeing or hearing him.

He knew that look.

“Y/N,” Steve murmured in a soothing voice. “Y/N, look at me. Look at me.”

He paused, waiting until your eyes trained themselves on his face, some of the cloudiness starting to dissipate.

“Good, that’s good. Now breathe. Just breathe,” he instructed, taking a few deep breaths himself to show you how.

It took you a moment or two, but you eventually became fully aware of your surroundings and what your friend was telling you to do.

Following his lead, you took a few shuddering breaths, then a few more. You kept breathing until you could feel the racing of your heart slow and the fear that had felt crippling just moments before begin to ease.

You were exhausted.

Wiping at your face, you tried to banish the tears that had left a salty trail burning down your cheek.

Steve doesn't say anything for a long minute, instead choosing to pull you into his side and light up a cigarette, which he was quick to offer you.

“T... thank you.”

You sat like that for a while... just watching people and cars passing by, smoking like two people on a perfectly ordinary break.

No one bothered to stop and ask you two questions. Hell, no one even shot a glance in your direction, everyone too busy with their own business to stop and give a shit about yours.

So you sat.

And smoked.

And said nothing... not until the cigarette was nothing more than a stub.

Steve was quick to take it from you, before it could burn your fingers. Tossing it aside, it had clearly served its purpose.

He stood and offered you a hand.

His face left no room for debate as he stated calmly, “Come on, I’m taking you home. Now.”

“Come on. A couple more steps, Y/N,” Steve urged, guiding you up the stairs to your apartment.

His hand was warm, firm even, as it pressed against your lower back.

He’d been like this since the moment you’d left the embassy, steering you and hovering over you like he expected you to simply topple over at the slightest breeze.

It was touching, yet irritating all at once - a sentiment you were too busy trying to put one foot in front of the other to even attempt to unpack. You were also just too goddamn tired.

“Here we are.” Steve’s words startled you. “Home sweet home.”

You didn’t remember giving him the keys, but you must have as he opened the door a second later and herded you inside.

There was emotion in your throat - threatening to spill from you. You were holding on by a thread and he knew it. Just as Carillo knew it, and possibly Connie too -

Wait, Connie?

You blinked as you realised that at some point the woman had also entered your home, most likely having been summoned by Steve on the drive home.

You wanted to feel guilty at the thought of her being dragged into your mess, but you were honestly too tired to feel anything other than grateful as she hurried over to you, offering you a cup of what you assumed was tea, as well as two pills.

To help take the edge off, she explained, urging you to take them. Doctor’s orders.

It was impossible to miss the way that they were both staring at each other - sharing anxious glances as you swallowed the tablets and dutifully sipped the tea.

They were worried about you. Hell, you were worried about you, and Javi, and Steve, and everyone else you loved and cared about - that was what had got you in this mess in the first place.

Damn it.

You heard them say as much as you marched yourself to your bedroom, claiming you were going to try and get some rest whilst you waited for news.

If they bought it, you couldn’t tell, but neither protested as you left them.

They simply let you go, allowing you the space and privacy to crawl into your bedroom, bury yourself in the unmade sheets, and lie down for a while. The medication had clearly started to work as you felt heavy... tired...

Lying there, you could hear their voices... faint murmurs drifting down the hall.

You caught only snippets as they tried and failed to keep their voices down, just as your parents had once done when you were just a kid. Still, despite their efforts, you caught enough to know that there was still no word from Javi, or about the raid he went on.

“-called Javi- no reply.”

“Carillo - try again -”

“-worried about her - stressed.”

Eventually, the words began to fade away, replaced instead by your body's sudden need to sleep. It was pointless to fight the drugs now in your system, or the comfort of being wrapped in the bed sheets that still smelled of Javi... not even you were strong enough to fight it as you felt yourself drifting off into sweet oblivion.

"Sweetheart?"

You must have still been dreaming - that was the thought that crossed your mind as you swore you heard Javi's voice.

"Javi?" you moaned, fighting against the grogginess that greeted you as you tried to open your eyes.

Despite the fact it was clearly now dark out, you could easily make out the face in front of you, illuminated from behind by the bedside lamp. The sight was almost angelic - as if some divine being had deigned to answer your prayers and return the love of your life back in to your arms.

“It's ok, I'm here, sweetheart,” Javi purred again, brushing your hair back behind your ear and pulling you close. “I’m right here, ok? In one piece - promise. The raid went off without a hitch. Even snagged ourselves a new asset for you to take a crack at.”

Your eyes shimmered with tears as you quickly burrowed into his chest. You didn't really hear what he was saying, too busy focusing on the fact that he was here to say it at all - here - alive - in your arms.

The reality hit you as you began to let it pour out of you: how relieved you were, how much you loved him. You also grumbled something about fucking telling you when he next decided to run off on a raid without so much as 'goodbye' - else you’d shoot him yourself.

“I’m sorry, carino. I am.”

And you believed him.

"I love you, Javi. So much."

"I love you too," he purred, "and I'm so sorry, I knew you were struggling, but when Steve told me-"

He didn't get to finish whatever the hell he'd been about to say. You didn't let him.

Instead, your lips surged hungrily towards his and as only Javi could, he kissed you back, soft and slow... as if desperate to reassure you through actions alone.

You felt him chuckle into your mouth as you grew impatient, grinding your hips against him in a silent plea for him to fill you. To join you. To bury himself, and the day you'd both had, in a moment of bliss.

It was a special kind of neediness, reserved for just him, and one that was only sated once he had fully joined with you, as one being. Safe. Whole.

Yes, in an ideal world he would have waited until after talking to you to lose himself in such a way. After all, Steve and Connie had filled him in on the troubling turn of events that his absence today had triggered - and he'd be lying if he said the idea didn't scare him shitless, that you had broken down so completely...

He could only thank God that Steve had been there for you - especially when he couldn't be himself.

But he was here now... and you had time to start trying to make sense of this mess. Together. Carillo had assured him of that, informing him in no uncertain terms that you both had the next few days off from work. He didn't want to see either one of you back in the office until you'd begun to sort through the mountain of shit you were buried under.

So, yes. If you wanted to lose yourself for tonight, to use him to forget the world outside for a perfect moment, then he was only too happy to oblige.

He’d wait until the morning to have a proper conversation.

He’d go down and whip you up some breakfast before trying to get you to open up to him about everything that had happened today… about the worries and concerns you’d been keeping locked away inside of you.

Then, after you’d fallen in to pieces in his arms, he could try and start to put you back together again. As a team.

#narcos masterlist #narcos fanfic #narcos imagine #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier pena x you #javier pena x reader #steve murphy #connie murphy #colonel carrillo #colonel carillo #ithebookhoarder #masterlist #thesilentmage #pedro pascal

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somedaylazysomeday · 2 months

Text

Matter of Perspective - Part Four

Carrillo doesn't let your late night at the office interrupt your dinner plans.

Horacio Carrillo x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors, do not interact.

Word Count: 3,800

Warnings: Mentions of danger, minor awkwardness, oral sex (fem receiving), reader is a NERD, and sexual content.

Previous | Masterlist

---

It was nearly nine when you finished with the open files on your desk.

Okay, ‘finished’ was a bit optimistic. You had managed to tame the pile down to something that was possible to achieve during the following work day. It was a start, and you felt much more relaxed as you shut off the small desk lamp, gathered your belongings, and started toward the door.

The bus system in Bogotá wasn’t bad, all things considered. It was even fairly safe. Ironically, Pablo Escobar himself was part of the reason. He had made some changes to the system as part of his effort to win over the working class, and it had worked. Buses ran regularly, charged a standard minimum fare, and were well-lit with a policy of no harassment.

Of course, coming from the DEA and going to DEA housing wasn’t safe since there was a bounty on every DEA agent’s head, but if you walked a few blocks from headquarters and then a few more to your apartment, it was manageable.

Normally, you caught a ride with some coworkers who lived in a nearby neighborhood, but they had left on time and you had waved off their offers to come back later for you. You could always call a cab… though honestly, that would probably be more expensive and just as dangerous.

Your brain itched as you stepped into the lobby of the building, and you were already turning when the figure to your left spoke. “Finally finished?”

The shriek you let out echoed in the lobby, prolonging your embarrassment as you stared at Carrillo’s chest. He was chuckling, you could hear it, but you still wished you could melt into the floor.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, trying (and failing) to act like you hadn’t just been scared out of your wits.

“I wanted to make sure you left the building before midnight,” Carrillo told you, still smirking. “And to see if I could take you home.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you told him, though you couldn’t help but be happy about the chance to spend more time together.

“How else would you get home?” he asked, and there was a note in his tone that reminded you why Carrillo had been brought back to Colombia when things were at their bleakest. Your attention snapped to his face and found him giving you a stern look. “If I find out you’ve been riding the bus, cariña…”

“I haven’t,” you assured him, feeling defensive when he cast you a doubtful look. “I haven’t! I mean, I was going to, but I didn’t.”

“Is that supposed to be better?” Carrillo asked.

“I was going to be careful.”

“We both know that you're not the one I was worried about.” He sighed, motioning you to the door. “Let’s get you home.”

Being in Carrillo’s car was an utterly new experience. It wasn’t anything special, but it was in good shape and ruthlessly clean. He had graciously not pointed out that you knew which was his without being told - how could you help that you had been in the parking lot when he drove in to work one day? - and you hadn’t mentioned it, either.

The radio was turned to a local station, playing quietly in the background. It was almost drowned out entirely by the rush of air whipping past the open windows, and occasional street lights tossed rectangles of buttery light over the interior of the car. You did your best not to stare at Carrillo, but the way that light illuminated the strength of his jaw and the curve of his neck? It was nothing short of hypnotic.

It was a quiet evening, weather mild. The streets looked almost peaceful as they eased past you in the night. It was difficult to believe the bloodshed and violence they had seen. Perhaps it was good that the short drive took place with silence between you and Carrillo. You needed the chance to decompress and he didn’t seem bothered by the lack of conversation.

You used all of your willpower to hold back a smart comment when you noted that Carrillo hadn’t needed directions from you to arrive at your apartment building.

“Thank you for driving me. I really appreciate it.” You were out of the car before you had managed to gather enough courage to ask, “Do you want to come inside?”

The confused look he gave you made your skin crawl with dismay… until he turned off the car and got out. “I thought that was the plan? For us to have dinner together?”

“Oh, I- yeah…” You shifted uncomfortably. “I really don’t keep much around the apartment. Unless you want a sandwich? Or maybe a granola bar or some ice cream? Or I have these chips that taste like-”

As you had been rambling through the contents of your pantry, Carrillo had gone to his trunk and retrieved a large bag. “I would not ask you to cook for me. I offered, remember?”

“But… I had to work late…” It seemed like an incredibly weak excuse, even more so since Carrillo was standing in front of you with a bag that smelled like it held something delicious.

“And now you are done,” he said, nodding toward your front door. “If you don’t mind?”

You scrambled to open the door, holding it so Carrillo could step through before you closed it and turned on a light. Then you mildly panicked because your apartment was messier than you liked and the man you had just decided to have a relationship with was seeing it.

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologized, hurrying into your small kitchen. “Let me just move some of this stuff out of the way…”

“I’ll do it,” he offered. “Then I’ll heat this up. You go change… unless you are already comfortable?”

You smiled despite yourself at the discomfort in Carrillo’s expression as he rethought what he had just said. He couldn’t cast too many aspersions on your clothes - he wasn’t in uniform, but a white tee shirt and dark green cargo pants hardly seemed like lounge wear.

“I’ll be right back,” you told him eventually, enjoying your taste of revenge after he had startled you so badly earlier.

Carrillo nodded and offered you a small smile. He had already found a deep cooking pot and was emptying one of the containers into it. The sheer domesticity of it made your chest tight as you ducked into your bedroom.

Normally, you liked to shower after a day at the office - especially a long day - but you were willing to put aside your routine in favor of spending more time with Carrillo.

Instead, you changed into a pair of soft shorts and a tee shirt, washed your face, and brushed your teeth. You gave yourself a skeptical look in the mirror as you spat out a mouthful of toothpaste. It made no sense to brush your teeth before you ate a meal, but it made you feel less self-conscious, so you considered it worthwhile.

By the time you came back out of your room, you felt far more human than you had after such a long day. Your timing seemed perfect, too: Carrillo was just setting two bowls on your tiny kitchen table.

“It smells wonderful,” you told him. “Thank you for this.”

The coronel was about to grab a plate of rounded pastries when you reached to give him a kiss on the cheek. Before you could pull away, he had lifted his hand, locking you in place with nothing more than a brush of fingertips over the softness of your jaw. The kiss he returned was decidedly not on your cheek, but you didn’t mind in the slightest.

Instead, you eased into Carrillo’s embrace, winding your arms around him until he had to make a clear effort to extricate himself. “You taste minty.”

You smiled. “Thanks. I hope that won’t interfere with what we’re eating. I’m starving!”

“We’re having ajiaco,” Carrillo told you, pulling you to the table and holding your chair steady as you sat. “It’s popular around here.”

The name was familiar - you had seen it on a few menus at local restaurants you had visited. That was the extent of your knowledge, but it looked fairly simple when you swiped your spoon through it. Chicken broth, potato, shredded chicken, and some herbs, along with half of an ear of corn.

You subtly watched Carrillo, copying him as he added capers and what looked like heavy cream to his bowl. Garlic danced across your tongue when you took your first bite, followed with something that tasted almost like oregano. The capers were an interesting touch, and the cream brought out the potatoes’ subtle flavor.

“You made this?” you asked.

Carrillo smiled, and you were glad he wasn’t offended by the surprise in your tone. “Sí. My mother taught me. She would be glad to know her lessons were worth it.”

“Incredibly,” you agreed, taking another bite. “What’s on that plate?”

He pulled it between your bowls, putting it in easy reach for both of you. “Normally, ajiaco is served with rice, but I didn’t know how long you would be in the office. There is a special place in hell for those who serve mushy rice.”

Carrillo looked so serious as he delivered that wisdom that you couldn’t help but laugh.

“I got some arepas instead,” he finished. “These are arepas de queso.”

You eagerly took one when he pushed the plate toward you. Even after so much time spent in Colombia, you had never met an arepa you didn’t like. These were no exception, deep-fried and filled with a mild but flavorful cheese.

“You’re spoiling me, Horacio,” you told him, struggling not to speak with food in your mouth.

“Consider it one of the many ways I will make up for treating you so badly before.”

You set down your spoon, letting it clatter against the side of the bowl to draw his attention. “I already told you that you have nothing to apologize for, nothing to make up for. You’ve been put in a position where you need to be defensive and suspicious of people to survive. So, please, don’t feel like you owe me anything.”

“Perhaps it is a convenient excuse to show that I care,” he suggested, capturing your hand so he could press a kiss against the back of your knuckles.

“That’s entirely justified, then.” Your sense of satisfaction only increased as you fished the corncob out of your soup and took a deliciously messy bite.

Companionable silence reigned as you both ate. When you eventually leaned back with a satisfied sigh, you asked, “What do you think the odds are that Peña will be able to keep his mouth shut about us?”

“Reasonably good, I would guess,” Carrillo replied with a shrug.

“Really?” you asked, brows furrowing at him. “You must have a higher opinion of his abilities than I do.”

“When it is a matter of safety or security, Peña is a very serious man.”

The idea of it made you sober, losing some of the quiet joy brought on by spending time with Carrillo. The food sat more heavily in your stomach. Pablo Escobar not only knew who Horacio Carrillo was, but feared him. And what Escobar feared, he did his best to kill.

“I don’t like the idea of Escobar hunting you,” you told Carrillo honestly.

It wasn’t a particularly profound statement, but Carrillo nodded gravely. “I understand, cariña. I feel the same way when I think of you.”

“He doesn’t know who I am,” you argued. “That’s hardly the same thing.”

“Escobar may not know who you are now,” Carrillo countered, voice gentle. “But if he finds out that I care for you, you will be in just as much danger as me. Maybe more.”

“I knew that was a risk when I came to Colombia.” You smiled at him, covering his hand with your own. “But let’s just agree to keep things quiet between us. Then we’ll never have to worry about it.”

That wasn’t realistic, not remotely feasible, but Carrillo just returned your smile. Sometimes, a platitude and an unrealistic estimation of danger was what you needed to continue living your life. Besides, if you had to choose between the two, you would still want to be with Carrillo. You were in danger either way, and he made you happy.

You caught a sudden glimpse of the future, your mind kicking out a theory of the way things would work out: these issues weren’t going away, and you wouldn’t be able to pretend for long that they weren’t important. Eventually, you would need to face them head-on and figure out a way to deal with the risks, or you would part ways.

But neither of those needed to happen today.

Pushing away your own tendency to fixate on what could go wrong, you leaned toward Carrillo, hoping he would mirror you. He did, and the resulting kiss was everything you wanted: warmth, tenderness, and an edge of heat that took your breath away.

“Did you know,” you murmured between brushes of your lips against his, “that I have a bedroom?”

“A bedroom?” Carrillo asked, eyes giving a playful sparkle. “I had no idea. I may not believe you. I think you’ll need to show me.”

“I can do that,” you agreed, giving a final, savoring kiss before you stood. Carrillo’s fingers laced through yours as you pulled him eagerly toward your bedroom.

You didn’t bother with the lights, but you couldn’t prevent yourself from stealing another kiss… And pulling off his shirt since you were already stopped. While you were at it, you remembered something you hadn’t gotten to do last time, so you gave Carrillo’s ass a healthy squeeze. He startled a bit at the contact, but deepened the kiss with a helpless groan.

His revenge came swift and silent as one large hand rose to cup your breast, thumb stroking over the exact place where your nipple was tightening for him. Your back arched automatically, pushing further into his touch.

Carrillo urged your arms upward and took your tee shirt off with a smooth motion. Since you hadn’t bothered with a bra, you were exposed from the waist up. His hands seemed to be everywhere, matched by his mouth as he took advantage of the skin he had bared. You staggered back a step at a time, Carrillo shadowing your every move until you realized he was herding you toward the bed.

Somewhere along the way, you lost the rest of your clothes and he lost his. He was just as beautiful as you remembered - tan skin dusted with dark hair and marked with occasional scars. Muscles shifted under his skin as he moved, but nothing showy or intimidating. Carrillo was muscular as a side effect of being a healthy and active person, not because he spent precious hours in the gym. He was already hard, glistening at the tip and bobbing slightly with every step.

When you finally collapsed onto the soft surface, Carrillo didn’t follow you. Instead, he stood at the edge of the bed, looming over you. You leaned up, resting back on your elbows as you tilted your head at him. “Horacio? What are- Ah!”

In a single, smooth motion, the coronel had lowered himself to his knees and pulled you to the edge of the bed. Your legs had parted automatically around him and you found him watching you over the peaks and valleys of your body. His eyes were dark and hungry, his face hovering only inches above where you throbbed for him.

“Do you want this, querida?” Carrillo asked. His voice was as anticipatory as his expression, but he didn’t move. “Is this something you object to?”

You had already started frantically nodding in answer to his first question by the time the second made it through the fog of arousal clouding your mind. Carrillo drew his hands away and sat back, pausing only when you made a dismayed sound. “Horacio, please. Yes, I want this. No, I don’t object to it. And I think I’m going to explode if you don’t touch me soon.”

The slow, self-satisfied curl of his lips made you fill with warmth in several places, but most notably inside your ribcage and in your core. And the fact that the smirk stayed even as he parted your thighs and pressed himself slowly between them?

Delicious.

That was the only word in your mind as Carrillo started lowering his head to you, then even that disappeared in the blast of sensation. His tongue trailed upward, exploring you from the bottom of your slit to the top of it, dipping shallowly into your core as if he was hinting at things to come.

“Fuck, cariña,” he growled. He hadn’t pulled very far away from you, and the rumbled of his voice buzzed pleasantly through you. “Keep making those noises for me.”

Ridiculously, it was only then that you realized the pleasure was pushing a variety of noises from your lips. Since he clearly wasn’t bothered by them, you let them pour from you. His lips made you moan, his tongue made you plead, and the feeling of his stubble against your most sensitive places made you writhe. And when he applied gentle suction against your clit, your mouth fell open in a silent gasp that strained the hinges of your jaw.

You sat up with a groan that sounded alarmingly close to a whine, pushing him away.

“What is wrong?” he asked, gaze searching your face for clues in the shadowed twilight of the room.

“I’m gonna come if you keep doing that,” you told him. The bluntness of it made you feel like you should be embarrassed, but who had the time? You were sitting in front of him, folds swollen and shining with a combination of your wetness and his.

Carrillo lifted his face further, and your core clenched when you saw that the shine across his lips trailed down to his chin. “I am willing to risk it.”

“No,” you refused, and he instantly stilled. “I want you inside of me. Please… I want you so badly…”

He didn’t move, not until you leaned back and spread your thighs a little further apart. Whether it was your request or the sight of what he had done to you, Carrillo seemed spurred into action. He had wiped his mouth and crawled onto the mattress before you could properly recognize that he was moving, but you eagerly kissed him the moment he was in range. The taste of you was strong in his mouth, but it was only another part of kissing him.

Carrillo held himself on his hands above you, eyes roaming hungrily over your body. Yours were doing the same thing to him, so it was thrilling to know that he was just as entranced by you as you were by him.

“Hey,” you said, using your best sultry bedroom voice. “Wanna see a magic trick?”

He gave you an inscrutable look for longer than was really comfortable, but eventually said, “Have I forgotten to speak English? Or did you just offer to show me a magic trick while we’re in your bed together?”

“Tah dah,” you finished weakly, holding up the condom.

“I just watched you pull that out from under your pillow,” Carrillo told you, though you could see how hard he was fighting a smile.

“Why would I keep condoms under my pillow?” you countered. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Wisely, Carrillo didn’t respond to that except by taking the condom in exchange for another kiss. In moments, his practiced motions had concluded and he was braced over you again. The tip of him was lined up with your entrance and you were nearly trembling with anticipation as he pressed slowly into you.

He couldn’t have had much more than his head inside of you when he lowered himself carefully, capturing your lips as you moaned your frustration. That moan turned abruptly into a shout as he speared into you, and Carrillo swallowed the sound directly from your mouth.

When he pulled back, he looked almost as dazed as you felt. “You’re so perfect for me, querida. So tight for me, and sweeter than anything.”

Without the incentive of his lips against yours, your head tipped back against the sheets. “Horacio, I- need you to move. You feel so good… Need more. I-”

Carrillo took your request to heart, picking up a pounding rhythm that had you bouncing with the force of his thrusts. The thickness of him inside of you was both a shock and a joy to your nerves. You felt like he was splitting you open, but in a way that made your lungs burn and your toes curl.

Your hands clutched at his back, massaging the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he held himself steady over you. Then your touch drifted downward, appreciating the way those muscles shifted and moved more rapidly as you got closer to his hips. With that pace, you were surprised he wasn’t exhausted already.

Granted, all of those thoughts and sensations seemed distant, hidden behind the surge of sensation that exploded through you every time he plunged into your body once more. Your breathing was stuttering, your fingers spasming against the taut skin of Carrillo’s back.

“Are you close?” he asked. The fact that his hoarse voice in your ear was nearly enough to push you over the edge made you nod, the motion frantic. “Touch yourself for me, cariña. Need to feel you around me.”

“Horacio,” you stammered, half protesting even as your fingers snaked between his body and yours. The very millisecond your fingertips pressed against your clit, you were gone. Your muscles contracted, clenching around Carrillo’s length inside of you, your fingers pressing ever harder as your brain hijacked your autonomy to chase deeper pleasure than you thought you could stand.

Unsurprisingly, your orgasm pushed Carrillo over the edge. His hips snapped against yours, hard enough that it would have been painful if it weren’t for the endorphins currently flooding your system. You could feel him spasming inside of you as he spilled into the condom and your hips tilted automatically, pulling a helpless sound of pleasure from him.

You would never tell him so, but you were pretty sure that sound extended your orgasm a little longer than it would have lasted otherwise.

When both of you were finally slack in the aftermath of your pleasure, Carrillo withdrew himself from you and collapsed nearby. You couldn’t help but remember the way he had sought out contact after your last time together, and you searched along the sheets until you found his hand. His fingers intertwined eagerly with yours.

Carrillo held your hand until he decided to wriggle his way closer, stopping only when you could curl around each other without any space between you.

---

Author's Note - Yet another fic I may continue someday. If I do, you'll find a link at the top of this post. Or, if you prefer AO3, you can find me there under username InkSplots.

Thanks for reading!

#fanfic february #fanfic february 2024 #narcos #narcos fanfiction #colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #fem!reader #reader #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #reader insert fanfic #reader insert fic #lemon #spicy #not suitable for minors #minors dni

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bullet-prooflove · 3 months

Note

"Can't we try again?"

(you can choose a happy ending or not, and if you want it to be Duarte or Carrillo) 😅❤️

It’s been months since Horacio last laid eyes on you, not since the night you’d walked out of his apartment, slamming the door so hard his bookshelves had practically vibrated off the wall. It’s his fault, he’d instigated the argument. He’d been angry, exhausted, vengeful. Escobar had slipped through his fingers by a hair’s breadth and that rage, it simmered inside him, festering until he could think about was Pablo’s smiling face as he’d spat down the phone.

“Until next time Colonel.”

The things he’d said to you that night, each one was designed to cut you, to rip you apart, tear you to pieces. It had worked too because you’d disappeared after that.

Reassigned to a different taskforce, Pena had told him.

Her choice? He had asked and the other man shrugged his shoulders.

Now you’re back.

For a moment it’s like old times, you’re sitting at the same desk, scrawling down notes. As usual you’re the last one out, Murphy’s gone home to his wife and Pena…

He doesn’t want to think about who or what Pena is doing.

He glances up at you again, toying with the pen between his fingers. He can’t stand this No Man’s Land the two of you are in.

You don’t look up when he leaves his office, not even when he sits down in the chair alongside of your desk. You just continue scribbling in that yellow legal pad of yours, the pen etching the ink into the paper.

“Mi querida…” He says quietly, and you pause for a second, your shoulders stiffening.

He says it again and you set down your pen, tilting your head up to look at him.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore.” You inform him.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his hand coming to rest upon yours. “I didn’t mean the things I said…”

“I don’t believe you.” You say, but you don’t pull away instead you lean forward, your face inches from his.

For a second he thinks you’re going to kiss him but then he recognises the look in your eyes, the darkness in them. Something happened to you while you were away, something bad and it killed that light, the one that used to burn so fucking bright.

“Do you see it?” You ask him, grasping his chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact. “Do you see what you did to me?”

The anguish it courses through his body, violent and devastating like the sea in the midst of a storm. Someone hurt you, someone did something so fucking heinous that it broke something inside of you and Horacio wants to kill them. He wants to wrap his hands around their throat and choke the life right out of them, he wants to feel their last breath as their eyes bulge and their lips turn purple.

“I hate you Horacio.” You tell him, your voice breaking as you look into his eyes. “I fucking hate you.”

#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #colonel horacio carrillo

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the-hinky-panda · 3 months

Text

Off Grid: Part I (Horacio Carrillo x Reader)

Title: Off Gride

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Horcaio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Summary: Horacio survives the ambush and is sent to a CIA safe house to recover. You, a homesteader and survivalist, are his handler until he's healed. But when you both realize that you're just property, you start planning on how to slip out of your government cage and start your own lives.

“Loneliness is a mirror, and recognizes itself.” - Jodi Picoult

You’re nine and running through the bayous of Beauregaro Island, a slip of land off the coast of Grand Isle, Louisiana. You and your father had been living in an abandoned shack on stilts. No electricity, no running water, no way for people to find you. You had been living off the swamp land for a little over a week when your father caught sight of lights out on the bayou.

“Kontinye, fi!” her father hisses over his shoulder.

Keep up, girl. And you try, honest to God, you try. But you haven’t eaten a solid meal in three days and your legs won’t work the way you need them to right now. You’re tired, and sluggish. When your father looks behind him again, you can see the resignation in his eyes. It will be many years after that night before you realize that’s what it was. He picks you up under your armpits and tucks you into a hollowed out tree trunk.

“Rete.”

Stay.

So you do. You stay as the hounds run past the tree, tracking your father’s scent and not yours. The men with shotguns and flashlights pass next. Then comes a terrible silence: no splashing through the water, or hounds howling, or men shouting. It makes the shotgun blast all the more deafening and world changing when it explodes through the quiet. You clamber out of your hiding place and run towards the flashlights now. Your father is the only concern you have now. The flashlights that had been bobbing in the dark, are now focused on a body that is face down in the black bayou water.

“Papa!”

Your shout alerts the men to your presence but you don’t care at this point. Your father, your protector, your best friend is gone. You’re alone and you don’t want to be. If these men are going to take your father away from you, then you’re going to go with him. You splash your way past them and reach for your father’s bloodsoaked shirt but just as your fingers brush the soft flannel fabric, someone pulls you back.

“Easy, Piti,” a deep man’s voice says.

But grief and fear turn you into a rabid animal, kicking, screaming, scratching. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest so all your blows are glancing and weak.

“Stechner, what do we do with the kid?”

You find yourself being handed off to another man with a beard. He recoils from holding you, your filthy clothes, muddy shoes, and bared teeth. Instead, you’re dropped back down into the ankle deep water and the new man grabs ahold of your arm.

“I’ll deal with her.”

He starts marching you off, away from your father. “You killed my papa! And now you’re going to leave him there? The gators-”

“That’s the idea, sweetheart. Right-wing militia man gets turned around the swamp and eaten by an alligator. Daughter rescued after surviving days on her own in the bayou. How’s that sound?”

You stare up at him, every fiber in your being filled with hate. “Like bullshit.”

“Oooh, got a mouth on you.” He gives a short nod. “I may be able to work with that, kid.”

Exhaustion quickly overtakes you as you struggle to keep up with long strides. You focus instead on the rhythmic footfalls in the squelching mud. Anything but the uncertainty and loss that has made a hole so large in your heart, you’re going to have it for the rest of your life.

Thunk.

***

Thunk.

Your eyes open and you’re staring at the rough hewn beams of the small cabin in Vermont.

Thunk.

You had fallen asleep on the couch reading Jane Eyre.

Thunk.

Sitting up, you look around the small living space for the noise that’s roused you from your nap. You’ve had a house guest for the last month but now that he's moving around, new noises have invaded your small homestead and you’re trying to learn what all the new noises mean.

Thunk.

You finally recognize the sound you’re hearing and it launches you off the couch. You shove your feet into the rubber boots that had been left by the door and notice your charge’s boots are missing. “No, no, no…”

You take off down the handful of stairs off the front porch and jog out to the woodpile. The woodpile that has grown quite a bit since yesterday. How long has he been out here? You see him, white t-shirt soaked with sweat as he raises the ax to split another log. Seeing the bulge of his biceps as he prepares to bring the ax down belies the fact that out of the month of his stay here, three of those weeks had been bedbound.

“Colonel Carrillo!”

He brings the ax down with one forceful blow before leaving the blade stuck in the old tree stump and facing you. “¿Si, Enfermera?”

Nurse. That’s been his nickname for her since his arrival. He doesn’t realize you’re his handler, protector. Nursing him back to health after a cartel ambush in Medellín is only a small part of your job with him. “You’re not cleared for-”

He scoffs and wipes the sweat off his forehead with his shoulder. “It’s cold at night here.”

You step in front of him and grab the ax handle. “I’m sorry it’s not as balmy as it is in Medellín, but you should not be out here doing this.”

He shrugs, a smirk crossing his features. “I seem just fine.”

Yeah, that’s the current problem you’ve been having. He’s twice your age, just back from death’s door, and the handsomest man the CIA have ever dropped on your doorstep to shelter. And there have been quite a few over the last ten years. None of them have caused you to second guess your life and goals. You’ve been loaner since the night your father was shot down by a joint task force of the ATF and CIA. But this man, the one standing in front of you in a shirt clinging to him like it’s two sizes too small, arrogant and handsome, he’s causing you to wonder if maybe there’s more to life than being the US government’s half-way house.

“Seeming and being are two different things.” You yank the ax out of the tree stump with a sharp jerk. “My boss is going to have my ass if you suffer a setback now.”

“Are you trying to get me out as soon as possible, Enfermera?”

“The sooner, the better, Colonel.”

Especially for you.

#horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo fic #horacio carrillo #colonel horacio carrillo fic #colonel horacio carrillo

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mariamariquinha · 1 year

Note

Hi!

I wasn't sure if you were taking requests but I thought I would pop one into your ask box anyway!

I hope she's wilder than your wildest dreams

Hey, sweetie! How's it going? Thank u so much for your request!

Before anything, I may add: yes, my blog are always open for requests. I'll take my time to answer them, like this one, but I will! You all can send me anytime! ❤

NOW...

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

She (Colonel Carrillo x f!reader)

(may I add this gif? I love it.)

Summary: He didn't expect you to show up.

Word count: 1.08k

Warnings: Hints of smut, drinking, small glimpse of violence and Horacio per se. He needs his own warning ALWAYS.

Author’s Note: I hope this is what you expected, honey! Thank u again for the request!

And yes.

Carrillo would be a great sub. And he would like it.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

From a very young age, Carrillo was precocious, too mature for his age at the time. As a kid, he had the ideas of a teenager; as a teenager, the ideas of a man. On all these occasions, everything felt more like a projection of what he would be like as an adult, which left him very lost and uncertain of what it all really meant.

Maybe it was because his father had left too soon, forcing little Horacio to do something that before was just a grunt teaching after he fell off his bike or not fighting back the teasing of the older boys at school. Be a man. Be tough.

This led him to look for things that came to define him as a person over the years, all linked to the simple and concise term of stability. In the Army, he was the most organized, obedient, and focused soldier. The best at everything he set out to do, the kind who liked to learn by himself but wouldn't pass up learning from someone who knew more, just for the chance to have more to be good at, trying at all costs to please a father who, if he had been proud of his son earlier, wouldn’t have left.

Horacio became Colonel Carrillo - collected, reserved and who asserted his pomp among his men. A gray zone of leadership that, under no circumstances, was seen as mixed up in the work itself as he was at that moment.

And besides, he didn't expect you to show up.

Among so much confusion, fear and apprehension brought by Escobar, it was common for people to have similar expressions, identical conversations, pessimistic future projections - a constant crossfire that almost always collapsed.

You lived outside of it all, he noticed. Despite what surrounded the news and any corner of Medellín, Horacio only had to lay eyes on you once to know that there was a unique exception. He found out, later, that you had been in Colombia for two years. You helped with extracurricular art classes at some schools on the outskirts and far from civilization, but at night you served drinks and beers to far less pleasant people. Your Spanish was close to impeccable and judging by the way you prostrated yourself at night work, there was more to the story than he would have guessed for you.

Neither you nor he spoke when you first bumped into each other. It had been a rough night for Carrillo and you were certainly busy behind that counter. You didn't serve him. This lack of contact lasted for three or four visits. On the fifth one, he got to know your true nature and only then did you talk.

A guy wanted to go after a colleague of yours, something like that. He reached to grab her by the waist, but not in time to see you arriving like a fulminating machine of anger and protection, using the mastery of your Spanish to tell him to go away. The guy raged, didn't listen to you, and when you saw that no one intervened to help you, the act came alone. A very strong, firm and accurate punch in the middle of his nose. Only one.

Like a warrior goddess. Like a savage with strong hands and a fixed look on your face, without hiding your emotions or fears to make your intentions clear. He followed you with his gaze until you returned to your post at the bar, which you noticed. The two of you looked at each other, that spark ignited, but Horacio was initially quiet as you walked over and placed both hands on your hips.

“Another one?”

He noticed his beer was finished. The only remnant left of the drink was warm, undrinkable.

“Sure.”

And you put another beer in front of him, cold and sweating with the condensation of the hot environment, but you didn't let go right away, surely hoping that Carrillo would stop with the falsely respectful posture of looking away from your breasts, squeezed by the discreet but firm material of the blouse you wore.

He decided to be more discreet, restrained - your right hand was red, right at the knuckles, and he knew it was from the punch you'd just landed on the patron.

“Are you okay?” It took a while for you to catch what he asked, and when it happened, you wiggled your fingers on the counter and looked at them for a moment.

“You should see the other guy.”

“Oh, I did. Where did you learn that?”

“I know someone,” You shrugged, measured his face in silence, then nodded to the beer. “It’ll get warm, Colonel. Better enjoy it now.”

It was unfair, he thought, to see that you knew who he was but it wasn't reciprocated. Horacio started going almost every week and the two of you talked more - never about what was going on, never about bad things, never about who he was or what he did. It didn't take long for Horacio to realize, little by little, that you were some kind of free figure, complete in your mission to be what you were in every way, which might have made him jealous, but just turned him on.

The first night was intense, particularly aggressive even. You took the attitude of kissing him first, of taking him to bed first, and he was left with the function of being dominated by whatever you were. You asked for more, you took more from him, you pushed him to his limits, and with each encounter he began to realize that you were on the same page, using that connection of two worlds so different for a unique, carnal purpose that didn't seem necessary or relevant until that moment.

He craved the sway of your breasts when he thrust hard, the wiggle of your ass when he took you from behind, or how you moaned unreservedly and disguised when he hit the spot. Craving, almost always, for the scratches you left on his back, the bites on his shoulders and thighs, or your soft mouth as you enveloped his cock with eagerness, determined to make him as mindless in pleasure as he tried to make you.

More than that, Horacio began to long for the moments when you were irritated (which were frequent), angry, raging or putting people in their proper place, as if you came from another place, another reality.

A wild figure, definitely. Wilder than his wildest dreams.

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

Taglist

@cheesybadgers

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@616wilsons

@nessamc

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@padbrookcottage

#horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo x reader #female reader #horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo fic #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo #narcos fic #narcos fanfiction #narcos

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mariabolivar12 · 11 months

Text

Cartas de amor prohibido

Emparejamiento: Horacio Carrillo x lectora Escobar

N/E: esta fue la idea de una seguidora así que espero que te guste y cumpla con las expectativas @camipad

Resumen: estabas cansada de esconderte y pagar por los crímenes de tu hermano, el dinero sucio no era algo que te guste por eso un día decidiste tomar una decisión que cambio tu vida y la de tu hermano

Sabías que era arriesgado, más aún porque no tenías mucho tiempo y sabías que tu hermano se iba a enterar, no iba a estar contento y lo sabías, pero eso no te importo, entrantes al lugar decidida y con un objetivo claro, sobresalía entre la multitud su cabellera rubia era reconocible, sentado en la barra con un vaso de whiskey por la mitad y una mirada lejana el agente Murphy tu salida de ese infierno

-es malo tomar solo y no invitarle un trago a una dama señor Murphy- su cabeza se giró tan rápido en tu dirección que juraste escuchar algún hueso de su cuello crujir, su mirada de asombro fue lo que te hizo saber que claramente sabía quien eras

-¿que es lo que quieres? ¿Porque me buscas?-divisaste su mano justo encima del sitio donde su revólver descansaba, de todas las situaciones que pasaron por tu mente nunca se te cruzó la idea de que tuviera una reacción tan a la defensiva y no lo culpas es entendible el porqué

-tranquilo agente Murphy, vine por mi propia voluntad…sólo quiero que lo atrapen, puedo darte lo que se…quiero ayudar, que acabe con las masacres y los muertos…es lo único que quiero?-

-a cambio de que? Y porque debería creerte?-

-a cambio de que me saquen de esto…a cambio de la Paz en mi vida, eso es lo que quiero a cambio…si tuviera alguna otra intención ya la habría llevado a cabo-

Resultó que es un gran conversador, y aunque te costó mucho convencerlo de tus verdaderas intenciones, lo lograste y en realidad era más amable de lo que parece y de hecho te escucho todo lo que tenías que decir, pero también te pregunto por muchas cosas las cuales respondiste la mayoría, algunas las cuales no sabías solo no las contestabas

Te llevo a la escuela Carlos Holguín, donde te presento a su compañero Javier peña quien al momento de verte su cara perdió color, eso era algo que tu hermano había hecho y tú estabas cansada de causar esa impresión en las personas, y de que la sombra de lo que había hecho también afectará tu vida y la percepción de la gente sobre ti, a pesar de eso te escuchó y preguntó casi las mismas cosas que su compañero, al paso de diez minutos de interrogatorio apareció un joven oficial, quien parecía amigable pero a la vez serio y agotado, como todos los oficiales a tu alrededor

-Murphy, peña el Coronel quiere verlos…ahora- se dio vuelta y caminó en la misma dirección en la que vino, el agente Murphy te dijo que esperaras en su escritorio, su compañero solo se limitó a observarte con detenimiento, los dos se fueron sin más y sólo cinco minutos después regresaron con un hombre del cual habías escuchado hablar y no precisamente eran cosas buenas, pero nunca lo habías visto en persona y de hecho no parecía tan malo como tu hermano lo había hecho ver

Su uniforme estaba pulcramente limpio y acomodando al igual que sus botas, su cabello negro fielmente peinado y recortado con el atisbo de algunas canas, caminaba con una rigidez única de un militar pero también con una autoridad y autosuficiencia como si fuera el dueño del lugar, su cara no reflejaba ninguna emoción pero su rostro era atractivo sin duda, su uniforme se acoplaba a su musculoso torso, lograste evidenciar sólo un reloj de plástico negro en su muñeca izquierda sin rastro de un anillo lo que te hizo pensar que era un desperdicio que no tuviera dueña, por muy guapo que te haya parecido no era el motivo por el que estabas aquí…aunque sin duda alguna acudir al agente Murphy había sido una gran decisión

-¿porque la hermana de Pablo Escobar quiere traicionarlo?-si creías que su cuerpo era atractivo su voz lo era el doble, Dios este hombre era obra del demonio…aunque su tono de seriedad te hizo saber que no estaba jugando y que quería echarte lo más pronto posible, se tomó el tiempo de escucharte y de hacerte innumerables preguntas las cuales respondiste gustosa

-¿porque debería creerte?¿que hay diferente entre tu y tu hermano?-

-de verdad Coronel usted cree que estaría aquí de no ser cierto…mi hermano debe estar buscándome por todas partes y apenas se entere si es que no lo ha hecho ya, vendrá a buscarme, sabe que no estoy de acuerdo con nada de lo que hace pero eso no le importa…quiero que si algún día tengo hijos no tengan que vivir con el peso de ser familia de un narco y no cualquier narco-lo miraste a los ojos y su mirada no demostró ninguna emoción, solo oscuridad y frialdad en sus orbes marrones

-te llevaremos a un lugar seguro, solo tendrás contacto conmigo y con nadie más-

A partir de ahí todo pasó como un borrón, ese mismo día te llevó a una casa segura, el único que sabía de tu ubicación era él y los hombres que estaban afuera de la puerta, el lugar no era muy grande pero al menos estabas fuera del alcance de tu hermano, la tarde cayó y con ella llegó la noche, no lograste encontrar el sueño y justo cuando creíste que estabas a punto de cerrar los ojos el ruido de la puerta te despertó

Con mucho cuidado llegaste a la sala donde divisaste al intruso vestido de verde oliva entrar a la casa, se veía exactamente igual que esa mañana solo que ahora un poco más cansado, traía una bolsa de plástico en la mano y debajo de su brazo un sobre de papel, dejó todo sobre la mesa del comedor y luego abrió el sobre de papel donde sacó varias fotos

-cuando volví al comando dejaron estas fotos para mí, tenías razón cuando dijiste que sabía donde estabas…además de las fotos dejó una nota-

-que decía esa nota?-

-no está feliz, dijo que si no te entregamos iba a matarnos y que si te tocaba un solo cabello mi castigo sería peor que la muerte, pero eso no pasara y así tenga que morir por protegerte lo haré-

-Gracias Coronel-

-es mi trabajo, en la bolsa hay comida suficiente para dos días, mañana en la mañana llegará algo de ropa y más comida-

-hasta cuando estaré aqui?-

-con esa amenaza creo que por bastante tiempo, así que ponte cómoda-se sentó en el sofá de la sala y encendió el televisor, se quitó las botas y se puso cómodo

-se va a quedar aquí?-

-esta es mi casa, por supuesto que si- te tomó por sorpresa pero se notaba que no quería hablar más del tema así que sólo tomaste la bolsa y acomodaste todo donde creíste que iban, luego te dirigiste a la habitación no sin antes echar un vistazo a la sala donde lo encontraste dormido en el sofá todavía sentado en la misma posición en la que se sentó hace un rato

A la mañana siguiente no encontraste el cuerpo que dejaste en el sofá la noche anterior pero lo que sí encontraste fue un desayuno que aunque no fuera lo más lindo del mundo tenía pinta de estar delicioso

Estuviste en su casa por más de seis meses, y en todo ese tiempo lograste captar sentimientos por el hombre a quien aprendiste a conocer y a querer, al principio te dio miedo aceptarlo pero te diste cuenta que no era nada malo, que si pudiste sobrevivir a tu hermano podrás con un rechazo, pero no fue así de hecho fue todo lo contrario Horacio como habías empezado a llamarlo te correspondió y de qué manera

A partir de ahí trataba de llegar más temprano y de poder conversar contigo, aunque no podían salir mucho estaban felices, le enseñaste a cocinar y también a bailar salsa y el té enseñó a bailar merengue, sus noches se volvieron tu momento del día favorito porque podías estar cerca de él y de la seguridad de sus brazos

-esta noche llegaré algo tarde mi amor, así que no te preocupes por mi-

-papi sabes que siempre me preocupo por ti y más cuando llegas a altas horas, llámame para saber que estás bien si?-

-esta bien mi amor, te amo nos vemos- luego de un largo beso se marchó, no te gustaba cuando eso pasaba porque solo significaba que estaría en un operativo, pero entendías que era su trabajo, y aunque te pedía que no lo esperaras despierta siempre lo hacías, y no por querer llevarle la contraria sino más bien porque querías asegurarte de que estuviera bien

El día de Horacio fue duro, estaba cansado y sudoroso, no veía la hora de llegar a casa contigo, pero los informes que tenía que entregar no se lo permitían, en el camino a su oficina se encontró a los norteamericanos sentados en sus escritorios rodeados de una nube de humo causada por sus cigarrillos, inclinó su cabeza en forma de saludo y siguió su camino, al entrar en su oficina encontró que en su escritorio reposaba un sobre con su nombre escrito en el

Al abrirlo lo primero que vio fue una carta escrita a mano, seguida de un par de fotos en las cuales sin duda alguna se podía ver a la mujer de su vida despidiéndose de él con un largo beso en la puerta de su casa, al ver las fotos por un momento se asustó y no por él sino por ti, tenía enemigos y esto significaba que sabían dónde estabas y eso si lo asusto

Señor Coronel Horacio Carrillo

He recibido la desagradable noticia de que mi hermana está hospedada en su casa, lo cual no es algo de mi entera gracia, espero que por su propio bienestar entienda que lo mejor para ella es estar alejada de usted ya que a su lado corre peligro su vida y las consecuencias que pueden traerle a usted serán nefastas, espero que pueda razonar y entender que ella debe estar con un verdadero hombre y debe estar de vuelta en su hogar ya que empieza a hacernos mucha falta, esta será la única advertencia de mi parte parte para usted Coronel, espero tome la mejor decisión para su propio bienestar

Att: Pablo Escobar

Pensó por un momento que era una broma, de verdad quería creerlo, Pablo Escobar le envió una carta para amenazarlo, de verdad estaba a punto de reír, como era siquiera posible que le estuviera exigiendo que se apartara de tu lado, en este punto de su vida y de su relación contigo sabía exactamente bien lo que tenía que hacer, por eso antes de irse a casa abrió el Cajón de su escritorio y sacó de él una pequeña caja de terciopelo y la guardó en su bolsillo no sin antes darle una respuesta a la amenaza de su cuñado

Señor Pablo Escobar

Creí por un momento que se trataba de una broma de mal gusto y lo sigo creyendo, nose con que fundamentos cree usted que cuenta para exigirme que me aleje de su hermana, porque ni aunque me ponga tres objetivos en la espalda lo haré, ella significa todo para mi y tomó la decisión correcta al alejarse del mundo de terror que te has encargado de construir, no me alejare de ella porque la amo con todo mi corazón y pienso hacerla mi esposa, ella no llevará más tu apellido será la futura señora de carrillo, y nuestros hijos no tendrán nunca que vivir con el peso de tus pecados

Att: Coronel Horacio Carrillo

Posdata: nadie me a apartar del lado de la mujer mi vida ni siquiera su propio hermano

#horacio carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo #horacio carrillo fic #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x you #maurice compte

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leylinefiction · 2 years

Text

Los Regalos (Horacio Carrillo x Reader)

Pairing: Colonel Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: PG (if you squint)

Summary: You're new to Colombia and the Search Bloc, loaned out by the Army to help sift through the wiretaps, sat phone calls, and other communications. Everything is off to a normal start until someone starts leaving little gifts on your desk and you're determined to figure out who it is. Carrillo is not married in this fic because I'm the author and I say so.

Author's Note: Anon who suggested this prompt, I am forever in your debt. I hope you let me know who you are because I loved writing this. And I'm leaving it open for further one-shots if you want me to continue to add to it.

Los Regalos (Gifts)

The gifts show up on your desk randomly.

At least, you think they’re gifts. The terrible thought that they could have been just left on your desk absentmindedly and were meant for someone else crashes into your thoughts. But if that were the case, it should have stopped after you claimed the small, potted orchid as your own. And the pound of Robusta coffee with a handmade ceramic mug. A box of cocadas, which you sincerely wish you knew where those came from because they were fantastic. Today, it's a beautiful ceramic bowl with different types of fruit in it. Most of which you have no idea what they are. Or how to eat them.

“Another gift from the secret admirer?”

You look up to see the two DEA agents that have been assigned to work with the newly formed Search Bloc come into the shared office space. It was Agent Peña that had spoken.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Although I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with some of these.” You pick up a bright pinkish-red fruit. “Like, what is this?”

“That’s a pitahaya,” Peña says. “In the US we call them dragon fruit.”

So that’s what a dragon fruit is.

“Now this one,” Peña picks up a green spiky fruit, “is a guanabana. Don’t eat the skin or the seeds inside it, they’re poisonous. Just eat the meat.”

“Good to know,” you take the fruit and put it back into the bowl. You’re still relatively new to Colombia, assigned to Centra Spike under the umbrella of the Army. Your job is to listen to phone calls made over the wiretaps and satellite phones, trying to figure out what was from the narcos and what was just common chatter. Your family thought you were running through the barrios of Bogotá and Medellín, in a flak vest and gun, shooting down sicarios and arresting drug dealers. You tried to explain to them that you live at a desk with headphones over your ears but they preferred their version of events. It made social events more interesting for them.

“You figure out who it is leaving you these things?” Agent Murphy asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet. The mystery continues.”

You thought it could be one of them since you’re an American, with the Army, and trying to get adjusted to life in a foreign country. But Murphy is married and trying to get adjusted himself and Peña doesn’t strike you as the type to bestow little gifts to a secretary that he barely knows and speaks to in passing. Which leaves the Colombian police officers that surround you. And that suspect pool is quite large.

Trujillo is a common face in this area of the office, working closely with Colonel Carrillo. And even though you’ve had personable conversations with him, they’ve remained professional and distant. And he’s been the friendliest officer you’ve interacted with so your options are very broad as to who is your secret admirer. You pick up another piece of fruit, an uchuva, a small yellow berry, and smile. Whoever it is, they’re scoring some major points with their thoughtfulness.

***

Carrillo has no idea what he’s doing.

It’s been years since he’s attempted to get a woman to notice him. The last time his eyes were set on a potential companion, her father decided that she was better suited for an officer with a higher rank and so he lost his Juliana to a then lieutenant colonel. He wonders how her father feels now that he’s a colonel and head of the specialized group tasked to track down Escobar. He hadn’t thought of pursuing a romantic entanglement since he lost her.

But then you walked in, on loan from the United States Army, to help organize the information that came flooding in from the various wiretaps and sat phone calls. You sat hours on end everyday, listening to those calls, transcribing the conversations, and deciding what was helpful and what was just everyday talk. You had been here for three weeks, new to the country, new to the job, but had dug in with a determination that he rarely saw, even from his own men.

He listens to the wiretaps too. He hears his men talk about their fear for their lives and their families. He hears them doubt what is the right thing to do. He hears them cave to their fear and help the narcos. He understands why they do it but he can’t abide by it. He sifts through his officers like farmers sift through their crop: keep the good pieces and discard the rotten ones. It’s making him distant from his emotions and his desire to be around people. He’s becoming weary of sizing up everyone he encounters to see if they’re a threat or an ally.

He listens to your phone conversations too. Even though you are a US citizen, part of the deal is that any American is subject to the same transparency as the Colombian army and police force. You signed off on that waiver of privacy and so he listens to your conversations with zero guilt. That is until he realizes he has heard your voice so much that he can recognize it with as much accuracy as he can Escobar’s. That is when he realizes there is something intriguing about you.

He has your voice memorized so he moves on to studying your appearance and routine. You arrive ten minutes early every morning, dressed neatly and with care, with jeans and a nice blouse. The only thing that confuses him are the worn Converse sneakers you always wear. Jewelry is limited to simple earrings and a necklace; you don't wear any rings on your hands or bracelets on your wrists. Your posture is straight as you sit at the dented, metal desk in the main office area.

Whenever you come across an officer that is giving information or making arrangements to receive bribes from the cartel, you would bring the file and tape to him at the end of the business day. It is the only time that you darken his door. He would take the items from you and note the sad look in your eye when they left your hand, like you were responsible for the breach of conduct. You are a lovely combination of beauty, efficiency, and empathy. And you have caught his attention. Now what?

Is there a difference between catching a criminal and catching a paramour?

He goes back to listening to the phone conversations, mostly with your sister and mother. You talk about the various things that you’ve discovered that are unique to Colombia: flowers, foods, and drinks in particular. You’ve recently started talking about books you want to read now that the newness of everything is starting to fade and you can concentrate on a hobby. You mention authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez with his famous One Hundred Years of Solitude, but then mention how you want a more authentic social commentary and had recently bought a used copy of The Vortex by José Eustacio Rivera. If you wanted an authentic social commentary on just how greed-fueled the rubber industry was, you certainly picked a good book.

The conversation turns to family updates and he stops listening in to convince himself he’s giving you some semblance of privacy. He takes out a small notebook and makes a note to bring his copy of Las Estrellas son Negras by Arnoldo Palacios to leave on your desk tomorrow. The book isn’t uplifting in any sense of the word but it is considered to be classic, albeit an unpopular one. If you’re wanting to read something deep, and if you do end up enjoying The Vortex, then you should like Palacios’ book.

While he’s thinking about the novels, something comes to mind concerning the rubber manufacturing in the jungle. There had been some aerial shots of a possible drug lab in one of the many overgrown spaces between Medellín and Bogotá that he wanted to look over again. They weren’t on his desk any more, or any of the other desks in the room so he heads over to the file room where they’ve most likely been returned. He passes by your desk but you’re not there, maybe on your lunch break, but he notices some of the fruit is already missing.

The file room door is propped open which immediately annoys him. The room is supposed to be locked both with an old fashioned key lock and an electronic passcode, not propped open with a…shoe? He makes a disgusted noise as he kicks it out of the doorway and goes into the room. As soon the door clicks shut, someone drops a file and goes running for the door.

“No, no, no, no…”

It’s you.

And you’re missing a shoe.

“Damn it!” You hit the door with an open palm and turn towards him, ready to unleash a severe reprimand until you realize it’s him. Most of your fury dissolves into contrition as you take in a deep breath. “Buen día, coronel.” (Good day, Colonel.)

“Buen día, señorita.” (Good day, miss.) He waits to see if you’re going to say anything else but your eyes are trying to look at anywhere in the room but him. They finally settle on your feet: one still encased in the converse sneaker while the other is bare. Your toenails are painted a light pink. “Am I to understand that was your shoe holding the door open?”

“Yes, sir.”

Your formalness stings slightly until he realizes that you don’t know he’s been listening in to your conversations, gathering information, and then providing you with the little gifts on your desk. Perhaps he should stop. Perhaps you would have no interest in him whatsoever. Perhaps there is someone else, if not here in Colombia than back in the States.

Perhaps, it’s just not meant to be.

However, isn’t that what giving a gift is all about: you give with no expectation of receiving something in return?

***

You can’t believe your luck. Not only are you indefinitely locked in the file room but it is with the head of the Search Bloc, Colonel Horacio Carrillo. This also happens to be the person at the top of your suspect lists for leaving the gifts at your desk. And you’re not sure how to feel about it.

He’s not your boss, per say, that would be the US Army and you’re of a low enough rank no one pays you any mind back at the Embassy so dating a local wouldn’t cause any disturbances. Lord knows Peña gets away with it all the time. But Carrillo is in charge of the special unit that you’re assisting so that throws the line of conduct into some shade. Secondly, you hardly know him. He rarely speaks about himself, his personal life, and he’s here so often you wonder if he even has a personal life. Married to a job, especially one like this, does not check any boxes on the dating checklist.

However, he is respectful to all those around him. You wouldn’t use the word kind, even though the thoughtfulness of the gifts would give you some evidence for using that word. He treats his men well, checks on them, prays through the rosary with them before particularly dangerous raids, and shares in the workload. His treatment of the Americans in the Search Bloc is the same as that of his own men. You’ve also noted that he treats the women in the office, you included, with the same expectations as his men: do your job well, he’s pleased and will let you know; do it poorly, and you can go elsewhere.

Now you wonder if that’s his current thoughts of you, missing one shoe and having just displayed an unprofessional burst of anger. You try to recenter yourself and gain some semblance of competency. “The locks are broken on the door.”

One of his eyebrows ticks up at the comment. “Both of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

He moves closer to the door and you step away from it, having a good idea what is about to come next. Sure enough, he tries kicking the door open but it doesn’t even budge. You raise a finger hesitantly to prevent him from kicking it harder and hurting himself.

“Um, the electronic lock is actually a double deadbolt.”

The kick to the door did alert someone walking past that there is an issue as someone called out on the other side. “¿Quién está ahí?” (Who’s in there?)

Carrillo yells back both his name and yours as the officer says he’s getting help for them. Your brain has stuttered to a halt and he must notice because a quizzical look crosses his face.

“What?”

“You remember my name.”

The confused look changes into something that looks akin to shame before he turns away. “I know everyone’s name in the unit. Wouldn’t be much of a leader if I didn’t.”

You suppose that is true and the thought that he knew it because he liked you dissipates. You go back a couple rows to the file that you dropped in your mad dash to try to stop the door from closing. He follows you, at a respectful distance though, but then helps pick up the spilled contents of the file. As he looks at the pictures, he laughs slightly.

“I was actually looking for these pictures,” he tells you.

“Oh, really?” You take the rest of the file over to the small window where there’s some light. They’re aerial shots of an abandoned rubber plant in the jungle. Or at least it looks abandoned. “I wanted to look at them again to see if there’s anything we missed that might give away something about it being used.”

He stands next to you in the light and looks at the pictures in his hands. “I feel like we are missing something.”

There’s no table in the room so you put the pictures down on the floor and sit down there to look at them. He does the same and soon both your heads are down, studying the pictures. You watch his hands as he drags his fingers over the photos, looking at each grainy detail for something. He isn’t wearing a wedding band.

And speaking of examining details, your eyes can’t help but drift up from his hands to the strong, exposed forearms, the shifting of his biceps under the sleeves of his green fatigues. You probably couldn’t wrap your whole hand around his upper arm but now you kind of want to try. You had to admit, as intimidating as Carrillo is, he is also quite handsome with his sharp, coffee colored eyes and straight nose.

There is a part of you that wishes he is the one that is leaving those gifts. You can’t just outright ask him, he’ll most likely deny it if you do. So you need to get it out of him without him realizing it. He’s a skilled interrogator, at least according to Peña, but you do have a slight advantage: he’s not going to expect you to be gathering information from him. Besides, you do like a challenge.

Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a couple of the uchuvas, the small orange colored berries, and pop one in your mouth. When Carrillo’s eyes flick up to yours to see what you’re doing, you hold one out to him. He takes it with a wry smile.

“Careful, we may have to ration these.”

“I have a few more.” You wait until he’s focused again on the surveillance pictures before you speak again. “You know, I would love to know where you got those cocadas. The chocolate ones in particular were wonderful.”

He hums distractedly. “There’s a bakery two blocks from here that carries them.”

Okay, that answer doesn’t confirm or deny anything. Damn. Maybe it’s not him then and the slight disappointment that settles in your stomach is surprising. You had wanted it to be him. You go back to looking at the pictures and notice something: the electrical box on the outside of the building. You shuffle through past pictures, taken a week before, and find it: evidence. It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s there.

“Look,” you put both pictures down in front of Carrillo. “The electrical box had vines and dirt on it two weeks ago, but a week later, the vines are cut back and it's been cleaned.”

“There it is,” he says with a satisfied smile. “Evidence to support a raid. Well done.”

You can’t help the wide smile that erupts across your face.

A voice from the door shouts to you two. “¿Coronel?” (Colonel?)

“Sí.” (Yes.)

“Deberíamos sacarte en veinte minutos.” (We should have you out in twenty minutes.)

“Gracias, Trujillo.” (Thank you, Trujillo.)

You start gathering up the pictures and put them back into the folder, handing the collected papers and pictures to Carrillo. He takes it with a small smile.

“I wonder what other mysteries we could solve in the next twenty minutes,” he says looking around at the boxes of files surrounding you both.

You sit back against the shelf behind you. “I actually have a mystery that I would like to solve.”

He nods, his facial features schooled behind a mask of indifference. “Okay.”

The question about the cocadas didn’t reveal anything so you try another approach. “I think someone is listening in on my calls.”

“That’s expected when you work in this unit.”

“Oh, I understand that. That’s not what bothers me.” You specifically use the word “bothers” to make it sound like it’s making you uncomfortable. Knowing how much he respects those who work in the unit, the thought of his actions making anyone uncomfortable will not sit well with him. And judging from the small frown and minute shifting he’s done, you’re right.

“What is bothering you then?”

He sounds so disappointed when he asks that question, you want to hug him and tell him that you know it’s him and to please not stop because it's the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for you. So you choose your next words even more carefully.

“I’m bothered by the fact that I can’t thank them for their thoughtfulness. Whoever is listening to my conversations is picking up on the things that I want to see, like the orchid, or try, like the fruit and the coffee. I’m particularly excited to see what book appears tomorrow.” You pause for a moment. “Do you have a favorite book, Colonel Carrillo?”

His face is still smooth of emotion. “I do.”

“What’s the title?”

“I guess you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow when I put it on your desk.”

“So it is you.”

“It is.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “If you would like me stop-”

“No,” you cut him off. “Please don’t. It’s very nice, very kind.”

“As are you.” He sits up straighter. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner tonight?”

“I would love that. I’m going to have to ask my boss if I can leave a little early and he’s kind of a stickler for the job coming first though.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Let me chat with him. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“I don’t know, he can be quite a hard ass.”

“So I’ve heard.”

You both laugh quietly when the sound of a power drill comes from the door. Most likely they’re trying to dismantle the keypad to manually disengage the deadbolts. Carrillo stands up and reaches down to help you to your feet. Your hand slides easily into his as he tugs you upright. For the briefest moment you think he’s going to kiss you, he’s standing so close and your hands are still clasped together. But then the keypad drops heavily to the floor and startles you both back to the present. Your hands untangle, he picks up the file from the floor, and you both put your professional masks back in place.

“Would seven be a good time for you tonight?” he asks quietly.

“Yes, that would be perfect.”

“I’ll meet you outside your apartment.”

You can’t help but grin at the thought but quickly tamper down the butterflies in your stomach as the deadbolt lock pops and the door swings open. Carrillo motions for you to go first and as you do, Murphy hands you your sneaker.

“Cinderella.”

“Thank you, Agent Murphy.”

Carrillo nods to Trujillo. “See if we can get that fixed before the year is out.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Peña has a downright devious look on his face as he studies yours. “So…what happened?”

You put your shoe back on, leaning down the tie the laces. “We did what you were supposed to be doing…working.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious,” you point to Carrillo’s office. “We found evidence for a raid at an old rubber factory in the jungle. Go.”

He shrugs before moving off in the office’s direction. “I want details.”

“There are no details, asshole.” Well, no details yet at least.

Murphy shakes his head. “Come on, Javi, it’s Carrillo. Can you picture him dating anyone, let alone picking out orchids and sweets?”

“I guess you’re right.” Peña pauses before walking into the office and points at Trujillo who just passed in front of him.

You shrug your shoulders in a “maybe” response, throwing Trujillo under the speculation bus. You’ve just reached your desk when Carrillo comes to his office door to close it and calls over to you.

“Why don’t you head home a little early?”

“Are you sure?”

He gives you a slightly stern look that says “I thought we discussed this already?”

“Thank you, sir.” You pick up the bowl of fruit before heading out the door to get ready for dinner. You need to make sure there’s some cleared space for tomorrow’s offering.

#colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo #narcos fic #hinky writes #horacio carrillo fic

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goodnitedrdead · 1 year

Text

miscalculated steps

Colonel Carrillo x Reader

Summary: Horacio was a man of deliberate decisions. It’s one of the characteristics that got him to the position he held. When you came into his life, he threw all sense of premeditation out the window and knew he would follow you till the end of the world at a moment’s notice. The risk he took was calculated, but man, was he bad at math.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Shootings, bullet wounds, death. Not towards any main characters though. fluff <3. silly things here and there.

Author's Note: sometimes I get possessed by the gremlin spirit of creativity so I just type words and hope they make sense when it's finished. feedback is greatly appreciated and will earn you a kiss from me <3

It amused you every time to have any sort of interaction with him and pretend you did not know the type of person he was behind closed doors. In fact, you both quite enjoyed the game you had to play outside of your own little shared universe.

It’s not like you didn’t want to share it with anyone else, the fact that you two were together, but you didn’t want any infiltrations to knock down the foundations you two had built.

For Horacio, it was the excitement and pure love he never really knew he wanted. Most of the time, he felt like a love-sick puppy. He was quite surprised nobody else had brought it up to his attention. He could already hear Javier snickering at him for the lingering and glazy looks he’d give you whenever you were in his presence.

Truth be told, he tried his hardest to treat you like the rest of his team. He tried so hard to talk to you in the same stern voice he’d use with everyone else. He tried so hard to make sure you were always aware of your surroundings. He tried so damn hard to make sure you didn’t get any sort of special treatment from him. He tried and tried and tried so hard but the best he could do was soften his tone whenever he’d address you. The best he could do was make sure you were always in his line of sight and within reach in case he had to cover you. The very best he could do was to make sure you were his number one priority in that team.

It wasn’t always like that. He remembers when you were first assigned to Search Bloc. He didn’t think much of you. For him, it was another person to deal with which meant more weight on his shoulders that would slow him down. That all changed when you knocked him off his feet…. quite literally.

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It had been during a stakeout gone wrong. Carrillo and Peña were informed about an exchange that was taking place in an abandoned farm-house outside of Medellín. As the two of them were heading towards their shared vehicle, you were leaning on yours having a cigarette. Javier called you out, and you looked up to see him waving at you. You quickly put your cigarette out and jogged towards them. Carrillo would eventually have to thank Javier for this, as he was the one who invited you to join them. You agreed, and got in the backseat of the car.

As the three of you drove with minimal conversation, you kept shifting in your seat. Carrillo noticed after a while, the way you couldn’t seem to sit still, the way you kept readjusting the seat belt strap that went across your torso.

“Everything alright, agent?” he asked, starting to get bothered by your actions. Looking at you through the rearview mirror.

You gave him a quick smile before you replied, “yeah.. All good.”

He raised an eyebrow at you and kept driving, falling into conversation with Javier.

Carrillo noticed the change in demeanor when you reached your destination. You weren’t fidgeting anymore. Instead, he found you to be overly-observant. As he placed the car in park, he saw the way you looked out the window, one hand on your gun and the other on the handle of the door. Alert.

As the three of you exited the vehicle, he was about to make a comment on your behavior, but it all changed when the bullets started to rain on the three of you.

His eyes immediately searched for Peña as he was quick to find cover from the gunfire. The shooting was coming from above. The street was clear of civilians, except for the three of you and the shooters. It was four men, positioned on different balconies from the houses on the street. He could only see two in front of him, and he quickly took one down with his pistol. The man fell from the balcony, colliding with the hard concrete beneath him.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His breath was coming in a quick and shallow rhythm. Carrillo took cover behind a car, ducking from the bullets that were dancing around him. He paid close attention to the sound of the gunfire, trying his best to count how many rounds were left in the other man’s weapon. It wasn’t long before he heard the shooting from that direction stop, the man more than likely meeting the same fate as his partner. The smell of gunpowder clung to the air, silence was quick to take over the atmosphere.

He scouted the area around him, slowly rising to his feet with his gun drawn and ready. At the lack of sight of you and Peña, Carrillo started to panic. He was quick to inspect his surroundings, looking for either of you. He had counted four men before, and two of them got taken down. Sure he could take on the other two by himself, but the problem was that he didn’t know where they had gone. They could ambush him at any minute.

As he came close to an old house down the street, he was about to call out for Peña when he felt an overpowering force plow against him. He was knocked out of his breath, his back making contact with the uneven pavement below him. He felt a few rocks dig into his back, his head grazing the ground. It all happened so quickly he didn’t have time to register the weight on top of him, shielding him from the bullets.

Just as he was about to strike his attacker, he was stopped at the sight of you. Definitely not the person he expected.

You were out of breath, panting above him. Your hair untamed, framing your face in a way that made you look much younger. Carrillo never took the time to really look at you until now. You were beautiful. A part of him that he didn’t even know was there started to awaken. Was it the rush of adrenaline? Was the loneliness catching up to him? Was it the way you saved his life? Whatever it was, those thoughts vanished as he saw you jump back to your feet, running to the sound of gunfire. He didn’t even know you had pushed him into an alleyway, hiding him away from the danger.

As he got out of the trance he was in, he got back up and followed you. Only to find out you and Peña had taken care of the other men that were still on the loose.

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It still amused him, knowing that in an instant moment his whole world changed because of you. Never in a million years did he think he’d end up sharing a home with you. Where you two would create your own sanctuary and your own world together, a world so perfect that he’d feel giddy to get out of work and home to you. He couldn’t need anything else as long as he was in your shared space.

The excitement to come back to you at the end of the day was always there. But sometimes he’d get so wrapped up in his own mind. The exhaustion of work following him and finding a home in his bones, aching and wearing him down as the minutes ticked by. And there was no one to blame for such a feeling. It came with the profession. The formidable belief that you were changing the world, even if it cost giving up your own sanity.

He was so thankful you understood. And you were thankful he did as well. The mutual understanding was something neither of you had in previous relationships, at least not to this level. Sure, previous partners of yours knew of your profession and what you did, but they never really knew the extent of it until they had witnessed it first-hand. And it wasn’t a problem until you’d withdraw from your own existence. You would lose interest in the smallest of things, sometimes to the point where food wasn’t even an option for you. Finding solace in the cigarettes and cheap coffee you’d consume on your way to the office or with your own colleagues. You pitted the opposing party in these situations. Your self-awareness sometimes failing you to see that you would neglect your partners from being so involved with your job. Only realizing once they’ve been long gone, leaving you confused and a tad disappointed with your behavior.

Making you wonder if you were even meant to be loved.

But that was until you met Horacio.

With him, things were unlike any other. He understood. He got it. He knew the game plan and he knew how to play it. Both of you wouldn’t even have to speak a word to understand it had been one of those days. You learned how to read each other based on the most simple microexpressions. Sometimes it was the way he’d breathe. He would hold his breath at times, almost as if he were restraining himself from unleashing the anger he suppressed. Anger at the world, anger at the people who would do their part to make the world a shitty place. Anger at Pablo Escobar.

Horacio couldn’t even begin to understand a man like Escobar. Why build your empire above the souls of Colombia? Why paint the walls with the blood of those whose lives you felt entitled to take? Who was he to choose who got to live and who got to die?

The thoughts faded as he walked inside the only place that managed to bring him tranquility. With a deep breath, he allowed himself to engulf the feeling of calmness. The warmth of your shared home embraced his very soul, settling in his bones and scaring away the ache and weariness that usually resided there. He couldn’t hold back the smile that formed on his face as he walked deeper inside, looking for you.

He heard you before he could see you. A string of quiet curses that left your mouth, along with things hitting the floor. The faint melody that flowed from the radio got louder as he approached the bathroom. Finding you haunched over the edge of the bathtub, you're back facing the door. As much as he wanted to surprise you by wrapping his arms around your waist, he couldn’t bring himself to scare you like that. Fear was an ever present feeling in your field of work and he was not about to let it follow you home. Instead he just learned against the frame of the door, delightfully observing you.

You were setting candles around the edge of the tub, trying to somehow make it look… romantic. Inviting? Relaxing? You weren’t even sure what you were going for. All you wanted was to do something nice for Horacio, you knew how hard of a time he was having lately. He wasn’t the only one, sure, but as the Colonel and head of Search Bloc, he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. You wanted to relieve some of that pressure he carried, at least for this moment.

You checked your watch, lifting a fist in a celebratory manner as you managed to finish before Horacio arrived home. Or so you thought. You had completely forgotten to retrieve the matchsticks to light the candles. Challenging yourself to go downstairs and get the matchstick box in under ten seconds, you turned and tried to make a run for it when you collided with a goddamn human brick wall. Oof.

You instantly felt arms wrap around you, trapping you in place. A smile immediately appeared on your face as you looked at the man who embraced you. Horacio planted kisses all over your face, making the most exaggerated kissing sounds as he did so. You giggled before you gently shoved him away, suddenly realizing he was home and your surprise was ruined.

“Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to be home for another twenty minutes!” you couldn’t help but whine, you really wanted to surprise him with this.

Horacio smirked, walking towards you with his hands on his hips, “I can always go back to the office and crash there. Would you prefer that, mi amor?”

You walked backwards, rolling your eyes before they settled on his gaze. The back of your knees softly touching the side of the tub, coming to a stop. You mimicked his posture, hands on your hips and a playful look in your eyes. “You’re more than welcome to do so. You probably wouldn’t even last five minutes before complaining about–”

He caged you in between his body and the tub, towering over you and wrapping his arms around you once again. His fingers making contact with the parts of your body that were the most ticklish. Wanting to make you regret your words.

You laughed as he tickled you, trying to squirm and get out of his grasp before it could continue. You jerked back to try to avoid his hands from touching you, but he had grabbed you by the waist and you forgot where you were and you lost your balance and the next thing you knew, you were falling backwards into the full tub and on your attempt to grab onto something, you ended up grasping his biceps and pulling him down with you.

Horacio was a man of deliberate decisions. It’s one of the characteristics that got him to the position he held. When you came into his life, he threw all sense of premeditation out the window and knew he would follow you till the end of the world at a moment’s notice. The risk he took was calculated, but man, was he bad at math.

He tried to act quick and move so he wouldn’t fall completely on top of you and crush you, but that didn’t work out. You started laughing once again as his weight held you down, the look of oh shit we fucked up evident on his face and you couldn’t even look at him because you weren’t sure what was funnier, that look or the fact that both of you had fallen into the tub, his drenched military uniform clinging onto every part of his body. The usually military green turned even darker as the water made contact with it.

He stopped caring about what happened when he heard your laugh, and he couldn’t help himself from joining you. The both of you now looking at each other and finding humor in the fact that both of you were completely wet. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him in even further, not caring about the situation anymore.

He looked down at you and let his laughter subside, the feeling of adoration taking over. He was completely enamored with you and couldn’t even tell you because he was sure there was not a word on the planet that could convey the feelings he had for you. Horacio placed a hand on your cheek, leaning in slowly and taking in all of your features.

You pulled away just barely enough to miss his lips, a smirk settling on your face as you told him, “you’re definitely sleeping at the office from now on.”

Whatever quick comeback he tried to come up with disappeared when he felt your lips press against his.

#colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo x you #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel carrillo fic #colonel carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo fic #horacio carrillo #narcos fic #maurice compte #goodnitedrdead writes

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spooky-pomegranate · 1 year

Text

Pablo's Ghost (Part 1)

Colonel Carrillo x F Reader Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: Two nights after Horacio Carrillo is gunned down by Pablo Escobar the drug lord receives a phone call that makes him question everything he's ever known. Meanwhile, you and Steve Murphy attend the Colonel's funeral. (Part 2)

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It was mid-afternoon when the phone rang.

“Who is this?”

“Don’t you recognize my voice?”

Of course, Pablo did. But it couldn’t really be him. This had to be some sort of sick joke and he wasn’t interested in hearing the punchline.

“What the fuck is this? Who are you? What the hell do you want?” Pablo snapped angrily into the phone.

“Listen to me carefully Pablo. You may have thought you won but you were so wrong. You’ve made me into something worse than you could have ever imagined. I am a ghost now Pablo and I will haunt you and follow you wherever you go. You cannot escape me, not in this life and not in the next. And when we meet again in hell I promise you I will make sure you pay for every single sin you’ve ever committed, you vile disgusting monster.”

Pablo forced a laugh from deep within his chest. The sound was dark and cold, absent of the soft lilt his wife Tata could so easily draw from him. But the callousness was purposeful. Pablo wanted to scare whoever had called him tonight because whoever dared to provoke the drug king of Columbia needed to understand that he wouldn’t be frightened so easily. Pablo Escobar didn’t have nightmares anymore but he could dole them out.

“This is pathetic. Colonel Carillo is dead, and he will rot in the ground like the useless little worm he-”

“No Pablo. No, I won’t.” The voice interrupted, “But I will see you here soon where the fire is burning and your cousin is still screaming and choking on his own blood. Do you want to hear him, Pablo? Do you want to hear him cry and whimper? Should I put him on the phone?”

Pablo gripped the satellite phone tighter, turning his knuckles white with rage. Bringing up his beloved cousin Gustavo was a step too far. The prank caller had just unknowingly signed their own death warrant.

“Shut up! Shut up you motherfucker! Whoever you are I will find you and kill you. Do you hear me? You’re next. You and every single person you have ever loved. Dead! You’re all dead! I will kill you just like I killed him! You hear me!”

The voice on the phone scoffed. “You already returned my bullet, Pablo. How can you kill me twice?”

A stillness consumed Pablo, cementing his bare feet to the cool tile floor of the hacienda and quickening his pulse. How did the voice know what he had said two nights ago on that dark street? How did they know he had shown Carrillo the bullet before loading it in the chamber and firing it into his thigh?

Pablo turned his head away and looked at his shoes that were strewn by the door. They were still covered in dark maroon blotches of dried blood… Carillo’s blood.

He closed his eyes and returned to that night. He could smell the fire, the gasoline, and the burnt rubber. He could taste the gunpowder in the air and he could feel the sweat dripping from his brow. He could see so clearly the rivers of blood dripping out of Carrillo’s mouth and pooling onto the asphalt, soaking into his sneakers and turning their white fabric a deep red.

It was all so vivid. Too vivid to be a dream. It had been real. He had killed him. Colonel Horacio Carrillo was dead. He had to be. Because otherwise…

Pablo opened his eyes again and stared at his bloody shoes. He didn’t believe in ghosts and if they were real the logical part of him thought he certainly would have faced the wrath of one long ago. But deep down there was another part of him, a smaller part, that wondered if maybe he was wrong about the afterlife. Maybe he had doomed himself. Maybe he would be haunted for the rest of his living days by a vengeful spirit.

That small part of him thought it made sense…because how else could a dead man whisper “cobarde” before hanging up?

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Dark clouds pushed over the mountains and consumed Medellin, blocking out the sun and shrouding the valley below in a despairing and muggy gloom. It was a rather fitting setting for a funeral. One surely to be played up by the reporters who had gathered by the dozens at the miserable affair. The incorruptible and unrelenting Colonel Horacio Carrillo’s death had made for dramatic headlines and the papers printed about his murder flew off the shelves.

But that wasn’t surprising. Carrillo’s name wasn’t unknown to the people of Columbia. For years it seemed like everyone in the country had held their own opinions on the man.

Many Columbians had supported Carrillo’s efforts, believing that no matter the cost, Escobar needed to be stopped. While others had disagreed, feeling the Colonel had crossed too many lines. But today, as a soft rain started to fall on Carrillo’s casket, both sides were united in mourning. Without Colonel Horacio Carrillo on the front lines who would stop Pablo Escobar? What man would willingly step into a job where death was surely the only outcome and more importantly, who would save Colombia now?

That last question had kept you up more nights than you cared to admit when you first arrived in Columbia. As a young DEA agent the blood and destruction you had come to experience in Latin America was unparalleled to that which you had witnessed at home. But as the months passed you started to believe Carrillo was going to be the country’s savior. His drive and effort were unmatched by any man you had ever met and truthfully it inspired you.

Yet, despite your admiration, you never told him how you felt. In your mind, there was something unprofessional about sharing your feelings with the Colonel and Horacio Carrillo certainly wasn’t a man who needed praise to do his job well. So you held your tongue and kept your faith in him private. But today, watching his casket being lowered into the ground, you couldn’t help but wonder how he would have responded if you had just been honest.

“Hey,” an American-accented voice called out in your direction, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.

You stared down at the wet earth as your DEA partner Steve Murphy placed a warm hand on your shoulder. You kept your eyes glued to the muddy graveyard dirt as he came around to face you. You hoped he would confuse the tears on your cheeks for raindrops. Probably a fat chance, considering your eyes were bloodshot beyond belief.

“I’m meeting Peña for a drink. Come with me,” Murphy said. His voice was softer than you were used to. It drew your face upwards and he offered you a small fleeting smile. For as tough as Steve could be interrogating and chasing down narcos, you knew he also had a softer side. You had seen it when he adopted his daughter Olivia or when he talked about his beautiful wife Connie. You were thankful for his invitation but truthfully there was only one place you wanted to be and it wasn’t at a bar with him and Peña.

“No thanks. I just want to go home.” You said, voice a little shakier than you would have liked.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Murphy gave you a nod and started to walk back to his wife.

“Hey, Murphy.” He paused looking over his shoulder, “Thanks for asking though. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, see you then.” Murphy walked off and you headed to your car. Neither of you noticed the small boy hiding behind a tree confirming on radio that Colonel Carrillo’s body had been placed 6 feet under the ground.

—————————————————————

It was just a door. A mundane bedroom door painted an ordinary white and accented by a dull black handle. There was nothing abnormal or alarming about it but that didn’t seem to matter because right now you were terrified by it. The abject fear was so consuming that small droplets of water splashed out of the glass in your hands and landed on the hallway floor by your bare feet. Shootouts with sicarios you could handle, but this… this was something entirely different. Your body continued to shake as your chest tightened.

“Come on, it’ll be alright,” you whispered to yourself in a weak attempt to conjure up some courage.

You had only been gone for an hour or so. The funeral had been a shorter ceremony than you had expected, but in that time you knew anything could have happened. Turns for the worst were never prolonged events. They happened quickly and at the worst times. You prayed that this wasn’t the worst time.

Pushing open the door, you found your room looked exactly the same as you had left it. Machines on either side of your bed hummed and beeped softly, while dozens of small wires and tubes connected them to a huddled mass lying in the center of your bed. You stepped closer and saw the sheets gently rise and fall. A small breath of air came back into your lungs.

“Carrillo?”

“Mmmm.” The huddled mass quietly hummed in response and relief washed over you. He was still alive. Breathing, conscious, and alive.

“I brought you some water,” you said softly stepping around the side of your bed before taking a better look at the man lying in your sheets.

Carrillo might have been alive but he looked entirely dissimilar from the man you had come to know. The Colonel you saw every day ruthlessly fighting for his country had beautifully tanned skin that was kissed by the Columbian sun. He had strong muscles that constrained tightly against his clothing and he wore his hair short and kept his face clean-shaven in fashion with his strict military discipline.

But this man, the one lying below you now, looked nothing like that Colonel Carrillo. This man was so pale that you could clearly see every blue and purple vein through the skin of his neck and hands. He had a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his brow that stuck his messy and thick dark hair to his forehead and his strong jaw was covered with a dark and coarse stubble that made him look messy and unkempt. If you hadn’t brought him to your bed yourself you would have never guessed this was the fearsome leader of Search Bloc.

“Garcías,” Carrillo murmured weakly after taking a sip of the water you held to his lips. You offered him a small smile in turn and grabbed a bottle of pills off the bedside table.

“For the pain,” you said showing him the bottle. For a brief moment, your thumb brushed over his chapped lips as you gently placed one of the pills in his mouth. He closed his eyes and swallowed. You felt your chest constrict again when he looked up at you with his tired chestnut eyes.

It was difficult seeing Carrillo like this. He had been a pillar of strength during your time in Columbia and even though you both knew how dangerous this game was that you played with the cartel, you never expected to see him like this. You thought he would be strong and alive or dead and gone. This middle ground was more painful than you could have ever imagined.

You tore your eyes away from Carrillo’s face and looked around the room. You were searching for something, anything, to distract yourself with while the air slowly worked its way back into your lungs. It was then you noticed that something was out of place.

You had left a satellite phone by Carrillo’s hand before heading to the funeral. You had gently explained to him that if anything happened he should call you. It might have been a stupid idea, if he needed you that badly he probably wouldn’t have even been able to dial a phone, but you had left it there just the same. Strangely now though you realized the phone had moved. It currently sat precariously on the edge of the bed.

“Did you try to call me?” You said concernedly looking back again at Carrillo.

“No,” he answered staring at you, his face inscrutable.

“Did you call someone else?”

“No importa.”

A swell of rage consumed you as you picked up the phone.

“It’s not important? Are you serious right now?!” You didn’t understand how could Carrillo think that it wasn’t important. For every person who knew he was alive his chances of survival dropped. You both knew that Pablo’s tentacles were long and deadly.

“Look at yourself! You are barely alive and you’re holed up here in my apartment just fucking patched together. If someone else knows you are alive you need to tell me right now! I need to know so I can take care of it. You can’t… I can’t… Fuck Carrillo!”

The words to express your outrage were difficult to find, especially considering it had been several days since you last slept. You had spent every single moment since the ambush trying to do two things: keep Carrillo alive and keep it a secret. Neither task had been simple.

After the attack, Trujillo had ridden in the ambulance with Carrillo. He had wanted to protect his Colonel’s body from any potential desecration. It was a sickening thought, but one that was entirely possible when anyone could be on Pablo’s payroll.

Trujillo didn’t notice the small breaths Carrillo took as his body was loaded into the ambulance. From the bloody scene on the street, no one could have thought the Colonel survived. But if Horacio was anything he was a fighter. And when the paramedics did finally realize, that despite the rivers of blood Carrillo had lost he still had a faint pulse, Trujillo directed them away from the local hospital. He knew sicarios would come to finish the job if anyone matching the Colonel’s description were to arrive. So instead, he ordered the paramedics to the home of a surgeon and close friend he trusted.

But before the doctor could dig the bullets out of Carrillo’s body, the Colonel miraculously opened his eyes. He desperately grabbed Trujillo by the collar of his shirt and whispered your name over and over and over again, repeating it like it was a prayer. Trujillo promised his friend that he would call you and while the doctor tended to Carrillo, he did so.

Over the next hour, you and Trujillo developed a plan. You both would find and execute a low-level sicario that matched Carrillo’s physique, dress him in the Colonel’s bloody uniform, and deliver the body to the morgue in his place. The paramedics would each be paid handsomely and driven to the airport the following morning with American visas in hand and when Carrillo was stable, or stable enough, you would move him to your apartment along with some equipment the surgeon would “borrow” from a hospital. It was a bold gamble, reckless with low odds of success, but the two of you were willing to roll the dice for a chance to save the Colonel. So far, maybe by the grace of a higher power, your plan had worked.

It exasperated you to hear that now Carrillo could have upended everything you and Trujillo had done for him over a single stupid phone call.

“I’ve done everything I can to make sure no one knows you are here and I’m trying my best to keep you alive. So what is it… do you have a goddamn death wish Carrillo?!” Your voice was loud, echoing off the barren walls and tall ceilings of your room as you waved the phone around erratically.

“No.”

“No.” You scoffed, “No, says the man who was shot 6 times.”

“Mírame cariño.” You were so caught up in your own indignation that you couldn’t register the term of endearment that had rolled so sweetly off his tongue. But you met his dark eyes just the same and nothing could have prepared you for the way he looked up at you.

His eyes were solemn and their beautiful hazel color had shifted to a duller shade of burnt umber. He looked emotionally drained, like maybe Columbia, the war, and Escobar had already taken too much from him. It dawned on you that maybe you were just prolonging the inevitable. Maybe this sad ending was his only way out.

“Horacio…” He blinked heavily and his eyes softened as you quietly called his name. Tears began to swell in the corners of your eyes. “Please tell me this ends another way,” you whispered faintly.

“What?” Carrillo’s eyes widened slightly in surprise as he switched to English.

“Tell me, how does this end? Because standing in front of your casket today was the worst pain and I don’t want to do it again. I won’t do it again. I can’t. I don’t know why you told Trujillo to get me the other night, but I… I…” The tears were streaming down your cheeks now and you struggled to speak. You wanted him to sit up, grab you by the shoulders, and tell you what to do. If he could just find the strength to lead one more time maybe everything could be okay. Maybe you both could get through this in one piece.

“I don’t know how this ends,” he said wearily. His brutal honesty cut into you like a hot knife, sucking the oxygen from the room and forcing you to your knees beside the bed.

“But I need you… I need you alive because… because who else can I trust? You have to understand please, Columbia needs you alive. You’re the one who’s going to stop him. I know it. So you need to get better. You have to get stronger. You need to fight okay. Promise me that you will.” Your voice wavered as you begged him desperately and reached for his hand, squeezing his calloused palm in yours. You needed him to understand just what he meant to Columbia but a prolonged silence filled the room and you started to wonder if he had already given up. Maybe he was finally done fighting.

But then after an eternity, he whispered two simple words.

“I promise.”

And it was enough to crumble you. You let go of Carrillo’s hand and sobbed, slumping forward and burying your face into the edge of your bed. You wept there, eyes drenching your sheets, for so long that your body finally succame to exhaustion and for the first time in several days you fell asleep.

Horacio had never seen you cry before. As tough and steadfast as he was, he knew you were equally so. But when he looked over at your sleeping face, red and puffy from tears, he wondered how he could have broken you like this. Perhaps, he let himself dream, there was a part of you that felt the same way he did.

He hesitantly reached his hand over to your tear-stained cheek and brushed his thumb against your soft and warm skin. He didn’t want to wake you but he couldn’t help himself. He had thought about what it would be like to touch you for so long. In truth, there were countless late nights where his mind had wandered and you had crept in.

Sometimes he dreamt about you when he was at home and he could act on his most lustful urges and groan your name in his empty and lonely bedroom. Other times, more inconveniently, he thought about you when he was in his office and he would struggle to keep his composure for the rest of the evening. But no matter where he fantasized about you he always imagined the same moment, his skin intimately touching yours for the very first time. He spent hours thinking about it. He dreamt about how soft you might feel under his fingertips and how sweet you might taste on his tongue.

And he imagined all the places he wanted to put his hands on you first. Sometimes he envisioned it would be against your neck, other times your chest. His favorite indulgence was dreaming about his hands on your plush and beautiful thighs.

He also dreamt of the different ways in which he could touch you. He sometimes thought about being rough, digging his hands into your body, and leaving his mark behind so that everyone could see what he’d done. Other times he imagined being soft and gentle, caressing the intimate places you had only ever allowed a few others to touch. Most often though, he thought about worshipping you and giving you anything and everything you wanted.

But in all his wildest fantasies, Carrillo had never imagined getting to touch you for the first time like this. Because this, wiping your tears away as he laid too broken to sit up and hold you like you so desperately deserved…this was too sad and too bleak for those sweet dreams. As warm and as soft as you were, he never wanted this. You were worthy of so much more.

—————————————————————

(Part 2)

#narcos #colonel horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo x you #maurice compte #narcos fic #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carillo x you #horacio carrillo #steve murphy #colonel carrillo #boyd holbrook

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mlmxreader · 2 years

Text

Awaiting Orders | Horacio Carrillo x m!reader

@areyouwaiting asked: Logan gave me permission to steal his Carrillo idea so here I am 😌✌🏻 Carrillo x male!reader Imagine Carillo in the dark sitting on the couch just smoking a cigarette while watching you on your knees awaiting his command please kind sir kdjfkdjfdk

summary: all it is is a punishment for disobeying orders, but you’re not sure if you can actually take it.

tws: mentions of anal sex, mentions of choking, mentions of biting and marking, handcuffs, Dom/Sub

word count: 1026

MINORS DNI

The lights were all off except for the pale grey lamp of which sat on the coffee table beside the sofa, just about gracing the outline of your boyfriend as he sat back, lighting a cigarette and kicking his feet up on the footstool, a newspaper on his lap as he didn’t even look at you; his shirt was folded up and neatly placed on the kitchen counter, his belt slightly undone as he let the light hit his skin and gave you just a little show of what was on offer if you behaved yourself, if you did everything that he said without talking back to him. You bit at the inside of your lip as you watched him reach for the ashtray, putting it on his lap on top of the newspaper as he continued to smoke his cigarette without even thinking of looking at you, paying you no attention.

You hoped that he didn’t forget you, you hoped that he still knew that you would give him any pleasure you could; but in truth, you wanted him to break your heart and to shatter you, to tie you into knots and to make you suffer at his hands. You wished to ask him if he still remembered that you were in the room, that you were waiting for his attention, but you knew that breaking orders would result in punishment; you shouldn’t have acted up earlier, you should have behaved when he had told you not to touch yourself earlier. This was your punishment, this was the losing game you had to play.

Carrillo stole a glance at you, nothing more, and moved the ashtray so that it was beside him as he opened the newspaper and took a drag from his cigarette. “If you’d have done as I said, if you’d have been a good boy instead of a fucking brat, you wouldn’t be where you are now, tigre… go on, you can speak.”

“Thank you, Sir,” you said quietly, nodding as you swallowed thickly and tried not to shiver when the metal of his handcuffs bit into your skin, making you whimper softly as you did your best to stay still. The laminate floor was digging into your knees, so cold and so harsh that you knew that your knees would click loudly when you stood back up. If you were allowed to stand. “When will you tell me what to do?”

“When I think you’ve had enough,” Carrillo replied, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray and clearing his throat as he turned the page on the newspaper. Yet his gaze didn’t leave you, so dark as he clenched his jaw and tried his best not to smile. “That’s when I’ll give you your orders.”

“Yes, Sir,” you nodded. “Thank you, Sir.”

Carrillo flicked through the newspaper a little more before tossing it aside and looking at you, putting one arm across the back of the sofa, his other arm resting on the arm as he tilted his head to the side ever so slightly; dark brown eyes watching your every move in the dark. He could see how your breath hitched in your throat, the gleam of the handcuffs against dying and dim light. He wanted to break you, he wanted to make you break your orders and your resolve and to beg for him; he needed to hear you beg for him to touch you, to pay attention to you, to do anything other than sit there and watch you. He needed to make you crack and to break before his very eyes; he wanted to watch you crawl across the laminate floor and rest your head on his lap as you begged softly for attention he would not give. He wanted to feel you get on his lap and desperately grind against him while you pleaded for his touch, for his forgiveness. Carrillo wanted and needed you to break.

He had done it before, he would do it again; break you and tear you apart only to put you back together again, only to do it all over again. Shattered pieces picked up and put back together before being smashed apart again. Carrillo would always break you, would always shatter and smash and fragment you, only to put each piece back together so carefully, just so he could do it again and again until you were begging him to stop; until you couldn’t take it anymore. Yet every time he did it, no matter how harsh and rough he was with you, you loved it; you loved to be broken, to be torn apart and dissected, to be shattered and fragmented. You loved it when he broke you so callously and then put you back together again. You loved it when he used you like a fucking toy, just to break you without a second thought. You craved it, needed it, yearned for it and begged for him to do it each and every time.

The hard and cold floor was making your knees ache, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move, you didn’t want to move as you looked at Carrillo desperately, pining for his attention, preening for him as you let the softest of whimpering whines leave the back of your throat; you tugged at the handcuffs, a reminder that you couldn’t even touch him. You desperately wanted to feel his skin against yours, but the handcuffs bit at your skin, reminding you that your hands would need to stay behind your back even when you wanted to touch him more than anything; to feel him against you, to grip his hair and to feel his chest when he kissed you. You craved him, craved his kiss and his touch and the feeling of his cock in your ass, the feeling of his hand around your throat, the ecstasy that came with it all and how he would leave his bite marks all over you, like he had claimed you for his own and he would never let another soul touch you the way that he did.

“Alright,” Carrillo said, licking his lips. “Come here.”

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG

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tropes-and-tales · 24 days

Text

Ten Months as Yours

Colonel Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader

CW: Angst (reader is CIA and has feelings about it; failed first marriages; talk of Catholicism); smut (oral, m! and f! receiving; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 10,951

AN: This was from an "Arranged Marriage" prompt list. An anon asked for it, and it was supposed to incorporate dates where the couple gets to know each other. I, an idiot, didn't remember that until nearly the end, but if you kind of squint, you can see it.

AN2: Not edited. Not even a little bit.

AN3: Sigh. I dunno, folks. It's whatever.

Horacio Carrillo’s first marriage was standard Catholic fare: the reading of the banns beforehand, then the long wedding Mass. Heavy on the incense, crowded church, a red-faced priest droning through the Gospel. Juliana, his blushing bride in a heavy lace veil, clutching a bouquet of lilies already wilted and brown at the edges in the Colombian heat.

Then, years later, the dissolution of that marriage. Papers signed separately in the presence of lawyers after an ice age formed between the couple. Then more years of Horacio being single again, but the time slipped by like water. He was so busy with work, he hardly registered the empty house he returned to every evening.

Horacio Carrillo’s second marriage is something else entirely.

It’s not, strictly or spiritually speaking, a real marriage. It’s a bit of maneuvering on the part of the U.S. government, logistical choreography as part of a larger plan. To the world at large, Horacio Carrillo is dead: murdered by Escobar’s men in a trap. Only a handful of people know the truth—the doctor and nurses at the American hospital who healed him under a temporary alias. And this man, Johnson, a U.S. Marshal and handler for the U.S. Witness Protection program

Johnson is the sole witness to this so-called marriage, if one could even call it that. It happens on the cargo plane from Bogota to Atlanta. Johnson sits in the jump seat across from his two charges: Horacio…and you.

Horacio doesn’t even learn your real name. There’s no exchange of vow and certainly no incense or bouquet of lilies. Instead of a blushing bride, there’s a silent one. Your mouth is set in a thin, straight line as you listen to Johnson’s rundown of your new life, and every time Horacio chances a look at you, he only sees the tension in you. Grim-set mouth, clenched jaw…and the white edge of a bandage on your temple, mostly hidden under the sweep of your hair.

Horacio wonders if you’re dead to the world too. You aren’t DEA or CIA, at least not in the Colombian theater, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t nearby. The U.S. agencies have their sticky fingers all over South America.

The broad strokes of the situation: you and Horacio are newlyweds. You met in Spain and are returning to the U.S. Horacio is dead, but he’s been replaced by Davide, and Johnson hands over a thick packet of official documents—Spanish birth certificate, Spanish passport, U.S. green card.

You are also dead, but you’ve been replaced by Gwen. Another thick packet of documents detailing your fake life as an ex-pat American in Spain.

Each packet also contains a simple gold band for each of you. Horacio turns it over and over in his hand, contemplates the little twist he gets in his gut to put a ring back on his finger after years of being divorced.

You slide yours on too, but you fuss with it the rest of the flight, twisting it around and around your finger.

“You’re going to Vermont, of all places,” Johnson tells you. “There’s a mid-sized college there with a lot of international folk coming and going, so you’ll blend in. The house is handled, and you’ll get a stipend every month, but we expect you to find jobs as quickly as you can.”

Johnson doesn’t even attempt to say how long it will be. Horacio knows he has to wait out Escobar before he can return to Colombia. You? Who can say?

The rest of the flight is silent except for the low roar of the engines and the creak of the netting holding the cargo in place. Once you land, you stand and follow Johnson and Horacio off of the plane to transfer to a smaller passenger plane that will take you to Vermont.

The final leg of the journey is silent too.

When you deplane in the small regional airport in Vermont, you stumble on the step down from the fuselage. Horacio catches your arm, keeps you upright.

“Watch your step,” he says softly.

“Thank you,” you reply.

It’s the first words you exchange, and his hand on your clothed arm—that’s the first time he touches you.

-----

Horacio has never been to the United States before, but when he thinks of it, he thinks of what he’s seen in the movies: New York City, perhaps, with the traffic and skyscrapers and Statue of Liberty. Or Miami with its white beaches and turquoise water and neon-tinged nightlife.

Vermont is something else.

It’s green. Everything is so green. The rounded mountains in the distance, the old trees with huge, spreading branches. The grass of the lawns in this college town. Even though it is near twilight, even the shadows are green-tinged as the sun sets.

“At least we arrived in the spring,” you say. You glance at him, explain that New England winters can be brutal.

The house is small, trim. It’s a simple ranch but well-built. There’s a fair amount of land, and the nearest neighbors are far enough away that there’s privacy.

Of course it’s awkward. You don’t know each other at all, and you’re both in hiding. Horacio is out of habit with living with another person, and he has to guess you are too.

That first night, the first moment of awkwardness: when you arrive at the house, there’s two bedrooms, and you both hesitate in the hallway that leads to both. You’re married on paper (kinda) but who would expect you to share a bed? But you’re also both exhausted, and Horacio takes in the dark circles under your eyes. The larger room has a full-sized bed, but the guest only has an uncomfortable-looking daybed.

“Take the master bedroom,” he says. “I’ll take the guest room.”

“You sure?” Your words, Horacio notices, are slightly accented, like you’ve been around people like him who speak English as a second language. He wonders about your past and what landed you here with him.

“Of course. Take the room. We’ll talk in the morning.”

You nod, and he glances down at where you twist that gold band over and over around your slim finger. It’s here, he’ll realize later, that he starts to feel something for you, but at the moment, it’s only sympathy. You’re trapped in the same miserable situation as him, so sympathy is an easy emotion to access.

“I appreciate it…Davide,” you reply, and you give him a nod, then turn in for the night. He hears the quiet click of the bedroom door as you shut it, and he turns in too. The daybed is cramped, and he can’t stretch out completely, but he’s so bone-tired that he’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.

-----

The first month, April.

It’s awkward. It’s more awkward for Horacio; everything in the U.S. is familiar, but just different enough to make it seem like he’s dreaming. You’re already an American, and life in an idyllic New England college town is easier for you to settle into.

Living with another person is strange. Horacio finds that the two of you engage in a civil, stilted dance each day that first month. You each tiptoe around the other, defer to each other in a painfully polite way. When Horacio catches you singing along softly to the radio one night, you snap the music off and go quiet. When you walk in on him in the bathroom once—he was only brushing his teeth, so it is hardly salacious—you apologize and refuse to meet his eyes for the rest of the week.

The two of you don’t really talk, not that first month. You aren’t supposed to share details about your real lives with each other, so neither of you know how to converse in the weird liminal space you find yourselves. Your conversations are limited to menial topics. The weather, the house and yard, what you each want for dinner that night. You trade off chores, you drift around each other, and it’s like living in purgatory with another ghost.

Sometimes, Horacio swears he can hear you crying softly through the wall that separates your room from his, but you never offer any insight into your feelings and he doesn’t ask.

-----

The second month, May.

Johnson told each of you to find work, and you land a job first: you get a position at the college. You ask him, a bit shy, if you can take a certain portion of the monthly stipend to buy some new clothes for your office job, and Horacio’s gut does that twist again. Of course you need new clothes. You left wherever with nothing, the same way he left Colombia with nothing.

“Of course,” he says. “You don’t even need to ask.”

That makes you smile a little, and you make a weak joke about not wanting to be the sort of wife to spend frivolously. It makes Horacio chuckle. It breaks the uneasy tension in the house a bit, and he ends up going to the mall with you that weekend as you shop.

There’s nothing like a mall to encapsulate American culture, and Horacio tries to play it cool at the conspicuous consumption on display. The giant building, the icy air conditioning, the cacophony of sound echoing around the marble floors and walls. There’s so many people and only a handful of security guards. When Horacio studies them closer, he sees that they don’t even carry guns—they only have walkie-talkies as they saunter around at a lazy pace.

His life now is a far cry from his life as the leader of the Search Bloc. And when he glances over at the woman walking beside him, he realizes how far this second marriage is from his first.

But the thought leads to him ruminating about his first marriage and all the little ways he failed Juliana. This situation with you isn’t a marriage, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to be better.

So once you are done shopping, he pulls you into the Sam Goody and insists that you buy an album to celebrate. He catches you singing all the time in the house, listening to the radio, humming or singing along. When he imagines your mysterious life before now, he imagines an apartment filled with a big stereo and shelves of albums.

“Seriously?” It makes you smile again, and Horacio thinks you have a nice smile, though he wonders how often people ever get to see it.

“Well, it’s our stipend,” he clarifies. “It’s not like I’m treating you, really. I guess it’s not really a gift if it’s ours.”

Another smile, and he stands back and watches as you rifle through the stacks of vinyl records and CD’s, as you pull one out and read the list of songs, then replace it. You finally settle on one, and the two of you check out, and Horacio pulls out his wallet and pays.

And even if it’s your shared stipend, you thank him and smile again, and it feels like something that he can’t quite name.

-----

The third month, June.

You leave the house every weekday for work. Horacio finally has some firsthand knowledge of what Juliana must have felt when he left each day. He had always prided himself that he was able to provide for both of them, that she never had to work.

He had never considered how bored she must have been.

He wakes up early out of habit, but you do too. In the soft pre-dawn light, you go out for a run every day. Part of him remains Search Bloc; he stands at the living room window and watches for you until you return, panting, your t-shirt ringed with sweat. He finds he can breathe easier once you’re in sight.

While you shower and dress, Horacio makes you coffee. The two of you sip at your coffee in companionable silence, and then you’re off.

It leaves him with a full day with little to do.

He cleans the house, but that takes no time at all because both of you are fastidious and neat anyway. He maintains the lawn, trims back the unruly rhododendrons. He bought a weight bench and a set of free weights from a yard sale a few weeks after you moved, and he spends some time lifting in the garage.

That takes him to noon, if he’s lucky.

His afternoons are when he thinks of Juliana the most. Is this what her life with him was like? Back then, he used to scoff at the claim that women needed a life outside of the home. His mother had seemed happy to be a housewife and mother, and he had always assumed that Juliana was the same. Except the children never came, and Juliana had a degree in fashion design from the university—yet when she broached the idea of a job or even an internship, Horacio had dissuaded her.

He had thought he was being a good husband. Now, as he sits and drowses to “Days of Our Lives,” he wonders how he had missed the obvious.

But if he’s Juliana in this situation, you are no Horacio. For one thing, you return home in the late afternoon—he’s never left to eat dinner alone in a too-quiet house. For another, you immediately kick off your shoes and pad over to where he’s cooking dinner, and you fall into an easy rhythm of helping him finish it off.

Halfway through June, you get comfortable enough to start calling out, “honey, I’m home!” each time you return.

Which makes him smile, every time.

And he’s only a passable cook, but you praise every meal he puts in front of you. You joke once, say “I should have gotten a husband a long time ago,” and that makes him smile even wider, and it is easy to fall into the fantasy that this easy domesticity is real. The fantasy only falls apart at night, when you each retire to your separate rooms, as you do every night.

-----

The fourth month, July.

The easy domesticity cedes to something deeper and darker right at the start of the month.

Horacio has never been to the U.S. before, so he hasn’t experienced the usual Independence Day celebrations. When he asks, you grin and tell him that a good old-fashioned U.S.-style barbecue might be nice, and that’s what the two of you plan. You and Horacio as Davide and Gwen: patriotic Americans.

The day starts off great. The weather is hot and humid enough to feel like Colombia, and Horacio will admit that you look nice in your cut-off shorts and cotton tank top. He will admit that if you were really his wife, he might never even make it to lunchtime before taking advantage of a quiet house set apart from its neighbors.

The barbecue is nice. It’s all-American fare: hot dogs and hamburgers, corn on the cob steamed over hot coals. You buy an apple pie from a nearby farm stand, and you also make some trifle type dessert, and the two of you wash it all down with ice-cold beer. By the time dusk rolls around and lightning bugs start to flicker across the lawn, Horacio is pleasantly buzzed.

The town puts on a fireworks display, and as the sky turns a velvety black, the light show starts. Your house is in the perfect place to see it, slightly set on a ridge, and blossoms of red and white and blue sparks explode across the sky. Horacio, tipsy, watches the first few minutes, completely mesmerized…but when he turns to say something to you, he finds you missing.

He finds you in the house. More specifically, he finds you in the bathtub, hugging your knees to your chest, forehead pressed to knees.

“Gwen?” he says, and he feels stupid saying the obviously fake name, but he doesn’t know your real one.

You don’t answer anyway, and he steps into the bathroom. Studies you closer. Sees that you are shaking, and between the muffled booms of the fireworks, he can hear your panting breath.

He moves without any real thought. He knows—or can guess, at least—at what is happening to you. Horacio has led enough men through enough battles to recognize a panic attack when he sees one, but you aren’t one of his men and this is no battle, so he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder to alert you that he’s there. Then he climbs into the bathtub with you.

“Scoot forward a little,” he orders softly, and you do. He maneuvers himself behind you, then pulls you closer to him. Your back pressed against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you, he holds you close despite the heat and humidity of the day.

“Just breathe with me.” He takes a deep, slow breath, feels his chest push against you. He does it again and again, and after a long while, you start to mimic him.

The fireworks end, and eventually you stop trembling. Tucked this close to him, Horacio can see the edge of a thick scar disappearing under your hair, and he remembers the bandage on the plane from Bogota.

He wonders if the moment that caused that scar is linked to this moment now.

After you calm, and after you sheepishly untangle yourself from him, he urges you to do whatever you need to. To take a cool shower or go to bed. That he’ll clean up. You gaze back at him a long moment, like you’re trying to decide something, and then you nod. You leave the bathroom and disappear into your bedroom, and he hears that quiet click of the door closing.

The rest of the month is uneasy. The panic attack seems to have dredged up the muck in your past, the trauma of a life that has resulted in you being in Witness Protection, injured enough at some point to have a thick scar on your head.

Something about this feels like an echo from his first marriage. Juliana went silent on him too, but for different reasons. Your silence is driven by an inner turmoil that he can only guess at, and he feels powerless to help.

So he only does what he can. He makes you coffee each morning before work. He makes you dinner each night. He asks gentle, tame questions about your work day, and when you don’t have much to say in that quarter, he tells you that day’s drama on “Days of Our Lives.”

“Stefano DiMera is back,” he tells you one night. “And Marlena is possessed by el Diablo.”

That’s the sole smile he is able to coax from you all month. You pick at the dinner he made, pushing it around with the tines of your fork, and repeat, “the Devil?”

Horacio nods.

“Like, Lucifer the Devil?”

“Yes.”

You smile. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He nods again, smiles back at you. “It really is.”

-----

The fifth month, August.

Horacio finds a job with a state nursery, and when he applies, he nearly despairs at the cliché of it: a South American immigrant becoming a landscaper.

But it’s not landscaping at all. It’s a quiet, peaceful job. The summer interns have already left for the year, so Horacio is hired on to help the old-timer, Lawrence. Lawrence has a thick Yankee accent, says little, but Horacio finds the job a revelation. He walks the rolling grounds and checks on the saplings that will one day be planted across the state. They’ll go into parks and line city streets, and it knocks something loose in him. A job where he’s nurturing life that will potentially live on long after him. The oak sapling he waters and feeds today could live hundreds of years when he’ll be long forgotten.

With him working now, you and Horacio switch off on meals. You teach him how to use the most American of small appliances, the slow cooker. You make him the most American of working class meals, the one-pot dish. He makes you the comfort food from his childhood, and together you find an egalitarian balance.

But something about July and your low mental health…it makes Horacio want to do better. Who knows how long the two of you will end up living like this? He wants to understand you better, and he wants you to know him, because the two of you exist as the sole inhabitants of this weird, unlikely life as Davide and Gwen.

“Let’s each say one true thing about ourselves,” he proposes over dinner one night. He’s bone-tired from work—he spent the day mulching rows and rows of tender little Eastern Hemlocks (and he knows the difference now between them and a balsam fir and a spruce). You look tired too, but at his suggestion, your eyes light up. Maybe you’ve been wanting some familiarity with him too and just were waiting on him to suggest it first.

So August is this: getting to know each other. Dumb stuff, usually. Favorite colors, favorite songs, favorite foods. Most embarrassing memory. Best memory. Age of first kiss.

-----

The sixth month, September.

The weather starts to turn. The nights grow cold, and the leaves transform from all that green to a riot of reds and yellows and oranges. Work at the nursery slows way down, and Horacio spends long hours following Lawrence’s lead, which means an hour or two of paperwork, then lunch, then quietly reading a book at his desk.

You’re busy with the new academic year, but the weekends are spent doing day trips. You’re six months into this, and you’re both braver, more willing to travel afield. You go into the mountains to look at the leaves from a different angle than what you see from your house. You go to pick apples, and you spend a weekend cooking them into pies, cobblers, and apple sauce.

The dinner-time “one true thing” game ends, and it turns into natural conversation. It’s so comfortable now. You chat and laugh and joke, and sometimes he teases you, and it makes you duck your head to hide your pleased smile. You like being teased, Horacio finds. You like being the butt of gentle jokes, so he obliges you as often as he dares.

It’s a revelation to find that he has a sense of humor after all.

Over one dinner, he mentions his first marriage, his first wife. You ask him questions, and he answers them honestly, and then he asks if you’ve ever been married.

“No.” You shake your head to emphasize the point.

“Ever engaged?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yes. A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

You shrug, lifting one shoulder up before dropping it back down. “Life. Expectations. It’s hard to say.” You take a sip of your water, then settle your gaze somewhere past Horacio, like you’re looking at the specter of your failed engagement.

“I was young and very career-driven,” you add. “And not many men want that in a wife.”

“I’m sorry.” He is, of course, and he’s doubly-sorry because he was arguably one of those men. He kept Juliana at home, stifled her own career aspirations. A flush of shame courses through him at the memory of his own failings.

Another shrug. “It was for the best.”

“And now here you are, married to me,” he teases, and yes—you duck your head, but he catches the shy little grin, the curve of your cheek as you smile at the joke.

-----

The seventh month, October.

It’s the first time you’ve actually ordered him to do anything, so Horacio finds himself busy each weekend, decorating the house for Halloween. There’s ghosts strung in the trees in the front yard. Fake gravestones jut from the lawn like rotting teeth. Purple and orange lights are strung around the windows and banisters of the porch, and the two of you set to carving more pumpkins than Horacio thought possible.

But it’s worth it, because your town goes all out for the holiday. You bought him a costume weeks ago, and when he dresses after dinner, he’s surprised to find you openly checking him out. Your gaze sweeps from the hair on the top of his head—longer than Search Bloc reg, curling at the nape of his neck—to his shoes, and you take in his vampire costume.

“You look handsome,” you tell him, and he tries not to ogle you in turn and utterly fails, because you’re dressed up like a witch but the black dress hugs your curves, and the ridiculous hat, complete with a floppy brim, does nothing to detract from how sexy you look.

Horacio finds himself sitting on the front porch with you, handing out candy to the children that come by. And it charms him, how much you get into it, how you guess at what each child is supposed to be. You read the kids perfectly—you’re sweet with the scared little ones, but you play up the witchiness with the older ones, crooking your fingers and cacking at them.

When there’s a lull in the crowd at one point, he catches you as you shiver, so he pulls you close to him and wraps his cloak around your shoulder. He never touches you much, but this is blatant, and the moment feels heavy with intent.

You lean into him. A moment later, he feels your arm wend its way around his waist, under his cloak, so he holds you closer.

The evening continues like that. The two of you play it up more and more, comfortable with pretending. Not you and Horacio, and not Davide and Gwen, but a vampire and a witch, and the more you cackle and scare the children, the more Horacio flashes his fake teeth and hisses at them.

Who ever knew handing out candy in a cheap drugstore costume could be so fun?

When another lull happens, he pulls you back to him, and the motion takes you off balance a little. You hold him back but lean away from him, searching for your equilibrium, and it bares the smooth column of your neck to him.

Horacio forgets himself. Davide forgets himself. The vampire he’s pretending to be dips his head, and he presses the plastic points of his fake teeth into your pulse point, and you give a squeal of surprise, but when Horacio lifts his head to study you, he sees you staring back at him, your eyes wide and dark with obvious desire.

“That’s a good way to get a hex on you,” you warn, but there’s a smile on your red lips, and you don’t release your own hold on him. You don’t shove him away.

“I enjoy a good hex,” he replies.

The stream of children eventually dies off. The bowl of candy has been replenished multiple times, but you fill it one last time and set it on the porch for any stragglers.

Inside the house, you go from room to room and check the locks on the doors, turn off the lights. Horacio lingers near the hallway, and when you turn to make your way to your room, he stills you. He puts his hand on your waist, lightly, and he doesn’t say anything. The moment hangs suspended as you both stand there, silent.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to take you to bed?

He has always tried to be a good Catholic (the killing of narcos aside). He’s never been with anyone other than Juliana, and he feels a tinge of doubt. Guilt, too. He’s always prided himself on his fidelity, and post-divorce, he took a perverse pride in the fact that he never took a lover. That he still honored his vows despite the legal fact that he was no longer married.

He doesn’t mourn Juliana anymore, and he knows that something is growing between the two of you now, but what does it mean? Would it be right to sleep with you, knowing that this is just circumstantial? That it may end at any moment? That if you both weren’t in WitSec, you’d have never met, and might have never liked each other if you had?

Is this thing growing between the two of you only the result of being flung together by circumstances out of your control?

All of those questions rapid-fire through his head, and you seem to see the doubt in his eyes because the moment deflates. The energy and anticipation sour, and he sees it on your face. Your soft smile falls, and then you nod to yourself, as if you knew it would happen like this.

Then you smile again, thank him softly for his help handing out candy. You stretch towards him and brush the lightest of kisses against his cheek, and you step around him to go to your room.

When Horacio goes to bed, it takes him a long time to fall asleep, and he swears you must be awake too, separated only by the wall between you.

-----

The eighth month, November.

Your department at the university puts on a wine and cheese social, and spouses are encouraged to attend.

“We never really practiced our cover story,” he says as he bends over to tie his dress shoes. “Do you remember all of it?”

“I have a eidetic memory.”

“Yeah?” He glances up at you. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s a bunch of tenured professors. They love to talk about themselves and nothing else. They are all narcissists of the worse variety.”

But you aren’t entirely correct. The party is at the house of the department chair, and Horacio finds himself cornered by a pair of fellow lecturers. They are older women, charming and gregarious, and they sing your praises…and his own.

“I can see why she’s kept you hidden away,” says the taller of the two. “She said you were handsome but—”

“You make a gorgeous couple,” the shorter one cut in. “And she’s brilliant, you know, she planned out this—”

On and on they go, cutting each other off, redirecting each other, not letting Horacio get a word in edgewise. It’s not far off base from how you explained it would go, and when he catches your eye from across the room, you smile but mouth, “you okay?”

He nods, smiles back at you.

The evening is halfway over when he realizes with a start that he hasn’t cased the room once.

He hasn’t counted the exits and windows, hasn’t studied the egresses and any obstacles to them. He hasn’t scowled at each face to try and determine what dirty secret they held, if Escobar or one of his men had compromised them or their family. He hasn’t studied the lines of their clothing to see who might be hiding a piece.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to lose his edge?

It’s another question he ponders at night, since the minor disaster of Halloween. He knows he hurt you by hesitating in that moment in the hallway, but it’s a subtle hurt. He can see it in your eyes each morning, the way they study his face as if you could perhaps read his thoughts if you watch him closely enough.

More and more, these questions plague him because there’s no easy answers. Horacio is used to solving problems, but he’d be the first to admit that many of his solutions were just brute force. Displays of power. The Search Bloc has a problem? Send in men, armed men, men with guns and night-sticks, men with flint in their souls, men with hearts cased in granite. Send in Colonel Carrillo himself to a clandestine meeting place where a suspect is strung up. What’s a little light torture and murder when the fate of a country hangs in the balance?

That man is dead now. Horacio Carrillo received a state funeral, and his empty coffin lies in the mausoleum. Davide, his replacement, spent the week wrapping tender saplings in burlap in anticipation for the coming snows—all the while considering his place in the greater world and what his legacy may be.

At the end of the evening, Horacio finds you, brings you your coat, holds it out while you shrug your way into it. When the two of you leave, you pass the pair of lecturers who had cornered him, and their exchange is like a Greek chorus that follows him home.

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” says one. “She’s a lucky woman.”

The other one scoffs lightly. “He’s the lucky one.”

You must not hear them because you don’t react. You only let him lead you to the car, and when he brushes away the light dusting of snow with the snow brush, his eyes find yours through the windshield—and you smile at him.

-----

The ninth month, December.

The university shuts down for most of the month, and Horacio is on an abbreviated schedule a the nursery.

The two of you have so much time together.

Horacio has seen snow before, but never like this. Vermont, so green when he arrived, is swaddled in thick layers of white like cotton batting. It absorbs and reflects sounds in weird ways, and a hush falls over your little home.

Being Colombian, he should hate it. He should curse the cold and the snow and the quiet, but it does something to his soul. It soothes him in a way he never would have guessed. True, the cold is difficult at first, but you take him to the mall one weekend and load him up with sweaters and thick woolen socks, and he’s better after that.

Everything is so calm. Peaceful. Horacio has never slept so well in his life, bundled under layers of blankets, even on the uncomfortable daybed. He sleeps, he doesn’t dream, and he wakes up naturally, in slow measure, to a soft light creeping across his bedroom floor.

Being on break, you still wake up early. Earlier than him, some days, and when Horacio wakes to the scent of brewing coffee and something delicious baking in the oven, he wishes sometimes that this was the afterlife. He wants to freeze the moment in time and never let it slip past him. He wants nothing more, in this moment.

He’s always half-asleep those mornings, but the smell of food draws him out. One morning, he pads out to the kitchen in his thick socks and startles you when he grumbles “good morning.” You shriek, then swear, then lightly try to swat him with the spatula in your hands, but he’s still half-asleep, still incredulous that this is his life at the moment, and he takes the spatula from you and pulls you into a big bear hug.

“What’s this for?” you ask. Your words are muffled against his chest, but after a beat, you wrap your arms around his midsection and hug him back.

“Just because,” he replies.

You spend your days doing puzzles, reading, listening to music. You watch “Days of Our Lives” with him and you both laugh at the bad cosmetics and even worse acting on the demonic possession storyline.

Your evenings are spent cooking dinner together. You make the trip into town every few days, and you rent movies and watch them too. You watch everything together—old Hollywood classics, campy horror, meandering romances. The two of you sit on the couch side by side, and it takes all of a day before you’re tucked in against his side, his arm firm around your shoulders.

Sometimes he glances down at you and sees your face in profile lit by the flickering light of the television. Sometimes he can make out the edge of your scar, but he doesn’t linger there. Instead he takes in the whole of your face—the curve of your cheek, the sweep of your lashes as you blink. When something funny happens on the screen, you smile, and it makes Horacio’s heart stutter in his chest to see it.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to fall in love?

Another question to ponder. Another riddle to solve. He’s losing sight of the man he was. Maybe that man is completely lost already. The thought doesn’t unnerve him; he thinks he likes the man he is here. He likes the man he is with you, the job that coaxes life into being instead of snuffing it out. He likes wearing cable-knit sweaters and thick socks and eating the banana bread you bake on mornings you don’t have to work.

He likes sitting on the couch with you and watching a rental VHS of “Beetlejuice.” He likes the feel of your body pressed against his, and he likes looking down to see you smile.

That’s the night he dares ask for more.

After the movie, you do your usual pre-bedtime sweep of the house—locks, lights—then brush your teeth and go to your room. The usual quiet click of your door closing. Horacio, as usual, goes to his room, peels back the layers of blankets, prepares to tuck himself into the cramped bed….then doesn’t.

Instead, he returns to the hallway. He taps a finger on your door, a soft staccato, and he hears you call out, “Davide?”

“Yes.”

You tell him to come in, and you’re sitting up in bed. Your eyebrows are furrowed together.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He shakes his head. How can he begin to explain it? He’s fluent in English, Spanish, and Portuguese, and his Italian is passable, yet not a single language he knows can capture the maelstrom of emotions roiling through him. He loves you, he wants you. He’s afraid you don’t feel the same for him. He’s afraid you do feel the same for him. Is this just situational or are you truly the woman he was meant for all along? Has he gone mad? Is this some tame mental breakdown, the result of coming close to death and then finding himself, improbably, in Vermont with a woman who also was near death?

From your “one true thing” game, he knows you’re a polyglot too—English and Spanish and Russian—but that shake of his head to your question seems to transcend the need for language. You seem to read it exactly, the turmoil in him, and you climb out of bed slowly, make your way over to where he stands by the door.

You reach down and take his hands in yours, and the touch bolsters him. Reassures him. He’s Horacio and Davide both, and you’re both Gwen and yourself, and he doesn’t need to parse the two. He can be both with you. You’re both complicated people with complicated pasts, but none of it matters right now because the world is swathed in layers of snow, and the two of you are the only two who exist in it.

Neither of you say much else for the rest of the night. When you turn your head to peer up at him, Horacio tilts his head to kiss you, and it’s like a bolt of lightning when he does. Maybe he fell in love with you by small moments, but this is the moment that seals it forever: this first kiss, his mouth on yours, writes your name—your real name, even if he doesn’t know it—on his heart like a line of fire.

You each lead the other back to bed; you tug him, he pushes you, and you fall gracelessly back on the rumpled covers, but each kiss, each searching touch peels back another layer of reserve. Horacio slides his hand under your shirt and cups the softness of your breasts, pinches lightly at your hardened buds. You slip your hand under the waistband of his flannel pajamas and grasp his growing erection, stroke it into full hardness as he groans into your mouth.

There’s no art to it. No seduction. You’re both starving for each other, ravenous, and you both kiss the other as you each strip out of your layers. He kisses down your neck, nips at your pulse point like he did on Halloween. He licks against the hollow at the base of your throat, draws the sweetest goddamned moans out of you, then returns to kiss you, to lick against the inside of your mouth so he can feel the sounds you’re making too.

If he’d known how vocal you were in bed, he would have summoned his courage months ago.

Your mouth is on him too. It’s another line of fire, each press of your lips on his bare skin. He finds himself on his back and you astride him. He reaches up to touch your bared breasts, but you don’t even notice because you lean down, focused only on him. Your mouth on his neck, along his stubbled jaw. You kiss his collarbones, his chest. You bite lightly against his nipples, your teeth making him huff at the sensation, and then your warm tongue laving him. Further down, a trail of kisses across his belly, which is less firm than it was in his Search Bloc days but you make a pleased noise as your mouth places wet, lingering kisses there.

Then even lower, and this is uncharted territory. Love-making with Juliana was only ever for the purpose of making children, and while Horacio had convinced her a time or two to go down on her in the interest of foreplay, he never has received head in his life. Juliana had called it dirty, and he had left it at that.

He doesn’t even register it until he feels your hand grasp him at the root of his cock, then feels the smallest, most kittenish little lick of your tongue against his leaking tip.

“Dios,” he groans out, and then he feels the rest: your tongue tracing a pattern along the length of him, then a teasing rhythm where you work him into your mouth. First just the tip. You lavish him with attention there, suckling against the most sensitive part of him, lapping up the pre-cum that leaks from him. Then more and more and more; you work him into your warm, wet mouth, and he feels your breath tickling against his groin, feels you breathing carefully through your nose as you take him as far as you can, and then you swallow against him, you hum against him, and it’s nothing like he’s ever felt before. You press your tongue against the underside of him and you hollow your cheeks, and when your warm palm reaches up to lightly fondle his balls, Horacio’s orgasm breaks around him like a tidal wave. His hips judder once, twice, and he thinks he warns you, but you don’t move. You only hold yourself there, and when he comes, you swallow every drop of him, and he wishes he could explain this feeling to Juliana: that it doesn’t feel dirty at all. It feels like a sacrament. That it feels like love.

It's only fair that he shows you his love for you in turn.

Once he recovers, he flips you onto your back and repays you in kind. He kisses his way down your naked body, makes a note of all the spots that you moan at. Make a note too of all the scars that speak to a life a lot like his was in Colombia. He kisses your scars, presses his lips to each raised ridge as if he can take away any lingering pain.

Then he settles between your legs. There’s no shyness he can detect; you spread your thighs eagerly for him. You allow him to put a pillow under your hips to tilt your pelvis into a more agreeable angle.

He’s not especially skilled at this. The handful of times with Juliana had been a race against the clock—a sprint to coax her to orgasm before she gripped his hair and made him stop. There’s no clock now, so he takes his time. He settles your legs on his shoulders and he bends his head to your gorgeous pussy, and he takes his time.

He licks against your folds, then reaches down to part them with his fingers. Licks a slow, tortuous route from the firm bud of your clit to your entrance. Over and over and over until you squirm underneath him—then he slides a finger into your clenching heat, then another, then a third, and he feels how your pussy twitches against the intrusion, how you grab against his fingers like you’re trying to pull him deeper into you.

He fingers you in a lazy rhythm, and he circles his tongue against your clit. That does something for you; you whine out a curse, and a moment later your hand is on his head, your fingers tugging against his hair, so he purses his lips, suckles against your clit, and that turns your whine into a wail.

He wishes he could tell Juliana this too, that this isn’t dirty either. When you come, he feels a flush of pride at drawing pleasure from your body—your thighs tight against his head, your pussy clamped down on his fingers, and the slick cum that pulses from you, that coats his tongue and lips in the taste of you.

He’s hard again, but he wouldn’t press his luck. This is more than he ever dared hope for. He’d be happy to curl up with you now, to fall asleep beside you, but when he lifts his head from where he’s perched between your thighs, he sees you gazing back at him.

“Please,” is all you say, and he knows what you’re asking for because he wants it to.

If there’s an argument about this being two people pushed together because of circumstances beyond their control, there’s also an argument about the two of you fitting together so well. Because you do. Your body seems like it was made for his; you fit together like two jagged puzzles pieces. Horacio settles over you, lowers his body onto yours, and it’s like magic: his cock bumps against your inner thigh, but he moves half an inch and he finds your wet heat, and then he’s pushing into you, feeling your feverish flesh part and mold to the shape of him, and then your legs are around his waist, holding him to you as he bottoms out inside you.

He stills for a long moment. He’s unable to move. It’s not because he’s afraid he’ll come too soon but because he’s afraid he might cry. Horacio Carrillo is not a man who cries (maybe Davide is), but gazing down at your face, seeing the stunned love written in your expression, he nearly cries at how lucky he feels. How blessed. That shootout in the Medellín alley should have killed him, yet here he is.

Eventually, you give him the faintest of nods, and he starts to move. He’s gentle at first. He warms you up to the feel of him, and him to you. You lay one hand on the side of his face, cupping his cheek as he thrusts into you, but the other hand settles over his heart.

He could love you like this forever. He coaxes a second, then a third orgasm from you, and he watches your face during each one—the way your eyes go wide, then close tight, the way your mouth takes a hitching breath then goes slack as you breathe through it. The look on your face as it ebbs away, your eyes shiny with tears, and happy little smile curving your lips.

“I want you to come,” you whisper to him. You must feel the tension in him, and you bear down on his pistoning cock to urge him along.

“Where?” he pants out.

“Inside me. Please. Come inside me.”

He knows you’re safe. He’s lived with you for nine months now, and he’s run enough errands with you to know that you have that little plastic compact you pick up from the pharmacy once a month. He sees you swallow the same pill each morning with your vitamin. But still—he’s a man with his history, so he doesn’t register your contraceptive use in this moment. The thought comes to him that if he comes inside you, he may make you pregnant, and Horacio is surprised by how quickly the thought urges his orgasm forward.

“You sure?” At your words, he’s amped up his thrusting, driving forward in deep, strong strokes until he swears he can feel the crown of his cock nudging against the end of you, and the thought takes hold: you round with his child, the two of you in this bedroom with a child in the guest room converted into a nursery. At this moment, it’s the tamest of breeding kinks, but in the morning, he’ll realize it’s just more of this perfect life extrapolated. You not as his pretend-wife but as his real wife. A child as tangible proof that this isn’t just an incongruous moment in time.

“Yes. Please.” You lick your lips, blink up at him. “I-I want to feel you coming inside me.”

It’s only fair that he obliges you. You ask so nicely, so he does: he thrusts three, four times more, then feels his pleasure snap and spark up his spine as he fills you.

Then he collapses on top of you, and a moment later, he feels your fingers combing through his hair, lightly running over his back.

“You can sleep here, if you want.” You say it shyly, like you think this might just be a physical release for him, so he lifts his head to kiss you and reply that he wants that very much.

Horacio never sleeps in that cramped daybed again.

-----

The tenth month, January.

What does it mean to Horacio Carrillo for the lines between real and pretend to blur?

It means that through Christmas and into the new year, you live as husband and wife. You live as newlyweds. You make love in every room in the house, and you spent lazy days tangled up together. It means you draw straws to see who has to drive into town for provisions, and it’s all a joke anyway because you always go together. It means your world collapses down into the most basic of human needs: feeding and fucking.

It means that between love-making, the two of you share more about your real lives. Horacio learns about your family life. He learns that you’re CIA, and you’ve been stationed in Panama post-Noriega. He learns that it was an explosion, a car bomb outside of your headquarters, that left you with that scar on your head.

You learn about the Search Bloc and Escobar. You learn about his childhood as the son of a great military leader, and how that legacy shaped his own life and career.

But what does it mean when that line blurs?

It means that when Johnson returns to your lives, everything ends abruptly.

“Everything is all clear,” he tells you when he turns up one Saturday in the middle of January. He sips at the cup of coffee you made him, and if he notices the stunned silence of both of you, he doesn’t remark on it.

“Escobar was gunned down early today. It hasn’t hit the wire yet.” Johnson glances at you. “And the group that bombed your HQ has been cleared out too. You’ve been safe for a few months, but we didn’t want to upset the situation here.”

“So now what?” you ask, and Horacio feels sick to his stomach as Johnson explains that your old lives are waiting for you and that it’s time to go.

-----

The end comes that day, but not the way Horacio thought it would.

You gesture to Johnson after he gives the rundown on the logistics, and the two of you go outside. Horacio watches from the kitchen window as you cross your arms against the cold. You talk, Johnson listens. Then Johnson talks, you listen. Back and forth, and by the end Johnson shakes his head, shakes your hand, and returns inside.

“Okay, so change of plans,” he says, and he rubs his hands together briskly to bring the warmth back to them. “It’s just you and me now. Go pack and say your goodbyes, and I’ll be back in an hour.”

He leaves, and Horacio watches him pull out of the driveway, and when he turns back to the interior of the house, he sees you standing there. Crying openly, tears cutting tracks down your face.

“I can’t go back,” you explain, your voice thick with tears. “I won’t.”

Then you break down into sobs, and it’s second nature to stride over to you, to pull you into his arms. He tries to soothe you—rubs your back, holds you to him—as you choke out the words. That you have had a crisis of conscience. That you wonder if your work in the CIA did more harm than good. That you think it’s the former, and how you want to spend the balance of your life not doing more harm than good. That you want to live in a quiet town that is green in the summer and swaddled in white in the winter. You want to teach, you want to come home to a house with….and you catch yourself at the last minute. You don’t say it, but Horacio can guess it.

You want to come home to a house with him in it. You want to come home to him.

“I love my life here,” you amend hastily, but you push away from him, aware he’s leaving and that your life won’t be exactly the same either way. You mumble something about not wanting to say goodbye, about wishing him the best, and then you disappear down the hallway. He hears the click of the door and your crying, and it doesn’t abate while he packs.

When Johnson returns, Horacio taps on the bedroom door, but you don’t answer and he doesn’t push it. He’s sleepwalking through the moment, numb, so he leaves. He doesn’t say goodbye. He only climbs into Johnson’s rental car, and each mile that Johnson puts between you and Horacio only makes the numbness grow.

“Women, huh?” Johnson says as they near the airport. “That’s why I said they should never take field work. They don’t have the stomach for it, in the end.”

Horacio grunts a non-reply, but he thinks Johnson is off the mark. It’s not that you don’t have the stomach for it. It’s that you don’t have the heart.

-----

February.

He goes from Vermont to Miami, this time around.

Horacio is given a hotel room, and he’s given the orders to just chill for a bit. Johnson has extricated him from his fake life as Davide, but his old life as Colonel Horacio Carrillo isn’t quite ready for him yet.

There are mountains of paperwork to bring a man back from the dead. There’s talk of giving him a cushy role in Madrid. There’s talk of commendations, medals, a comfortable pension to retire on. He’s done a lot for his country of Colombia, and Colombia wants to reward him.

He sleepwalks through this liminal space. The not-Davide, not-Horacio time. He wanders the streets around the hotel and picks at the food he orders in restaurants, and each time he hears a woman speak, he looks up expecting to see you.

I don’t even know her real name, he thinks.

Gwen, his one-time pretend-wife. Gwen, who had a panic attack on her country’s birthday. Gwen, who questioned the harm she may have caused to another country, another people. Gwen, who only wants the chance to do a little good now, or at least to do no more bad. It wasn’t Gwen at all, but he has no other name to use, so he runs through all the lovely little moments he had with Gwen.

Watching for you to return from your daily jogs. Walking through the falling leaves of autumn with you. Making you coffee, pressing the steaming mug into your hands each morning. Handing out candy to the children at Halloween, tucking you under his cloak at the autumn chill. Watching movies with you as the snow fell outside, then curling up in bed with you, slotting his body against yours, giving you pleasure and taking pleasure from you in equal measure. Threading his fingers through yours as he arched over you, his eyes falling on the glinting light in the gold band in your ring finger, it’s twin on his own.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to finally make a choice?

Of course he’s made choices before. Every day, he made a million choices, large and small. But the big stuff, the giant stuff, the life-shaping stuff—did he have much choice? His father’s military career pretty much guaranteed his own career in the Search Bloc. His family’s status pretty much guaranteed he’d marry a Catholic girl from a family of similar standing. And when Juliana chose to leave him, he really had no choice then, either.

Same with his pretend life of ten months. He had no choice in being paired with you, no choice in ending up in New England, little choice in working as a man who tended trees.

He imagines you in your shared home, alone. Johnson explained on the plane that you’d be able to buy the place, that WitSec only rents homes across the U.S. He explained that this has happened more than once, and that it’s actually not too difficult to let a witness slide into their pretend-life permanently.

The choice comes down to the most mundane thought. Horacio stands in his hotel room in Miami and wonders, who will make her coffee in the morning if I’m not there?

*****

Winter always loses its charm by the time February rolls around. The fleecy white snow turns into grey slush, and everything is cold and soggy and depressing.

Davide leaving doesn’t help at all.

You knew it would end eventually. You didn’t have much insight into his situation, but you knew that the cartel targeting you would be easy enough to neutralize. They were only there because of the power vacuum left behind by Noriega, and they were poorly organized.

You just thought when it ended, you’d have more time. Which is one of your fatal flaws, always thinking you’ll have more time. Your father died from a heart attack when you were in high school, and your mother died from a car crash when you were in college. You, more than anyone, should realize that time was never a guarantee, yet you always think you have a surfeit of it.

It's not your proudest moment, those final minutes with Davide. Not falling apart in a wash of tears, and not fleeing to your room. You should have committed to one extreme or the other. You should have either calmly explained your decision and bade him farewell…or you should have given in to the emotion of the moment and spilled everything.

Why do you never learn your lesson? You never had a chance to tell your parents that you loved them before they died. Why didn’t you tell Davide you loved him before he left to return to whoever he was before?

You know you could find him. You’d caught his lightly accented English and guessed at South America. Colombia, if he was hiding from Escobar. He told you about the Search Bloc. You knew some people in that theater. You could find him and tell him that you loved him, but would it do more harm than good? Doesn’t he have the right to return to his previous life without any baggage from this one?

February, then: grey, cold. You go to work. You teach your classes and hold office hours. Political science can create real monsters, so you gently try to steer your students towards the path of diplomacy and not war. Maybe this is how you make amends, if such a thing is even possible.

You go home each evening and pull together a sandwich for dinner. Sometimes you get take-out, and you eat over the sink. Sometimes you watch T.V. and sometimes you read, but you always sleep alone with Davide’s pillow clutched to your chest, the lingering scent of him fading away within days.

-----

Then March. The snow starts to melt a bit, and under some of the trees in your backyard you start to see the little purple and white jewels of budding crocuses.

You resume your runs in the mornings. The campus shakes off its doldrums too and the students seem livelier.

You made the right choice to stay. You go to the bank with your real name and get a mortgage. You buy the house under your real name, and you go to the university human resources and hand over the paperwork Johnston gave you, and it’s weird at first, explaining why you’re not really Gwen, but it shocks you how quickly people adapt to using your real name.

-----

March is still fresh when there’s a knock at your door one Saturday morning.

Your first guess is that it’s a delivery. Johnson promised to ship all of your stuff from your apartment in Panama City. Not that you have anything valuable, but it would be nice to have your record collection back. You don’t want to have to rebuild that from scratch.

You’re already out of practice from your prior life. You don’t bother to check who it is, don’t look out the window before you open the door, and so it’s a shock to see Davide standing there, his fist lifted like he’s about to knock again.

He drops his hand and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You are speechless too, but you don’t need words to because as he drops and unfurls his hand by his side, you see the way the gold ring on his finger catches the morning light.

He’s still wearing his wedding ring, you think, and your body moves towards his, you leap into his arms and he’s there to catch you. You breathe out his name, but he chuckles, pushes you gently away from him.

“No, cariño,” he replies, shakes his head. “Not Davide.”

“Well, no. I mean—”

“I’m Horacio,” he interrupts. You reply with your own name, and he repeats it, almost to himself.

“Everything else was me,” he adds. “Everything but the name. What we had…” He trails off, fixes you with that dark-eyed stare of his.

“Everything else was me too.” All of the bare facts of your fake life as Gwen hold little weight to that nebulous everything else: every joke and shared laugh, your Fourth of July panic attack. The feel of his hand on your waist when you went apple picking. The way his hair curled after a shower, and how you loved to run your fingers through it when he fell asleep beside you. All of it. Every stupid little moment that most other people would have already forgotten.

Horacio holds up his hand to show you the ring you’ve already noticed. “I never took it off. It didn’t even occur to me to.”

You hold up your own hand. “Me neither.”

He looks away, squints his eyes as he looks off into the distance, but you swear you can see tears there. He clears his throat, but his voice comes out rougher than usual.

“I’d like to see if I’m as good a man as Davide was,” he says. “I’d like that chance, but only if you…” Another cough as he clears he throat, then continues. “Only if you’ll have me.”

You reach out and take his hand in yours. You touch the warm metal on his finger, then the thought comes to you. You slide the ring off, and you feel Horacio watching you. On the plane, you each put your rings on yourselves, but that wasn’t how it was supposed to go, was it?

Now, nearly a year later, you take his wedding ring off. For a long beat, you study it—it’s a simple thing, nothing elaborate. WitSec wasn’t going to waste money on an expensive ring for a fake marriage, and it already has a shallow scratch in it, likely from his job at the nursery.

Then you lift your head and gaze at him, and without breaking eye contact, you slide the ring back on his finger. The smile that spreads across his face when you do is enough of a promise as any vows recited in a church, and he repeats the motion with your own ring—takes it off, then slides it back on with intention.

And then, because there’s no priest there to give the order, Horacio bends down and kisses you for the first time as himself, and the first time as yourself, and perhaps you learn your lesson about time after all because the moment you part, you whisper, “I love you” to him.

And perhaps he needed to learn the same lesson because he sighs, pulls you closer to him, and whispers “I love you too.”

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