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tropes-and-tales · 18 days

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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.”

#colonel horacio carrillo x reader #colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel carrillo x reader #narcos #tropes and tales

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flightlessangelwings · 6 months

Text

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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bluespring864 · 1 month

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That was a massive PB!!!

#donovan carrillo #figure skating #worlds 2024

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veritphoto · 3 months

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Donovan Carrillo — SexyBack / 4 Minutes SP at Four Continents 2024

#donovan carrillo #4cc 2024 #fsphoto #figure skating #bw #men #team mexico #:') so so happy to have seen him do well

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edgecallskating · 1 month

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fanservice.gif

#donovan carrillo #figure skating #world figure skating championships 2024 #worlds 2024 #worldsMTL24

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arc-hus · 7 months

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Center for the Blind and Visually Impaired, Mexico City - Taller de Arquitectura Mauricio Rocha + Gabriela Carrillo

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captnpunk · 1 month

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DONOVAN!!!!!

#figure skating #Donovan Carrillo #i LOVE when skaters kiss the ice i get so sappy about it #PERSONAL BESTTTTT THAT'S MY ANGEL #manifesting him making the free i NEED this #sorry about the logo btw. im not a pro.#i love this skate so much. his spinsssss #YES baby. give it to me.#edit: WE DID IT BABYYYYYYYY. FREE SKATE HERE WE GO 🎉🎉🎉

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freakazoidfuc · 1 year

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Curiosity Killed the Cat

Javier Peña x F! Informant Reader

Summary: Javi had gone out on a bust, he told you to wait for him in the safety of his room. You saw something shiny poking from his side table drawer and got interested.

-first time writing full-out smut, sorry if it's not that good. Some mistakes bc i didn’t edit it sorry!!

+18 smut warning

word count: 4k

You’re walking into the cafe where you were set to meet La Quica. All you have to do is get him to tell you where Pablo is going to be tomorrow, and you’re not nervous at all. You’ve done this for about a year or so, and it’s become second nature. As soon as you walk in La Quica spots you, but you’ve spotted the other sicarios he has placed around the cafe, they didn’t even hide the guns they have tucked into their waistbands. He nods you over, and you strut over not failing to notice how they all have their eyes on you. Hey, it comes with the job, you have to wear skinny jeans and tight tops, to blend in with the rest of the women in Colombia.

“Quihubo y/n que mas?” Quica asks you how you are. “Ya sabe aqui esperando ordenes del jefe”. You tell him that you’re just waiting on orders from Pablo. You try to get to the point, not wanting to spend any minute more than you have to. He reaches to brush a strand of hair out of your face, and you try not to flinch away from his touch. “Que pasa linda? La veo nerviosa?”.

His menacing tone makes it seem like he knows you’re up to something. You just laugh it off, and you brush your fingers along his shoulder and sweetly ask him if he’s gonna tell you what you have to do. “Que va pasar Quica? Me va decir lo que tengo que hacer o que?”. Your sweeter tone makes him ease up a bit, they’re so easy it’s laughable. “Ah bueno, mas le vale. Mire mañana va llegar un delivery de Miami, Pablo quiere que usted vaya con Limon al aeropuerto a recibir El Leon, la plata se la dan cuando El Leon ya este aqui en Bogota”.

Pablo wants you to go to the airport to pick up one of his men that works for him in Miami and you aren’t going alone, you’re going with Limón. He’s a recently added worker, you’d seen him around in the market with Maritza. Poor guy doesn’t know what he got himself into. You slide Quica a paper with the address of where to have Limón pick you up. “No se tarde, ya sabe como es el jefe. Hasta despues linda”. He tips up your chin while he gets up. You give him a sweet smile as you watch him leave with the group of men that were scattered around.

“It’s clear y/n, you can head out. We’re just round the corner”. Javier’s rich deep voice fills your ears. In the car, you find Steve, Carrillo, and Javier, they were all listening to your conversation, and what you didn’t know but learned later was that they had set up cameras in the shop and watched everything. Carrillo spoke first once you got in, “Nice work y/n, we’ll be at the location you gave him. When you hear the signal, get out as quick as possible. We don’t want you involved with what will go down”. You nod your head “gracias colonel, do you want me in a specific place after?”. As soon as your last word went through Javier spoke up. “You’ll go straight to my place, understood?”.

As hard as you tried to deny it, you couldn’t anymore. Hearing Javi talks to you in that demanding voice did dangerous things to you. You had messed around with him in the beginning but you mutually decided it was best to keep things professional. It was really hard to keep things professional with him. The way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you, and how he tried to sneak touches, it drove you crazy. Javier knew what he was doing, he loved seeing the way you’d blush when you caught him looking at you, he loved how the hairs on your arm would rise when he “accidentally” brushed his fingers along your arms. You looked up at him with a questioning look on your face but you decided not to question him. Especially not when Carrillo and Steve were here. “Yes sir”.

You had no idea how the bust went down. As soon as you heard the signal to move, you did. You started to run till a cop car passed you and beeped. It was Trujillo, “Peña dio ordenes a llevarte al apartamento de el”. You got in the car with him and drove in silence until you got to his apartment. “La puerta esta abierta, suerte y/n”. He let you know that Javier left the door open. “Gracias Trujillo”.

You’re in his apartment and it’s exactly as you expected, it’s a bit messy with beer bottles scattered along his kitchen and ashtrays on every table. You walk into his room and are not surprised again when it’s the same deal. Beer, cigarettes, and a spare gun you imagine on his bedside table. His bed was messily made like he was in a rush this morning. The beautiful Colombian sun spilled through the windows into the room, making it hotter than comfortable. You felt your already tight light yellow top cling to your skin. Your skinny jeans stick to your skin like glue. It was safe to say you felt extremely uncomfortable.

You thought to take off your clothes for just a bit to cool yourself off. So you remove your high heels, peel off your jeans and unbutton your top. Looking at your watch and it being a while since you left, you thought that they’re probably gonna take a bit longer so you decide to relax a bit and lay on his bed. It felt so naughty to be in Javi’s bed just in your unbuttoned shirt, no pants, just your lacy pink bra, and matching underwear.

Your mind wandered to what Javier had done in his bed before, if he’s ever thought of you late at night while touching places you’d only wish he’d let you touch. You thought if he’s ever accidentally said your name while doing things that made your belly swirl. You shook your head, feeling your underwear getting wet. You sat up with your arms placed behind you, letting your eyes wander until they spotted something shiny poking from his drawer. Your curiosity got the best of you and you got up to see what it was. You carefully opened the drawer and saw handcuffs with the key right beside them. Before being an informant, your life was normal in Colombia. You had gone to school to learn English, you worked at a cafe and life was simple. Naturally, you had never gotten handcuffed and you had always wondered what it was like. You thought you’d do it quickly and unlock yourself before Javier got back.

“Fuck”. It seems like you didn’t think this through. While the notion of you putting on the handcuffs was easy, you made the mistake of not taking the key out of the drawer before locking your hands together. You tried lifting your hand but you just could get them in the drawer. While attempting to get the keys you heard the door open. Double fuck, your eyes widened and you quickly scrambled to his bed and sat with your back facing the door. “Y/n?”

His footsteps get closer to the room and you start to panic a bit, I mean what’s the worse thing he could do? Laugh at You? Or maybe he’d be mad that you even went into his room, which you can understand because you’d let curiosity get the best of you and now you’re handcuffed and sitting on his bed half naked. You were so in your mind that you hadn’t even heard Javi enter the room. As soon as he saw you he paused and confusion ran across his face. “What are you doing?”

Your mind scrambles with what to say. “Oh just looking out your window”

Javier just hums and heads toward you. He notices your jeans and shoes on the floor. “Why are your clothes on my floor y/n”. While you couldn’t see him, you didn’t have to, you know that he had that stupid smirk on his face, that smirk that always had you clenching your legs together whenever you caught a glimpse of it. “It got hot?”. You were so nervous that it came out more as a question than a statement. You felt him close to you but you didn’t have the guts to look up at him.

Javi was already standing in front of you. Taking in the sight of you. Everything in front of him looked like one of his wet dreams. While you had no idea, Javier had been aching to touch you again. When “yes sir” came out of your mouth yesterday, it had him lose control. He went home that day with your sweet voice answering back to his orders in his mind. Javier couldn’t get you out of his head, not only because of your words but because you just looked so damn good yesterday that he truly doesn’t know how he kept himself under control. Those jeans you had on yesterday fit you so well, they did wonders for your ass and you knew it, more of the reasons why you wore them. Javi bends down in front of you, he places his calloused hands on your knees and slightly caresses them.

“Look at me bonita”.

And you did exactly that because you can’t simply defy him. He brushes the loose strands that had come in front of your face behind your ear, once your face comes into his view he smirks at you. “There’s that pretty face, so what happened here y/n?” He slightly smacked the side of your thigh. “I got bored of waiting for you Javi, and I saw the handcuffs I had never been handcuffed, obviously and I wanted to see what it felt like, but then I forgot to take out the key before and then you came and I got scared that you were gonna be mad at me”. There it was that nervous babble that you hated so much, you felt your face heat up out of embarrassment. Then you heard the beautiful chuckle, it was low and just so good, that you wanted to hear it again. He caressed your face. “I’m not mad bonita”, your eyes brows shot up in surprise. “You’re not?”

“Of course not, I could never be mad at you”

“Besides how could I be mad, when I’ve come home to you looking like this?” His hands start to roam your bare skin, and soft whimpers are released from your mouth. You’ve longed for him touching like this, he has no idea how much this is affecting you. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this?”. You just shook your head, you had a slight inkling he was interested in you but that was it. “Ever since you walked in that first day, with that sundress that drove me absolutely wild” Then he started to press soft kisses on your things, “that day I wanted to snatch you up, and have you all to myself”.

“Javier-”. You moans his name softly, the soft touches driving you crazy. He’s so close to where you want him. “Those kisses we shared didn’t fill me y/n, I still needed more. Now I find you handcuffed, half naked, and sitting all pretty on my bed? I’m going to do things to you linda, things that have been on my mind since yesterday”

At this point, you’re breathing heavily, you just want him to touch you already. “You want that baby?”

You nod your head, not trusting your words but he’s not having it. He’s shaking his head. He places his hands around your jaw and grips your face close to his. “Usa tus palabras princesa”

“Yes Javi, just- just do it already”

You aren’t sure who initiated first but you felt his soft lips slot in between yours. His hand moved down to your throat and his other gripped your waist bringing you closer. He kissed like he’s been dying for this. Javier can’t keep his hands off you and you couldn’t be any happier.

His hand grips your throat tighter which causes you to slip a moan out and he takes that chance to slip his tongue in and tangle it with yours. He groans into your mouth. With your handcuffed hands you try to touch him but you can’t. You break the kiss. “Javi, please let me out of these” you whine. His eyes light up with mischief, and he pouts. “No baby, this is your punishment”

Your brows drew together, “my punishment?” he hummed and pushed your legs open, he pushed you’re back so now you’re laying on your back. He’s hovering over you and goes into presses kisses on your neck and below your ear on that sweet spot that drives you crazy. You’re panting like crazy just wanting him in you. “Punishment for touching Quica, for letting him touch you and call you bonita. You don’t know how much I wanted to go in there and shoot every fucker that looked at you when you walked in. Staring at your ass and thinking things they shouldn’t. I want to cut off his hand for ever laying his hands on what’s mine” Javier sounded and looked genuinely mad, You didn’t even know he could see what was going on inside. “Nadie te toca, escuchaste y/n” His jaw was clenched and his pupils were fully dilated. “Si Javier”.

“No, Not Javier. Yes, what y/n?”

At first, you didn’t understand but then you got it, “Yes, sir”.

“Good girl, now let me get back to what’s mine, okay bonita?”

He was kissing the swells of your breasts and he muttered something along the lines of “too many clothes” he ripped open your bra and placed his warm mouth on your nipple and started nipping and sucking. His hand playing with the other. You moan in pleasure. He moves his mouth to the other and his other hand starts to roam down to your underwear. He runs his finger along your clothes slit. It has you flinch at the sensation. He moves his mouth back to your lips and kisses you with so much force that you can feel his mustache scratching you and it feels so good to you. He slides your underwear to the side and slides his fingers through your lips and he breaks the kiss to groan, “so wet for me already y/n, my poor baby how long have you been like this? Don’t worry, I’m gonna make you feel so good you’ll forget about the times I wasn’t here eating you up.” Javier does just that he moves his mouth down all the way down to where you want him the most. He prepares you by kissing the inner of your thighs. “Javi please, i- I need you, just please do it already” You didn’t care if you sounded desperate, you’d beg him until he did it, but luckily you didn’t have to beg anymore because his mouth latched to your cunt, feeling his hot mouth sucking on your clit had you throwing your head back, moaning profanities and mixing in his name. He was eating you like this was the last time and you really hoped it wasn’t. His tongue going up and down, this sucking your slit then back to licking everything up. Javier was hungry for you and he wasn’t going to waste any of you. He brings his finger and starts tracing it up and down. A loud whimper escapes your lips n you feel his thick finger pressing into you, he pumps it in and out, curling it and finding your sweet spot. He increases his pace as your moans and whimpers increase. When you get louder he adds another finger, going at a pace that has clamped down on his fingers. You know that sensation. The swirl in your belly is getting too much to handle. His mouth and fingers are doing amazing things to you, you’ve never felt this good before. His groans vibrate through your cunt, making you desperately moan his name. He sucks your clit harder and you feel yourself unraveling, Javi takes the time to lap up every drop of cum, not letting any go to waste. He lifts his head and you see the glimmer of your arousal on his face making you blush, he licks his lips and places one of his arms right by your head, he brings his fingers and brings them to your lips, “I knew you were going to taste good, but princesa you taste so fucking good. Open for me baby”. You open your mouth and suck the juices off his fingers, swirling your tongue around and sucking them clean.

“Javi” you breathed out. “Please let me touch you, I promise no one’s touching me but you, te lo prometo Javier, solo tu”.

He lets you out of the handcuffs and once your hands are free you stand up. “What are you doing-”

“Javi, shh let me do this” You push him onto the bed, He sits with his legs spread wide which already have you a mess. You place your hands on his knees caressing them up and down, then you move up to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off him. Your mouth starts kissing his chest, touching what you couldn’t before. “Don’t be a tease babe, keep this up, and ill just have to fill you with my dick and fuck you till you’re all the way up with my cum”.

Javier had a way with his words. Hearing his dirty talk spurred something in you. You stopped the small soft touches and went for his pants. You palmed him through his jeans feeling hard he was for you, You unblocked his belt and unbuttoned his pants. Javi helped you pull his pants down. His dick sprang up and that’s when you noticed he was commando. Your hands softly grabs his dick and he groans at the way you’re touching him. “Did you think this was going to happen Javi? Hm?”

You move your mouth to his shaft and press a gentle kiss before you wrap your mouth around his tip. That groan you longed to hear was let out from his lips. You begin to swirl your tongue around his tip, collecting the precum and tasting him. You had a feeling Javi was big but you didn’t expect him to be this big. You brought your hand to the bottom of his dick and started to go up and down all in sync with your mouth, applying the right pressure. “Fuck baby, you’re doing so good for me”. His praise only made you go faster. He was groaning so much in pleasure you felt so happy that you were able to make him feel this good. Javier gripped a handful of your hair and made you go deeper in, “c’mon y/n, take me all the way in, I want to feel the back of your throat”

He pushes your head all the way down, and you feel his tip touch the back of your throat, You were swallowing him. Javi let you back up and you gasped for air but you went back in with determination. Started to lick that sweet spot you knew every guy had. You felt his dick twitch and put his dick back into your mouth. You felt the hot spurts of cum in your mouth. Tasting all of him in your mouth. “That’s it, mama, swallow all of it, you did so good y/n”. You swallowed every drop of his cum. Licked every bit you could and his dick sprung out of your mouth with a pop. Javier sits up and uses his thumb to clean the side of your mouth where some cum had dripped out. He brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it off.

You climb onto his lap, kiss the shell of his ear, and whisper “Javi, I need you in me. Please”

“Yeah? You need me to fill you up?”

“Yes, oh god, yes please” You clench around nothing, just at the fact that you’ll finally get to have him in you. Javi lines up his dick to your entrance. You slowly start to push yourself down on him, Only the tip has gone in and the stretch hurt, but it hurts so good your grab onto his shoulders. “Relajate preciosa” he murmurs and waits until you adjust, Javier grips your waist and pushes you down until you’ve taken all of him.

“You feel so good Javi” you choke out.

Right now he’s just letting you get used to him. But you start to grow impatient. You start to move a bit to create that friction you crave. A smirk appears on Javier’s face, he finally has you where he wanted you for so long.

“Javier, muevete, I need you to move.. Porfavor”. His hands are already on your waist moving you up and bringing you down hard. His hands gripping so tight to keep you in place while he hammers into you. His hips move up to meet yours. The sound of skin smacking together spurs both of your pornographic moans. He turns you so fast you don’t even realize you’re on your back and he’s on top of you.

“Look at you baby, you look so good under me like this”

He is back to thrusting into you, His pace is relentless and yummy. With every thrust, he hits that sweet spot. He brings his fingers to your clit. Rubbing it in the perfect motion, going in delicious perfect moans that have you screaming his name.

“Fuck, Javi keep going”, “You feel so fucking good Javi”

He leans down to kiss you hard. “I’ve wanted this so long Javi”

“Yeah? How long have you thought of me?” he thrust harder and harder. His fingers circled my clit relentlessly

“Too long”

You feel yourself gripping him, your belly swirling with that feeling from before. It’s like he senses it. “Let it go, baby”

And you do just that, You cum, drenching his dick with your cum. You cum so hard you feel it drip down your thighs. “So good, You did so good for me y/n, you love being a good girl for me, yeah?”

You’ve cummed but he doesn’t stop, he goes faster than before, the sensitivity making it too much but you let it happen. His thrust starts to get sloppy and you feel him twitch in you. “Im going to fill up your cunt so deep that it will be dripping out of you for days, reminding you who did that and who you belong to” He voice hoarse and deep. His hot cum shoots into you, and your cunt grips him. Milking all of his cum into you. He holds his dick in there. Not letting any of his drips out of you. You feel so full of him that it turns you on so much. Javiers leaned his forehead on you, his breaths getting back to normal. You feel his dick softening in you. You bring your hands up into his hair. Gently tug on the strands binging his mouth to yours. This time the kiss is different. It’s not rough and hungry like before. It’s soft and passionate. He breaks the kiss and peppers kisses all over you. You start to laugh at his playfulness. “Javi stop that tickles”

You see him get up, and he gets a washcloth and cleans you up. Still a bit sensitive you flinch when he presses it along your slot. He gives you an apologetic smile. Then you go back to the bed and presses your body next to his, His arm around you bringing you in close. He kisses your temple and starts caressing your hair.

“You did so good for me hermosa, I don’t know how I survived so long without you”

#pedro pascal #horacio carrillo #javier peña #javier peña x reader #narcos #javier peña smut #javier pena x reader #javi x reader #javier peña x y/n #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fic #javier peña fic

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tropes-and-tales · 7 months

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Sweet Like Candy

Day 5: Sex pollen (Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Dub-con due to sex pollen trope; smut (PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 4990

AN: This was requested by an anon with an excellent memory who remembered when I mentioned a sex pollen Carrillo piece in passing! Also, not edited. I'm sick and barely ran it through spell-check.

It’s Carrillo’s fault, this entire terrible situation.

If he hadn’t been so severe when he first met you, he could have a genial working relationship with you. You wouldn’t have been afraid of him from the start. You would have been willing to work directly with him, handed off your lab reports directly instead of filtering them through Peña and Murphy, through Trujillo.

He wouldn’t have gotten grief from Peña to try and make peace with you. He wouldn’t have gone to visit you, a play at being a softer, kinder Carrillo who perhaps smiles and says thank you for all of your exemplary work.

He wouldn’t have found himself in your lab on this day—the day you’re running tests on a separate case for the Medellín police, separate from the Search Bloc and its pursuit of Escobar. Not testing cocaine at all: a scatter of innocuous-seeming candy in your workspace. Supercoco—chewy caramel with coconut pieces folded in.

Any Colombian recognizes the green wrapper. Carrillo smiles to see it, slips a couple of pieces into his pocket when you turn away for a moment.

Only this isn’t Supercoco. It’s a version infused with the distillation of a plant found in the Amazon, then wrapped in the familiar green paper. A powerful love drug, an aphrodisiac, passed on the sly in the bars and night clubs of Medellín.

It’s Carrillo’s fault. He’d been so severe when he met you, he tries to make amends now by being casual. You stare at him as though he has two heads as he asks you about your day, how you’re settling into your apartment, if you’ve had a chance to explore the city yet.

You answer his questions with your brows furrowed. Confused. He’s hardly the same man who barked at you on your first day in Colombia. A timer in the lab goes off, and you turn to one of your complicated pieces of lab equipment to read the ticker tape being spit out of the machine.

Your back turned, he snags another piece of candy and eats it. He’s trying to be Casual Carrillo, not the flinty version of himself with a cold gaze and a grim set to his mouth. He takes a second piece, chews it, feels a million memories from his childhood resurface at the taste. But then you turn around, see what he’s eating, and your face—usually guarded and wary when he is around—turns to pure horror.

“No!” You bridge the distance between the two of you, and you’re touching him before he can even register it. Your hands are on his face, pinching the corners of his mouth, trying to force him to spit out the candy. It’s pure instinct, like a mother forcing a toddler to spit out something poisonous. You move on instinct, manhandling his face, and he moves on instinct too.

He spits out the half-chewed candy.

Which doesn’t help with the piece he already ate. The piece already in his stomach, being digested.

“Shit, rinse out your mouth,” you order him, and you dart to the sink, pour him a glass of water. You thrust it into his hand, and his heart starts to hammer at your panicky reaction. What has he eaten? Poison? Some terrible, addictive drug? Something that’ll do permanent damage to him, leave him with a weakened heart or a compromised liver? Something that’ll shave years off of his life?

“What—” he starts to ask, but you gesture at the glass, so he does as he’s told. He takes a mouthful, swishes it around. Spits it out in the sink, then does it again and again.

“It’s some sort of love drug,” you tell him once he’s done. You sag in relief against the counter. “Medellín police found a bunch of it in a bust the other day. The DEA contracts my lab out to the local force, so I’ve been running tests.”

“Love drug?” he asks, his stomach sinking. “What does that mean?”

“Tests reveal organic compounds from a plant. Like maca root, only…times a thousand.”

He swallows hard, and you catch the audible gulp, misunderstand it.

“You’re fine,” you tell him, and you gift him a rare smile. “You didn’t eat it. And anyway, there’s no long-term side effects if you had. It just makes the user really, uh, friendly.”

“How friendly?” he asks, using your cutely prudish American adjective for horny, and you give him the anecdotal evidence from the Medellín police about spontaneous orgies in local clubs, and then he tells you the bad news about how he ate a first piece before spitting out the second, and the way your eyes go wide and your mouth forms a perfect “O” of horror would make him laugh, if he weren’t so nervous about what is about to happen to him.

-----

You drive him home in his own car. There’s no point in taking him to the hospital—the only treatment is to ride it out.

It’s hard to describe the way it feels when the drug starts to affect him. Carrillo has little experience with any drugs beyond the morphine he was prescribed when he was shot and had surgery. He remembers the morphine, even years later: the warm, syrupy calm that spread through his limbs, erasing the pain of his wound.

This…is not that.

Twenty minutes. Half an hour after he eats that fucking laced candy. He feels it in his stomach first, right under his rib cage: warm, but not calm. Warm, but…alert. Aware. If the morphine put his senses to sleep, then this wakes them up.

Wakes all of his senses up, then as the warmth spreads—up into his chest, down into his gut—wakes his senses up even more. Carrillo’s senses dialed up to a thousand.

Not just smelling your delicate perfume, but smelling the soap from your laundry detergent, the shampoo you used that morning. The faintly chemical smell of your lab that clings to your hair and clothing.

Not just hearing you—your cautious questions of how he’s feeling, where you should turn next to get him home. He swears he can hear your heart beating, the pulse and slush of your blood as it moves through your body. Swears he can hear you breathing, can hear the quiet creak of your jaw as you clench it in worry.

Not just seeing you, the mousy little scientist that he managed to scare shitless her first day in Colombia. Put the fear of God in you after the last DEA scientist got caught skimming Escobar’s cocaine from the bricks confiscated by the Search Bloc. His own fault, how he barked at you that first day, and this is his fault too—not following the rules of your lab. Now he’s not himself.

Now he sees you with the drug roaring in his veins. The tight clench of your hands on the steering wheel. The worried set of your jaw, the way you study him out of the corner of your eye. He sees more, now, too: the delicate shell of your ear, the tiny pinprick in the lobe of a piercing but no earring because of your lab protocols. The way the line of your neck disappears into the neckline of your shirt, the curve as it meets your shoulder. The thin silver chain around your neck, a locket, and Carrillo wonders if you’ve got some sweetheart back home who gifted it to you before you left for South America.

The thoughts rise in his head like carbonation, rapid-fire. Usually so logical, so cool-headed: now his thoughts are gummy, sticky. He wants to lean against the seatbelt and put his mouth on your neck, follow the line of it into your shirt, then pull it aside and keep going. Tasting you. Such a sweet, mousy little thing—he wonders if you taste sweet, or if he’d taste the salt of your skin, maybe a bitter spot where you daubed perfume that morning—

“Shit.” It comes out a groan, pained. He lifts a hand and presses it over his eyes, and he feels how hot his palm is. This is bad. It’s so bad. He’s not himself; he’s losing who he is: Horacio Carrillo, the man who is always so staid…that man is fading into the background. That Horacio is going quiet, ceding control to this other Horacio who is ruled only by want, by feeling.

-----

You manage to get him home, and he is still enough of himself to thank you.

He’s also enough of himself to bark out that you need to leave: take his car and go, leave him alone.

But Carrillo never really got to know you. He put the fear of God in you that first day. You’ve been ducking him ever since. He has no way of knowing the type of person you are.

He has no way of knowing that you are the caring sort. You’re soft-hearted. You worry for people when they are hurt or sick; you check in on them. You take care of them.

He has no way of knowing that while you are brilliant at your job and largely level-headed, your heart often drives you and your brain often follows. Which is why you ignore his orders and follow him into his house: your soft heart driving you to help a person in distress, when your brilliant mind is perhaps warning you to stay away.

-----

You follow him into his house, and Carrillo is still enough of himself to try and force you to leave.

“You gotta go,” he says, and his usually-crisp English comes out slurred, slushy and rounded off with his Colombian accent. “Gotta leave.”

He curls his hands on your upper arms, pushes you backwards but not meanly. Pushes you towards the door carefully so you don’t stumble or trip, but it’s another sense dialed up to a thousand—the feel of you under his hands. The warmth of your body underneath the crisp cotton of your blouse, the way his fingertips bite into the surprisingly firm muscles there.

“If you don’t leave, m-might not be able to stop myself.” He pushes you towards the door, but already that driving want is roaring in him, and he doesn’t stop to open the door and push you through it.

He keeps it closed and pushes you against it.

He traps you between the door and his body, so close to touching you. There’s hardly any space separating you. Millimeters. Molecules. Close enough to feel the heat of your body, the magnetism the fucking drug is convincing him is there—

Carrillo stares down at you; you gaze back with those widened eyes. Nervous. As scared as you’d been that first day, and it chastens him just a bit. You probably think he’s a monster.

You take a breath, and the motion makes the locket around your neck move. It catches the light and draws his eye. Carrillo takes a hand from your shoulder and lifts the locket from where it lays against your chest. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, considering it.

“Your boyfriend give you this?” he asks.

You blink at the question, shake your head faintly. “It was my grandma’s.”

A dumb thing, but the thought of you having a grandmother—of course you have two, as most humans do—reminds him that you’re a person with an entire history. A family back home in the States. Likes and dislikes. And Carrillo knows none of it.

“You need to go,” he says in a low voice, ignoring the wave of lust that sweeps through him. “I can handle this alone.”

You shake your head again. “It was my lab. My responsibility. I can help. I can get a cold shower going and then—”

He silences you. He puts his finger over your lips, stills them. The wrong thing to do: now he knows how your mouth feels, and Carrillo grits his teeth and breathes shallow through his nose.

“If you don’t go, I’m going to want to—Dios, I already…you need to go.”

The last vestige of the sensible, stoic Carrillo wants to open the door, shove you out of it, throw the bolt. That Carrillo wants to stagger deeper into the house, alone, and strip out of his clothes. He wants to lay on the cool tiles and relieve the tension as best he can.

That Carrillo is gone. Silenced, tucked away into a corner of his mind. This Carrillo doesn’t push you away: instead, he shifts his hand, traces his finger over the plump curve of your lower lip, and your eyes widen at his touch—

This Carrillo remembers something. With his other hand, he reaches down. Into his pocket, where a few pieces of the laced candy are. The ones he pocketed on the sly and forgot.

He pulls one out. Unwraps it clumsily with one hand while the other hand remains on your mouth, stilling your words. Once it’s unwrapped, he holds it up for you to see, like a trainer teaching a dog with a treat. Then he removes his hand from you, takes a step back. It takes every single bit of his resolve to stop touching you, but he does.

He’s giving you a choice: leave, as he’s ordered you to do more than once. Or stay and join him.

In this moment, Carrillo still doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t know what you’re thinking. He knows so little about you, only knows that you avoid him, are frightened by his tough colonel of the Search Bloc routine.

There will come a time in the future when he will be able to guess, with startling accuracy, what you are thinking. He’ll know you better then. He’ll know that as mousy as you seem, you have sudden surges of bravery. Sudden moments of nerve.

That comes later. Right now, when Colonel Horacio Carrillo gives you a choice, you startle him. You don’t turn and flee.

You shift your eyes from the laced candy in his hand to his own eyes, and you seem to see something there that informs your decision.

You don’t flee. You open your mouth and allow him to lay the laced caramel onto your tongue, a perverse sort of communion. It’s one of your sudden moments of nerviness, and you never blink once, never look away from him while you chew carefully, then swallow.

*****

It’s morally grey, at best. The man is not himself.

It’s utter madness at worst.

There will come a time in the near future when he will ask why you didn’t leave. Why you ate the candy. You’ll tell him a half-truth: that it was professional curiosity, how taking the drug would feel. You’ve never tried the drugs you test in your lab; you always rely on your equipment and anecdotal evidence from those who do inject or smoke or eat the various drugs. But there is always the curious part of you, the most essential part of being a scientist, that wants to know how it feels.

Why not try it? It isn’t cocaine or heroin or LSD.

There will come a time in the further future when he will ask again, and that time, you’ll tell him the whole truth: that yes, you were curious about the drug. But more than that: you were curious about him. You were terrified of him and attracted to him in equal measure (you blamed the fact that he was usually in uniform), which made for a weird combination of emotions every time you had to deal with him. The sinking fear in your gut that he’d turn his flinty gaze on you…paired with the fluttery swooping in your gut of burgeoning infatuation.

That all comes later. Right now, there’s nothing but the sweetness of caramel lingering in your mouth, almost cloying, and Colonel Carrillo staring at you like he wants to devour you. You inch around him, move away from where you’re trapped between him and door.

You make your way deeper into his home, and you sit on his couch and wait. He follows and sits beside you, but he doesn’t touch you. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap, his knuckles white with the effort, but he doesn’t touch you.

That means something, you think. Says something about his character, even when he’s drugged.

Fifteen, twenty minutes after eating the laced candy: you’re ready to be devoured.

*****

Carrillo doesn’t know exactly how the drug works—if it affects men and women differently—but he can guess when you start to feel it.

Your face twists into an expression of concentration, as if you’re surveying how you feel. Like you’re checking in on your pulse, your breathing, your temperature. You narrow your eyes, and he wonders if you’re making mental notes that you’ll later print in your small, neat handwriting in the little notebook you keep.

Carrillo? He’s in hell. Twenty minutes of waiting for you to sink to his level, and every cell of him aches for relief. He’s not in any physical pain—whatever formula the chemists use for their so-called love drug, it’s meant to be fun, not painful. But it’s like pain, the endless want he has, the lust that’s sunk its claws deep into his gut.

The twenty minutes pass like twenty years.

Then you swipe your palms along the thighs of your jeans as if they are sweaty, and you breathe out a shaky, “holy shit,” and he knows you’re finally in the same place as him so he pounces, damned near: a graceless move, quick, that bridges the distance between the two of you. He presses himself against you, cages you against the arm of the couch, and when he bends his head to kiss you, you raise up to meet him more than halfway.

He knows it’s just the drug, but you kiss him with a passion he’s never experienced before: not with his now-ex-wife, not with the handful of girls before her. Every other kiss before pales in comparison to the heat behind your kiss now: the fierce way you slot your mouth over his, how eagerly you slide your tongue against his without an ounce of the shyness he associates with you. He can taste the sickly-sugary laced-candy, but he swears he can taste you too, and when he groans in your mouth, you answer with your own whine.

There’s only a small sliver of him that is still him, and that tiny shred of the sensible Carrillo manages to break away. You’re both tearing at each other’s clothing—your shaky hands fumbling at the buttons on his shirt, his hands tugging the hem of your blouse out of your jeans. But he breaks away with every remaining bit of his inner strength, and he gazes down at where you’re awkwardly splayed across his couch.

“Not here,” he pants. All of this will shame him when he’s sober, he thinks, but he can try to be a gentleman, can claim you on a proper bed and not on an uncomfortable couch.

He stands up, and a wave of dizziness washes through him. He staggers, and you sit up and reach out to steady him. You wrap a hand around his wrist and stare up at him. Your eyes glitter black because your pupils are so wide that the color of your irises is little more than a crescent—but he thinks he sees concern there underneath the lust.

“You okay, Colonel?” you ask, confirming his suspicions. Even now, under the influence of the drug, he’s seeing your caring nature that he’s never been privy to before. It sobers him up just enough.

Carrillo nods. He twists out of your light grip and takes your hand in his. He tugs you to your feet and feels how you sway against him too.

“N-not here,” he repeats. A fresh wave of lust courses through him, nearly knocks him to his knees like the incoming tide. “I don’t…not here, okay? C’mon.”

You nod and allow him to lead you back to his bedroom. He keeps his hold on your hand, unwilling to give up the tame touch, and when you squeeze his hand—maybe you’re nervous—he squeezes yours back in reassurance.

-----

That small, quiet voice that was sensible Carrillo is silenced the minute he gets you in the bedroom. The drug takes him over completely, and he’s almost relieved to cede all control to it. He’s always so tight-laced, so straight-edged.

This Carrillo is nothing but id: driven by desire, chasing pleasure. He feels like little more than an animal, and he finds that he likes it.

Your clothes don’t survive him. He tears at your blouse and the buttons ricochet across the room. He’ll find them for weeks afterwards; he’ll send you home in one of his plain white T-shirts the next morning, and the sight of you in such a tame outfit will make a curling wave of lust course through him, though the drug will have worked itself out of his system by then.

He tugs at the clasp of your bra, fumbles it but then unlatches it, and he pushes it off of your arms to reveal your breasts, and Carrillo sways closer to you. He touches you there first, cups the soft roundness of you, and he feels how diamond-hard your nipples are. He bends his head and puts his mouth to you—suckling, nipping, licking at you, and he feels your hand thread through his hair to hold him there. He hears the keening whine you loose, the throaty way you say his name.

Not his name. You whine out Colonel, his stupid fucking title, and he lifts his head. He stares into your dark, unblinking eyes. He reaches up a hand and grips your chin, firm but not hard, because even underneath the raging animal lust burning through him, he doesn’t want to hurt you.

“Horacio,” he tells you. “Say it.”

You do, and it’s no mousy whisper. Your tongue darts out and lays a wet line on your lower lip.

“Horacio,” you reply. You say it carefully like it’s a new word for you.

“Say it again,” he demands, but you only get the first two syllables out before he’s muttering a curse at hearing his name in your mouth, the intimacy of it, and he seals his mouth over yours in a fierce kiss.

The rest of your clothes—your jeans, your panties—fall away as he strips you. There’s no art to it. No seduction, because you strip him just as fiercely. You tug at his belt and undo it, pull it from the loops of his pants with a snap as the leather whips against the air. You get him out of his uniform shirt and t-shirt underneath it but then he pushes you back against the bed and you fall, naked and gorgeous.

Horacio pounces.

There is a part of him, terribly small and far away, that worries you don’t want this. The straight-edged part of him despairs that this is just the drug, that you’ll be horrified in the morning.

His worrying will be needless. He’ll wake before you in the morning—the consequence of being in the army so long—but when you finally wake too, you’ll only be a little shy. You won’t have any regrets, and you’ll prove it to him by climbing onto him, by riding him slowly in the pre-dawn Medellín morning. And neither of you will be drugged when you do.

Now, he stretches the length of his body over yours, feels the feverish press of his skin to yours. You open your legs to him, but when he settles between your spread thighs, you hook your feet onto his pants, reach down with your hands, and clumsily try to work the rest of his clothing off of him.

“Eager,” he mutters against your mouth, and your lips are slick, swollen from how much he’s already kissed you.

“Please,” you reply. You gaze up at him, blink as if you’re trying to clear your head. “Please, Horacio.”

Then you shift the hand that is already reaching down, and you touch him—your hand slips under the low-slung elastic of his boxers, and your warm hand is on his cock, and the sudden touch makes him jump and twitch in your palm as you grasp him firmer, start stroking him.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “F-fuck, cariño.”

If he can be grateful for anything, it’s that he got dosed in your lab and managed to get home before this moment. You told him this drug was circulating though Medellín clubs and bars, and Horacio cannot imagine succumbing to this sharp, all-encompassing desire in public. He’s grateful he got you to his bed, where you have privacy.

The first time he fucks you, Horacio gets no further than freeing his cock from the confines of his pants, shoves his uniform slacks and his boxers down just enough for his aching length to spring free. You moan as you stroke him—he’s slick with pre-cum—but he breaks free from your grip and shuffles forward. He pushes forward until he’s touching your slick folds, and then he pushes into you, unable to stop himself, but your hands reach down and grasp his ass and pull him into you, and once he’s buried to the hilt, you wrap your legs around him.

The first time he fucks you, Horacio can’t manage intelligible words. Not in English, not in Spanish. He can only grunt like an animal, can only breathe harsh, ragged breaths as he thrusts into you. You’re unbearably wet, unbearably hot. It’s like fucking some tight, searing thing, and the heat is everywhere—your cunt, your bared skin, your panting mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. The heat sinks into his skin, into his tense muscles, into the very bones of him. It’s like he’s being unmade at the molecular level, broken down into base elements, and his grunts turn to snarls as he fucks you harder, deeper.

You? You take it. You take it eagerly. You wrap your legs around him. You wrap your arms around him, and even if he wanted to stop, he’d have to untangle himself from your limbs. Each jarring thrust where he’s completely buried in you makes you groan, and even you have an animal quality to the sounds he’s pulling from your perfect lips. When the crown of his cock hits the end of you, you groan, but it’s throaty—almost a growl.

A moment later, he feels a sting of fire on his back where you dig your fingernails into him. Where you scratch long lines of burning into his skin, like a brand. He’ll carry those marks for days, feel how they burn under the spray of his shower.

Then you aren’t just taking it anymore. You start to fuck back against him, lifting your hips an inch off the bed, tilting your pelvis enough to grant him more depth to you. You find his rhythm and meet him thrust for thrust, until you’re moving not as two people but one.

The first time he fucks you, Horacio has no clue how long it lasts. It goes by in a blink. It lasts for hours. It’s nowhere near long enough before he feels the burning tension at the pit of his belly snap and spill over like molten metal poured out of a crucible. He can’t even warn you that he’s about to come because it happens so quickly—a particularly deep thrust where he swears he can feel himself breeching the entrance of your womb, where you hiss in his ear some phrase he won’t remember. The tension snaps, and he breathes out your name, and he comes inside you, brands your perfect cunt with his spend.

But the feeling of him filling you must be the last bit of stimulation you need because you come a beat later too, and the sensation of your cunt rippling against him when he’s already so sensitive nearly makes him cry.

It gives you each a moment of reprieve. Horacio’s burning lust recedes just enough that he gazes down at you. He feels a sting of guilt—you’re disheveled, your hair wild and your eyes leaking tears down into your temples. Your lips are swollen as you struggle to catch your breath, and you look so gorgeously, thoroughly fucked that he leans down and kisses you gently on the corner of your mouth.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You nod. You reach out a gentle hand too, curl it into a loose fist and run your knuckles lightly over the side of his face. It’s an oddly sweet gesture, soft, and when Horacio tilts his head into your touch, you uncurl your fist and cup his face.

This is the moment, he will realize later, where love takes root. This simple, intimate moment between the two of you. Eye of the storm, where he kisses you sweetly and you cup his face. The love won’t blossom or fruit for a while yet, but this is where it reaches its tender shoots into him.

But the realization won’t come until later. For now, the receding tide of lust reverses, comes rushing back in. He’s still buried in you, still hard as steel, but everything is getting warm again.

“You okay?” he asks again, but he’s already pulling out a fraction, pushing back into you, his hips making small movements.

“Again, Horacio.” Your thumb strokes along his stubbled cheek, and you nod up at him. “Again, please.”

You ask so nicely. He pulls out long enough to finally strip out of his clothes, but then?

Then he obliges.

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