#horacio carrillo imagine

[tropes-and-tales]

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

[flightlessangelwings]

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…” 

#fawktober2023 #kinktober #javier peña #javier peña x reader #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #steve murphy #steve murphy x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x y/n #haracio carrillo x you #steve murphy x you #colonel carrillo x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #Javier Peña fanfic #javier peña imagine #horacio carrillo imagine #steve murphy imagine #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #narcos fanfic #steve murphy fanfiction #horacio carrillo fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x female reader #javier peña narcos #horacio carrillo narcos

[ecoamerica]

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[bullet-prooflove]

Marry Me: Horacio Carrillo x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @mysun-n-stars @@littleone65 @mydarkestsecretlol @evee87 @georgeparisole @legally-a-bastard @justreblogginfics @multilin21 @witches-unruly-heart @thequeenoftheisleofavalon @spooky-pomegranate

“Marry me.” Horacio whispers into the darkness.

You’re tangled up in his sheets, your limbs entwined with his as you listen to the sounds of Medellín drifting in through the open window. His lips brush over your hairline as he awaits your answer. You prop your head up on his chest, his fingertips pushing a strand of hair back behind your ear.

“You don’t want me as a wife.” You tell him as you shift so that you’re straddling his hips. His hands come to rest on your waist, his cock already hardening. “I don’t want that life Horacio, I won’t settle down and pop out babies, I won’t follow you around the world.”

“I’m not asking for babies and I’m asking not you to settle.” He whispers as his hand clasps the nape of your neck drawing your face close to his.

“That’s exactly what you’re asking.” You murmur as you sink down onto him and any response he has is stifled by the moan that leaves his mouth.

“Marry me.” He asks you again as he wraps a daisy around your ring finger. The two of you are sitting on a picnic blanket on the hill where he had made love to you for the first time.

“You know I can’t.” You had whispered against his lips and he had kissed you anyway, hoping to chase away all those doubts.

“Marry me.” The words ring in your head now as you press your fingertips to your lips before touching them to his shiny black coffin. You stand beside Pena and Murphy as it’s loaded onto a plane bound for Madrid, because Horacio, he’s going back to his widow, the woman he married instead of you.

Love Horacio? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carillo #colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo imagine #narcos #colonel carrillo #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel horacio carrillo x reader

[goodnitedrdead]

god only knows

Horacio Carrillo x reader

Summary: who would've thought his ex-wife would ask God to send Horacio an angel? To fill the space she couldn't fill, and to do what Horacio wouldn't even do for himself.

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Divorce. Horacio being head over heels for reader. Fluff. Love. All that fun stuff.

Author's Note: quick little something I wrote before bed because I rly miss my favorite soldier and because I needed a break from school. Might make sense, might not. I did state that one of my new years resolutions was to write at least one piece of writing for each month so I am doing this before the month ends. Mistakes and errors are all my own, I didn't have time to check it. Let me know what you think :3

Composed. Collected. Calm. That’s what made Horacio an excellent soldier and an even better Colonel. Ever since his training days at the academy, he was an exemplary student. A promising star who was meant to be a leader. 

And a leader he became.

He’d set the tempo, and everyone else would follow the rhythm of his steps. His family talked wonders of the honorable man he became, to anyone who would listen. It was no surprise that the women were fawning over him, and much to his family’s constant pestering of finding the perfect wife, he found Juliana. 

Together, they found a mutual and tranquil love. Maybe the kind that develops over time, but certainly not one to last forever. 

If Horacio were to match Juliana to an animal, he’d say she was a doe. Skittish, gentle, docile. She was a good wife to him and always fulfilled her duties. She’d have three meals a day ready for the family. She’d stay home and focus on the children. She’d be devoted to her husband forever. 

Just as tradition states.

Horacio was to fulfill his duties as a husband too. He’d go to work, dedicate most of his time to it not only because he wanted the best for his country, but he wanted a safe place for his children to grow. He’d come back home and sometimes have dinner with his family. He’d be devoted to his wife forever.

Just as tradition states.

Tradition didn’t talk about divorce. Tradition didn’t talk about intruders and third parties shaking the very core of an honorable man’s beliefs.

Tradition never changes.

Tradition was broken when Julianna eventually got tired of Horacio’s lifestyle. It was broken when fear crept into their home, and found a host to latch on to. Fear was deeply rooted in Julianna’s heart from one minute to the next; fearing that every day that passed would be their last with Escobar on the run.

She went against her duties and beliefs and did what she saw fit. Bags packed, a new home far from Medellin, and divorce papers were her top three priorities for a few weeks. Eventually, she did the first two, but she couldn’t bring herself to give the papers to Horacio herself. She prayed, day and night, for guidance on what she should do but at the end of the day, her and her children’s safety were her number one priority. Horacio would be able to fend for himself. 

That never stopped her from reciting a quick prayer for him every night before bed. As she found herself far away from Medellin and Horacio, she’d pray for the safety of her ex-husband. After all, she still had a fondness for him and he was the father of her children. She shared many years and a home with him, it was someone she couldn’t just forget about overnight. 

She prayed to God to send Archangel Michael and his soldiers to watch over and protect Horacio from harm. Whether it may be from self-harm or others, she prayed for his safety. Send him your fiercest angel, the most courageous and brave one to keep him from harm’s way.

Horacio never knew this, for if he had he would’ve thanked Juliana for her wishes and prayers. Because if it wouldn’t have been for her, he wouldn’t have found you. 

You came into his life like a goddamn lightning bolt. He’d feel you in the air, the startling feeling jolting him as soon as you’d walk into the room. Unapologetically yourself and nothing else. You’d make a friend of anyone that crossed your path, but he’d also seen the rage within you. If there was someone he’d fear, it would be you. 

You were quick on your feet, and somehow quicker with your gun. He wasn’t sure why the DEA didn’t make you a sniper, but you were awfully good at your job. And yet, you were unapologetically gentle. You wouldn’t think twice about taking a bullet for him, and it made him laugh at times. A woman of your stature stepping in front of him, to protect him from harm’s way. A woman who was breaking tradition day by day and night by night. You weren’t quite like anything he’s ever seen before, and he loved that about you.

He loved how, despite igniting fear into even his soldiers’ minds and hearts, you wouldn’t budge. He could yell and scream and bark orders at you and you’d remain with the most serene energy he’s ever seen. Your eyes fixed on him, the storm brewing within you. Horacio wasn’t scared of many things, but he was scared of you.

How is it that you, someone so tender yet menacing, could have that balance within? He was scared of the way you would keep your innocence despite the amount of deaths and blood you’ve seen this city shed at the hands of Pablo Escobar. The way a smile would come so easy to you. The way a laugh was so easy to coax out of you. He was absolutely enamored by your very being.

Something he had never truly quite felt.

The time came when he lost everything he ever thought he was. Horacio started to lose his composure. He’d start to notice the way his heart would threaten to jump out at the sight of you. The way his pulse would quicken by just being by your side. The way his mind would seem to forget about every word to ever exist when you were speaking to him.

He started to notice how clumsy he would unwillingly become. How he’d stumble over his words when you were in the room. How his hands would betray him and drop the items they were carrying, because it would somehow elicit a giggle out of you. How he’d blush whenever you focused on him, as if he was the only person in the world that mattered.

Tradition was never supposed to change, right?

Yet you continued to prove that you didn’t care what tradition said. You approached Horacio first. You asked him out first. You kissed him first. You weren’t worried about what anyone else would think. You didn’t even care about what Horacio would think. 

It’s not like he never wanted to start anything, he was just too busy being consumed by your presence. You had a light within you that was blinding, but all Horacio wanted to do was look at you even if that meant he’d lose his senses for the rest of his life. 

It was only when you became a couple that he realized you were the protector. No matter how much he tried, you were always one step ahead of him. Ready to attack at the slightest moment anyone got too close to him. Ready to give your life up for him. 

Ready to fill his life with the most pure and sincere love he’d ever felt. 

It was as if God himself picked you to be placed on his path. 

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

[velvetmel0n]

I Slithered Here From Eden; Prologue

Summary: The Embassy’s newest intern has a run in with everyone’s favorite Colonel

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: I haven’t written in like two years so enter at your own risk, idk man age gap??? Reader has graduated college and is like midish twenties, neither party wants to pine but oh well, the university girl and the colonel tag is becoming a fic

A/N: Consider this like a teaser trailer for the feature length fic coming soon to a screen near you......I’m putting my clown wig on as we speak

@vladviago @alexxavicry @nessamc @hallothankmas @mamacitapascal @morguleth @venusandromedadjarin @watsonwise @mserynlarsen @brihhhhhh @millllenniawrites @bookshelvesandteacups @littleferal @feelmyroarrrr @maybege @wretchedwisteria @oldstuffnewstuff @miss-me-jack @plexflexico @writefightandflightclub  @visintaes @mapache-lector @goldafterglow @hansoulo @mylifeliterally @adverbedly @spoopyredacted @pikemoreno @perropascal @shadow-assassin-blix @veracruz-miller @flightlessangelwings @themarcusmoreno​

You’re too focused on the files in front of you to notice his entrance, mind too full of manila folders and grainy photographs, trying to divine an organizational system that makes sense to more than just you from redacted words and red ink. Trying to make sense of how things work in this place where the green of the jungle and the humidity are each living, breathing things— so unlike the sleepy college town you’d been imported from, courtesy of the Embassy. Professional internship, they had called it. Your reward for all the sleepless nights over the years, studying into the small hours of the morning to graduate well within the top of your class, several minors and certificates tacked along behind your actual major because you wanted to be good. Wanted to save the world, wanted to weasel your way into international politics and diplomacy and communications because you thought that changing it from within, from the room where it happened, would be the best strategy. 

And you still do, but sometimes you wish saving the world came with better coffee. You don’t bother hiding the grimace as you gulp it down, too bitter and burnt for the cheap, breakroom creamer in the little plastic cups to really touch it but it’s still your second cup of the day and beggars can’t be choosers. In the short weeks since your arrival you had gotten used to the acrid taste, the way it liked to stick to your teeth. It seems to underscore your work in times like these, when it’s barely ten o’clock in the morning and you’re already frustrated, ran fifteen minutes late because you thought you could walk to the Embassy this morning, wanted to enjoy the sights and sounds of the city waking from its fitful sleep. You made three wrong turns before you’d admitted defeat and caught a taxi. 

But you had made it and you’re here now, engrossed in your work, lost to the outside world until a voice sounds from right in front of you, cutting through the din of the office because he’s actually addressing you in a voice you’ve never heard before. You can’t help the way you jump, heart tripping over itself and one of the papers in your hand slicing across the pad of your thumb, right down the middle.

“Colonel Carrillo,” Because you know who he is, had been given a run down on all the important players when your plane had landed so you’d be able to hit the ground running, wouldn’t have to wait for formal introductions that may never come. He looks the same as he did in the photo you were shown, right down to the uniform he’s wearing, but you’re seeing him in the flesh now, can see the true breadth of his shoulders and the way he seems to fill the whole room up. Can see the way the coworkers who’ve noticed keep sneaking glances from the corner of their eye, like they want to look but don’t want the full weight of his attention on them. 

Because it is a weight, thick and heavy and warm as it settles on your eyes, your skin. 

“What can I do for you?” You can feel heat rising up the back of your neck but you rally, proud when there’s no quaver in your voice despite the way you almost jumped out of your skin. This is what you do, after all. Your job. You did not come here just to shake like a leaf at the sight of Escobar’s own personal boogie man, the man you’ve been hearing stories about since you arrived. Mean, they say. Brutal. And you have half a mind to believe them, of course, because this is Colonel Horacio Carrillo. The one person in charge of the Search Bloc, the man leading the war on the ground.  

But his voice is soft as he speaks to you, so at odds with the harsh lines of his face, the set of his jaw. “Get these to Peña and Murphy,” No please, no thank you as he hands the small stack of files over, just the silent expectation that his orders will be fulfilled. 

His fingers are warm and rough as you take the files from him, skin brushing skin and for some reason that small touch, that one small feel of him, makes your breath catch and something dangerous prickle across your skin. You try not to think about it the same way you’re trying not to think about the blood that’s surely blooming on your thumb, the little ache that’s underscoring everything that’s happening, the throb underneath the skin. The same way you’re trying not to think about the heat that’s begun pooling low in your belly, the way the hair on the back of your neck is standing up because he hasn’t looked away from you once. Not once, and the realization makes it a little harder to breathe.

“I’ll make sure they get them,” You hope your smile is easy, if a little bland. Hope he can’t read anything else in the curve of your lips because the last thing you need is him. Older and meaner than you have any right to want. Dark in a way you can’t quite fathom yet, the kind of dark that justifies the means to an end everyone in this building wants to see. An end you want to see. 

He nods once, a simple dip of his chin and what might have been a murmured ‘thank you,’ and you don’t look at his shoulders as he walks away. You don’t look at how he moves, how people get out of his way long before he reaches them. He’s something quiet and seething and it shouldn’t make your mouth water, the latent power that you already know lies just beneath his skin. It shouldn’t make something low in your belly quiver, almost in time with the throbbing of your thumb. 

You swipe the blood way with your tongue, sucking on the cut until it stops its slow drip, taking care not to get any on the paperwork spread around you. It tastes like pennies and the coffee that had spilled over the rim of your cup when you’d walked back to your desk. It tastes like Carrillo’s name. 

You don’t see him for the rest of the week but you can’t keep him out of your head, his voice haunting you when it’s late at night and the air is warm and heavy, when the shadows can keep your secrets. You blame it on the fact that you’d never met someone like him before, never seen someone like him before— so big and solid with that scowl on his face.

 You don’t want to know what it says about you that he’s the one that you can’t stop thinking about, not Peña or even Murphy, or any of the other men at the Embassy you see on a semi-regular basis. You don’t want to know what it says about you that instead of wanting one of them, a good portion nice-enough-seeming and closer to your age bracket, you want the Colonel. 

You don’t know that he’s thinking about you either, so bright and soft he didn’t know what he was looking at, at first. You kept your word though, getting the files to Peña and Murphy as soon as you could, and he tells himself that's why he comes back to you when he needs something else. Why he keeps coming back until he learns your name, until you smile when you see him and start asking how his day is going. 

#horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo fic #narcos fic #circus music starts playing in the background #it's clownery your honor

[mlmxreader]

Alone Together At Last | Horacio Carrillo x gn!reader

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

No worries though!

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

Also, a prompt!

"You gonna be good?"

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

tws: biting, grinding, Sir kink, praise kink 

word count: 1087

MINORS DNI 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#mlem writes #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo #carrillo x reader #carrillo x you #carrillo imagine #carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo x you #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel carrillo #narcos fanfiction #narcos x reader #narcos x you #narcos oneshot #narcos one shot #narcos imagine #narcos netflix

[twistnet]

with time; together again [ horacio carrillo ]

⋯ SUMMARY ; it’s a mutual break up after getting reassigned back home, and now that you’ve returned, feelings resurface and moves are made once more

⋯ WARNINGS ; female!reader, slight angst [ mutual break ups ] + general fluff [ resurfacing of feelings + kisses ]

returning to colombia hadn’t exactly been in your plans, but here you found yourself walking up the steps of the embassy. stepping back into your office had been surreal, and you were surprised to find both steve and javier inside, already seated behind their respective desks, “it’s good to see you again... thought you weren’t coming back.” steve commented, standing up from his desk to greet you with a hug.

“i almost didn’t, but my partner back home managed to convince me. said i needed to go out with one last hurrah. and besides, my boss told me i didn’t really have an option when it came to assignments.” you state, dropping your bag atop your desk before looking over towards javi, “you’re not gonna hug me, cowboy?”

the man in question offers you a bright smile, stamping out his cigarette before standing up from his chair and around his desk to hug you tight, “hope you’re alright with the new management. it’s the same a before.” he states with some sympathy, and your smile drops from your face as you realize exactly what he means.

you had been in a relationship with the commander of search bloc, horacio carrillo. the two of you leading a strong and supportive relationship until you were given news of your reassignment. it had obviously caused a rift between the two of you, with horacio begging you to reconsidering the position -- however, you weren’t given much of a choice in the matter as it was set to go into effect within the week, meaning there was no real way for you to back out of going home.

your break up was mutual, with the two of you breaking things off just easy before you were supposed to fly out. not wanting to keep the other waiting while you were in completely separate countries. so, it didn’t surprise you that he was still present in colombia, which meant you would have to interact with him at some point during your stay.

“i’ll be fine. we didn’t end things on a bad note. if anything, it will be just like it was before we got together.” you confirm, offering him a smile before patting him on the shoulder, “besides, i can be professional.”

this earns a soft laugh from your partners, before you settle in for your first day back to work. not surprised when another agent comes by to inform you of the raid taking place, and that the colonel’s orders were for three of you to join in.

you took a deep breath, standing from your desk as you join your two partners, sliding into the jeep beside them. nerves slowly beginning to eat you up from the inside. with it having been some time since you had been on one of these -- considering it had been almost of year since your last raid.

and almost as if sensing your nervousness, javi shot you a reassuring look, “it’ll be okay. you’ve done these for three years, it’ll come back to you.” you nod softly to thank him for the reassurance before the jeep pulls to a stop. you get out, looking around as search bloc members quickly get themselves set up to enter the building they are about to raid.

you check over your weapon, before securing it back into your holster, ready to go once the command is given. and upon looking up, you eyes lock with the very person you had been looking forward to seeing. horacio carrillo stood not even twenty feet away from you, looking over some last minute things before issuing out his orders.

gaze moving up from the plans layout for a brief second when he noticed you standing just a little bit away from him. his focus was last for a moment, surprised to see you standing in front of him for the first time in over a year, still looking just as you had when he was first introduced to you back in 89. 

you offered him a smile, gently holding up your hand to wave softly at him before your attention turned away to one of your partners, who gave you an update on where you would be stationed during the entry of the raid.

he found you afterwards, lingering beside you until you looked up and found him staring down at you with an awkward smile, “i didn’t expect to see you back here.” he commented as you nodded, smiling up at him.

“yeah, i got temporarily reassigned. it was nice being home for a little bit, but it also made me realize how much i missed being here.” you smile, eyes shining at the usually stone-cold man break into a smile before his hand came to up your cheek, “i missed you being here as well...”

you smile brightly, eyes casting over to where your partners stand, who eye you both with raised brows before smiles stretch across there faces. it sure didn’t take either of you long to fall right back into old habits. and after taking a step back from you, horacio softly inclines his head, “i’ll see you back at the office.”

you nod softly, joining back up with your partners, preparing yourself for the onslaught of teasing that is about to take place. and tease you they do, all the way until you get to the embassy offices. then, you duck away, making your towards the other end where the search bloc offices reside.

you were quickly greeted by some of the members who recognized you, before you slipped into horacio’s office with a smile, “i much say, i’m really happy to see that you are back in colombia.” he utters from behind his desk, ushering you further into the office.

“i’m happy to be back too. though, i guess this begs the question as to what does that mean considering out relationship? if that’s something you still want to consider.” you question, waiting patiently as horacio smiles, standing up from behind his desk before circling around to stand in front of you, “i would consider restarting our relationship, only if you promise that you won’t be going back to the us.”

you sigh softly, “that’s the thing. i’m on a temporary reassignment, meaning after this is done, i have to go back. but maybe, i can convince you to come with me?” you offer, hands coming up to rest just at the top of his belt, pulling him closer to you as he smiles down at you, “i will consider it.” he states, before leaning down to press a kiss to your lips.

blog navigation ⇢ [ narcos masterlist ]

#narcos #narcos x reader #narcos imagine #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #female!reader #twistnet #twistnet works 2022 #twistnet's 5k milestone

[obsessedasusual]

Going Home - Horacio Carrillo

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Reader

Summary: When Colonel Carrillo hears how everything went wrong out in the field and you’re paying the price, he pays a late night visit.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of death

Note: work has been so crazy lately I feel like I haven’t been on here in YEARS (it’s been a few days) but I’ve had this completed for a while and for some reason forgot to post? Here ‘tis!!! I love him so much, aaaaand back to my wips (maybe)

The Breakup Series Masterlist

It had all gone so wrong, so fast.

It was supposed to be a simple quest for intel. Just a quick chat with the restaurant staff, see if they knew anything, if they’d heard anything, leave a contact number, and go.

Except it hadn’t been that simple.

And now your bad call, your fucking bad call, resulted in an agent getting shot, and you being sent right back to the good ol’ US of A.

Was it entirely your fault? No. But being the ranking agent in that situation meant the buck stopped with you. So you alone had to face the consequences.

The knock came late that night. It was close to midnight when the soft rapping on the door pulled your attention away from the TV. It could only be one person at this hour. Once he was sure your colleagues, who also doubled as your neighbours, would either be in bed, or preoccupied for the evening.

Horacio’s face was unreadable when you opened the door. He gave you a once over and stepped inside your apartment, you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding and shut the door behind him. Securing the lock.

He stood in the middle of your open plan apartment, like he always did when he first arrived. No matter how many times he had been over, he still waited to be invited to take a seat.

“You can sit, Horacio.” You offered gently as you returned to your spot on the couch. He stayed standing.

“I hear you’re leaving.” Arms crossed over his chest, looking anywhere but you.

You nodded sadly, “Not voluntarily, but yeah. I’m leaving.”

His eyes darted around the small apartment, taking in the mess of half packed boxes dotted around the place. A lot of things you weren’t taking with you. You would leave them here and make them the next agent lucky enough to be assigned this crappy apartment’s problem. A couple of boxes of possessions, that’s all you had to show for your tenure in Colombia. That, and the memory of the man stood before you.

“When?”

“Hm?”

He repeated himself, “When do you leave?”

You followed his gaze around your apartment, “Day after tomorrow. They gave me a grace period to get my affairs in order. Very considerate of them.”

He sniffed out a short chuckle at that before his eyes met yours, pinning you to the spot you were sat, “Were you planning on telling me? Or just flying out without a word.”

A regretful sigh left your body as you looked sadly at the stoic man in front of you, studying his features like you had many times before, “Horacio, I didn’t know what to say. Guessing Peña told you?”

He nodded his confirmation, “I should’ve heard it from you.”

“The final decision was only made this morning. But you’re right. I’m um, I’m sorry.”

The US Government doesn’t work slow with agents that are being sent to the naughty corner. Once you’d found out your fate, you had looked around for the Colonel you’d become accustomed to spending the nights with, when you hadn’t found him, you’d left the office to start packing up your life. You’d figured that he’d come knocking that night, and you were right.

Finally, he stepped over to the couch and sat next to you, close enough that your legs touched. With no words spoken, Horacio gently took one of your hands in both of his and held it firmly, bringing it to his lips to place a soft kiss, and back to rest in his lap. He liked to play with your fingers, exploring each line and fingerprint with his thumb. It was relaxing for him, and for you. And exactly what you needed in this moment.

“Ya know, Horacio. I’m gonna miss you more than I care to admit.” You smiled sadly at your intertwined hands.

He let out a single chuckle, “We’ve had some fun, amor.”

‘Let’s have some fun’, those were the words you had said to him when this whole thing started. It had started as fun. But it quickly grew into more than that, becoming each other’s solace in a war that at times seemed impossible to win. Each other’s peace, when everyday you faced so much death and harm.

We’ve had some fun.

“We really have, Colonel.” You turned your head to meet his gaze and gave a small, sad smile, “We really have.”

Horacio broke the eye contact and continued to trace patterns on your hands. You took the opportunity to admire him, he was still dressed in his fatigues. The green t shirt tight as always and leaving nothing to the imagination. Dirt covered his boots, which he had now traipsed through your living room. He smelt like cigarettes and the woody scent of his cologne. Horacio Carrillo was the best secret you'd ever kept.

“If you ever find yourself in California. Look me up. I’d kill to see you on a surfboard.” It was a horrible attempt at a joke, but it helped to ease the tension.

There were words that you wanted to say to each other, but couldn’t, and wouldn’t. You both knew what they were. But admitting some things out loud would cause more harm than good. You were leaving the country. There was no need to complicate things further.

With a deep breath Horacio rose from his seat on the couch and dragged you up to stand in front of him. He gave a weak excuse for a smile, “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, mi amor.”

You tightened your grip on his hands as you prepared yourself for his departure, “Promise me you’ll get that asshole.”

He smirked at the malice in your voice, “You know I will.”

“I do.”

For a beat you just stood there. Taking each other in for what you both knew would be the last time.

Horacio swallowed, releasing his grip on your hands and sliding back into the professional Colonel you were all too familiar with. He held out his hand, “It’s been nice working with you, Agent.”

You nodded through teary eyes and accepted his handshake, “You too, Colonel.”

#i love one man #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo #narcos x reader #narcos imagines #narcos

[ashlingnarcos]

he keeps his rules. you keep him.

(gif by massivecolorspygiant)

Carrillo x gn!reader, 1.1k for @narcosfandomdiscord's july smut alphabet: upper hand

He has a key to your apartment, but he’s not used it in a while. Too exhausted, maybe. You flatter yourself that you’re an easy person to be with, all messy hair and eggs in the morning if he stays that long, domesticity a la carte, but he does make an effort when he shows up. Usually he brings something. It used to be flowers as a rule, but nowadays the gifts are more varied, as if in concession to your less romantic and more homey bent: a half dozen oranges, a used book, a bag of coffee.

Things are hard on him, you know. This week you heard Adán giving him away on one of the tapes, and though that hunt isn’t over (Adán is still walking around the place, laboring under the merciful delusion that Carrillo escaped the trap by way of a car breakdown) its predestined funeral is already weighing on him. 

You’ve cocooned yourself as best as you can, tried not to get emotionally involved with anyone at work—anyone else, that is—but there is trickle down. There’s been a little too much time gone past. There’s a cold bed, there’s a bag of coffee nearly running out, there’s—

You miss him. Put it plain. You miss him, you do.

Not being much of a talker, nor willing to make him an offer that’d be too painfully refused, you give yourself a bit of cover and the upper hand. You approach him when almost the entire office is long gone home.

It’s a sea of darkness illuminated by the occasional little island of lamplight coming from a desk: Urrutia, just leaving; Peña, leaning back in his chair; Carrillo, framed by the window to his office. 

You knock gently before you let yourself in and lock the door after you. You make eye contact with Peña through the open blinds, then close them. Carrillo is looking up at you from the desk, pen still in hand, keeping his questions to himself with rare patience. 

You need a haircut and a shave, you don’t say. The two of you talk of nothing but work here, and he never touches you, and that is the way of it. That’s his rules. That can continue. 

As you walk towards him, he stands up. Not wary, but collected, ready for anything. His lips part like he’s got something to say, and you can’t have that. Whatever it is, you don’t think you want to hear it. He’s before you now, and in the split second before the first syllable can slide out of his mouth, you slip your hand between his shirt and his trousers, grip the canvas hard, and tug towards you a little. 

The trick is not to try and read his eyes. They’re near black and bottomless. Then there’s the rest of his face, stubble, scattering of scabs at his temple, shadows that cling to his jaw like they love him: just let the raw beauty cut into you, just stand there and take it as the warmth of him bleeds through his shirt and into your knuckles. Hold that gaze. 

“I always obey orders,” you say. The door might be locked, but he’s got a way out. All it’d take is a word.

“I wouldn’t let you in here if you didn’t,” he says. 

He’s letting you. It sends an warm rush of relief through you, viscerally good and viscerally alarming at once; you’d given yourself the excuse of being at work to cover for him if he turned you away, and yet it turns out that excuse was too flimsy. If he’d said no, it would have mattered a great deal.

But he didn’t say no, so you press your other hand flat against his stomach and feel the slight tensing and then relaxing under your fingers as reward. You smile a little at that, and he doesn’t smile, but his face gentles, looking at you. The warmth of your palm a promise. I’ll take care of you. 

You look down and unbutton his trousers, reach inside his briefs, and kneel. 

The floor is hard and cold against your knees, he’s soft and salt in your mouth, and then there it is—the slight shake in his long slow exhale. You grip his thigh through the canvas, fingertips digging in a little, and take your time with your work. 

You’ve never talked about it, but you know you’re the only one who gets to do this, and that’s the pull of it. That, and the power, the way his breathing goes heavier. Lungs don’t lie. When you look up, it’s hard to tell in this light, but you could swear his eyes are closed. You take him down as deep as you can, welcome the burn in your throat. You’ll choke if it means you can make him stutter. Fair trade.

When he comes, he has to put one hand on his desk to steady himself. He’s breathing like he’s run a race, still trying to stay quiet even though he can’t. With no towel to hand and an endless will to watch him shiver, you lick him clean. His hand on his desk is a fist, and you can see the tendons tensed in his inner wrist too.

Once he’s clean, you sit back on your heels and wait for him to open his eyes. He does so slowly, looks down at you through a haze, heavy-lidded and as full of intent as though he hasn’t already come. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. 

When you stand, you stand close enough to feel his body heat, invading his personal space. He’s no longer panting, but he’s still breathing a little faster than usual. You tuck him back in, zip and button up his pants, and stay where you are. If you won’t touch him, he still won’t touch you; it’s delicious and excruciating at once. He smells like sweat and cigarettes, fucking rank. You eye the hollow of his throat just above the neckline of his shirt, golden like all of him is golden in this light. You consider just begging.  

After a second, he takes his hand off his desk. 

You lean in. there’s a spot just behind the corner of his jaw, and you press a lingering kiss there, deliberately; it’s the only place you’re touching him, until it isn’t. He turns his head towards you, and then you’re cheek to cheek, his stubble scraping your skin. You’ve had his cock in your mouth, and yet it’s that that makes you blush, somehow. When you pull back, you’re not sure if you want him to see it. 

You walk away. Your own footsteps seem unnaturally loud. As you unlock the door, you say, “Come see me when it’s over.”

“As you command,” he says, and that makes you smile a crooked little smile, despite it all: that’s your line. 

The door unlocks. I love you. No, you don’t say it, and you don’t say goodbye either. You walk. You’re already gone.

#horacio carrillo x reader #narcos imagine #narcos #readerfic #narcos fanfiction #mine #nffalphabet

[narcolini]

on better judgement

horacio carrillo x gn!reader, 3940 words, 18+

ex-lovers, angst/comfort, mild smut and power dynamics

a/n: this was my piece for the gorgeous narcos fic exchange on ao3 which i can share now that authors have been revealed!! snogs to all involved <3

narcos taglist: @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa @ashlingiswriting​ @purplesong1028​ @empireroyals​ @iridescent-sol 

He promised he wouldn’t come by again. And it was your fault, really, because you’d had him like no one else had him: in the dark, in the quiet, talking to the ceiling and the side of your face, like a confessional. Like there was oakwood between you and nothing to say in return of his words. He never wanted forgiveness. You couldn’t give it. But you’d put your ear to that part of him and that was something that was bound to time itself out eventually. A candle down to the wick, he’d run out of space to burn.

‘I can feel myself losing you,’ he said.

And you’d kept quiet, and unwound your hand from his until it lay flat on your stomach. You held his wrist instead.

‘But it’s not worse,’ he admitted. ‘Rather this, than.’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘I won’t save lives,’ you said.

You knew, you’d tried with his, but the work was dug deep in him. If you took him apart you’d find it in the bones and that would be a greater loss, you agree, a man without the structure to hold him up. His decision to end the relationship you had snowballed into, was just a reflection of his training after all. A call made, sweating, from the frontline.

‘This will be the last time,’ he said, with his eyes closed, ‘I won’t come by again.’

You smoothed a thumb over the hair on his forearm. ‘Okay.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Okay.’

He had kept to it at first. The kiss he put to your shoulder, before he dressed and left your bedroom, was the last he’d given you. You rang him once, a few days afterwards—just out of curiosity—and it went through to the machine. That was the last of it. You had believed him when he said so, but discipline needed to be tested. Yours and his.

It was a merciful end, really, a clean snap of bolt-cutters through wire. You’d expect nothing else from him.

                                                            *

‘I need you to do something for me.’

You’re at your desk. Horacio’s stood in front of you, leaning against it with his thumb and forefinger to prop him up, or over you, rather. A broad-shouldered shadow covering your work. You can feel his breath on your face, smell the coffee stagnating it. He hasn’t slept recently. You don’t need to see the set of his eyes to know that.

The sudden presence of him has put a bounce into your knees, work-shoes creasing at the toes. It’s been two months since you—

You sit back, to take stock of what’s left of him, and to straighten your legs into being still. Army greens against the beige of your office. Dusting blinds behind his head, dusting people in the room beyond that. It’s contradiction on a comical level. This is a man who was never supposed to intrude on an office like this, it’s like setting a bear trap in the suburbs. Fruitless.

He’s slimmer, you notice, in the arms. Clean shaven still, but his hair’s grown. Just a couple inches. It’ll bother the tops of his ears soon and then he’ll crop it short again, back into the style he’s used to.

‘Need what, Carrillo?’ You sound sharper than you’d intended to be, but he doesn’t comment on it. He also doesn’t react to the return of formality between you. He’d have used your last name too.

‘This address.’ A square of paper is taken from his chest pocket and put in front of you. ‘I need the building permits, blueprints,’ he pauses, his jaw flexes, ‘irrigation plans if you have them. Anything.’

Everything, he means. He’ll have everything, again.

You sigh. ‘I won’t have the authority for that,’ you tell him. You’re the communicative doorway between town planners and clients, architects and the CEO’s that expect them to work miracles, but you aren’t in charge of anything, by anyones definition. Archived documents aren’t yours to give out, no matter the cause. ‘I can’t.’ You shrug. ‘You’ll have to ask someone else.’

For a moment, he holds your gaze like he’s waiting for you to correct yourself, his brows pulled together just enough to make it feel condescending. It’s an expression his Search Bloc must be well acquainted with. No can’t, no won’t.

‘You will,’ he says, once he accepts that you have nothing more to add. ‘You can. I’m here.’

He’s decided he’s God again. His way and his wrath.

‘Well, we can try,’ you tell him limply, as you scoot your chair back to get at your drawers.‘You act like I’m Medellín’s keeper, you know.’

At that, he stands straight and unsupported, disturbing the stack of files he’d had his hand on. ‘Quicker than using the system,’ he says, unashamedly.

Translation, your time costs less than his, and submitting requests on paper is more tedious than seeing you. Barely. You take the ring of keys from your desk and shut the drawer.

Turns out, he didn’t need to flash his badge, or use whatever power he had intended to exploit, because no-one looked up from their work as you took to the archives. No-one questioned as you let yourself in, soldier in tow, flicked the switch, set a chair, and started pulling boxes from the shelves. You’re almost disappointed by it. It would’ve been nice to have an undeniable reason to turn him away, but instead, you’re left searching through bible-thin fax papers and ageing maps, long past their relevance, like your boss told you to herself. Not Carrillo, not a stray ex-partner.

He isn’t going to help apparently. He’s stood by the door with his arms crossed, watching.

‘Are you paying me for this labour?’ you ask, purposely bitter, and it’s enough to pull him to you, to the growing clutter in the centre. You work in silence from then.

His watch catches on your sleeve twice, his elbows knock yours as you both flick through the documents. He’s taken to wearing a new aftershave, or he is doing this afternoon, at least. It tracks up your nose until it’s sitting on the back of your tongue. Sharp, earthy. Something entirely foreign and frustratingly enticing. You try to ignore it, but every swallow of air drags it further down your throat.

Eventually, you find the building perms and proposed blueprints for the property on the address he'd given, and he frowns down at them for two, three minutes, while you wait. You don’t ask what it’s for, because it’s always for Escobar. You don’t know that you’ve been of any real help, until he looks up again, nodding—no smiles from him today—and asks, ‘Can you make a copy?’

You shouldn’t, but you do.

‘Thank-you.’

‘It’s nothing.’

He returns you to the door of your office, patron to pew, then leaves again. The folded copies stick out of his trouser pocket like a rudder, he still has no problem with being conspicuous.

When your coworker asks if he’s a friend of yours you say no, just someone higher up cashing in a favour. Rather this, after all. Rather strangers, colleagues, than people who tell each other things in the dark.

                                                            *

Two months is shortened to two weeks the next time you hear from him. There’d been stone silence since you’d helped him at work, and now, suddenly, he’s calling your house phone, grumbling into the handset from his own office, you assume.

It’s four in the afternoon, a Saturday. You can hear the dull thud of his glass against the desk, the clink of ice swimming inside of it. You aren’t surprised that they keep the freezer stocked over there. Or that his desk doubles as a liquor cabinet. You are surprised, however, that he’s calling you in the middle of the afternoon, especially after the night he’s had, the failed assault on Escobar’s hideout. He should be at home now, sleeping. He should be planning what comes next. Instead, he’s lamenting it to you, unravelling without prompt.

‘It was good intel,’ he says, reassuring to him, you imagine. It makes no difference to you; you harbour no guilt over your part in it. ‘But they still saw us coming.’

You put the television on mute, leaving the remote on your thigh afterwards. ‘You were closer this time,’ you offer, ‘I mean, the beds were still warm, right? That’s what you said.’

‘Right.’ He takes another sip, hissing it between his teeth. ‘I don’t know where we’re going wrong.’

‘Maybe in facing off with the impossible,’ you suggest, ‘it’s hardly a fair fight.’

‘Okay,’ he corrects, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.’

‘You aren’t doing anything wrong,’ you answer. It comes out easily, because it’s obvious.

He sighs. ‘Not doing anything right, either.’

That actually makes you laugh. In another circumstance, you might feel sorry for him. If he’d said it in a different way, maybe, if he’d pressed it into the palm of your hand. If it wasn’t daytime and the TV wasn’t miming its telenovela back at you. Right now, it sounds ridiculous. Beneath him.

‘You blow a lead and…what? Suddenly you don’t believe in yourself?’ You still sound like you’re laughing at him as you speak. ‘Come on, Horacio. You’ve recovered from worse.’

There’s a pause that feels awkward and purposefully censored. You imagine him gulping on the other end, forcing his words to submit. ‘Yes, I have,’ he says eventually, followed quickly by, ‘Lo siento. I don’t know why I called.’

You stop yourself from scoffing this time, it’s beginning to feel cruel.

‘Because you need a friend,’ you tell him, crossing your ankles over the opposite way. The coffee table your feet are on is almost too far for it to be comfortable, so you slouch further into the couch, until you’re near enough horizontal. You’ll be here a while anyway. ‘I know you think you’re immune to it,’ you continue, ‘but everyone needs them.’  

Another pause. He’s doing it on purpose. ‘I didn’t think we were friends.’

‘What? Why?’ You shake your head. The TV abuela is shaking hers too, but you’re too confused by his confession to really appreciate the coincidence. ‘We never said that.’

‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘I just thought.’

‘But I never said that.’

‘I know,’ he snaps, sharp and razored. ‘Forgive me for making some,’ pause, ‘assumptions,’ pause, ‘based on your actions.’

‘My actions?’ You scoff. You know it’s not intentional, him angling his frustration in your direction, but you’re reacting to it nonetheless. You’re allowed to defend yourself, even if he’s had a shitty night and a shitty day to follow. ‘You’re the one who disappeared, Horacio. No calls, or anything, until you needed something from me. Which,’ you lift your finger to no-one, ‘by the way, is fine. I don’t care. But don’t put it all on me.’

He sounds defensive when he replies, added accusation in his voice. ‘You could have called if you wanted to.’

‘I did,’ you stress. ‘You didn’t answer.’

He tuts and says your name once. ‘Come on.’

The line goes quiet and you let it, picking the lint from your shirt. There’s a hole below your navel, worn thin from use. It could be stitched over, but you’ve never been one for mending, you just wear it until it’s socially unacceptable to do so.

‘So, what,’ he says, ‘now we don’t talk?’

‘Now there’s nothing to say,’ you reply. ‘You tried, it didn’t work, so you have to get your shit together and try again.’ You swallow. ‘Or give up. I don’t know.’

You hear him sigh. If you closed your eyes, you might convince yourself that you can feel it too, against your ear and down your cheek.

‘We weren’t talking about that,’ he says.

‘Well, maybe it works for both things, Horacio. Try or give up. You choose.’

                                                            *

Two days since the phone call and there’s a knock against your door—one that would prick anxiety into the walls of your stomach if you didn’t know it so well. It’s late, past ten, and you’re expecting nobody, but that, that, there he goes again, is as subtle as a foghorn. Not because he knocks especially loud, but because he does it the same way every time. Like he practises it routinely. It could only ever be him, at any hour, with that.

‘Coming,’ you answer, loud enough to carry through the wood. If he goes again, he might wake Sra. García, and you’ve had enough complaints from her to fill your yearly quota. You share one wall, but to her it’s no thicker than a drawn shower-curtain.

When you get there, door open and pinned so with your hip, Horacio is leaning against the railings of the balcony, his back to you.

You’ve never wished more for a private garden. A driveway. Anything. The second-story walkway that wraps around your building, stretching from the stairs to your door and beyond, is hardly a private enough space for whatever this is.

His head drops between his shoulders; you set your eyes on the valley of them.

‘You’re meant to run away,’ you say, ‘you know, after you knock. That’s the joke.’

He pushes out a breath that you see more than hear, back rising and falling with it, before straightening and turning to face you. And, God, he looks bad. Worse than you’ve ever seen him.

‘Fuck, Horacio.’ You can’t stop it falling from your mouth. ‘This is really getting to you that much?’

Limply, he shows you his palms, keeping them by his sides still. It’s a vague gesture. An implied shrug. ‘I haven’t slept,’ he says.

It’s hard to believe he’s even tried.

‘I can tell.’ You don’t want to leave it long enough to feel condescending, so you chase it with, ‘I’ll make you a drink,’ and a weak smile. You’d offer him coffee, but he’s probably more caffeine than blood right now. ‘Come in.’

Whatever was causing him to linger by the railings is overridden by the learned instinct to follow orders, and he trails into the apartment after you without complaint. Well, you assume he had intended for that to happen anyway, at some point. But you also assume he’d just as equally hoped you’d turn him away. He doesn’t look like a man settled in his decisions.  

‘How many times did you drive by?’ you ask, locking the door behind him.

‘What?’

He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen already. The ceiling light sits in a ring behind his head.

‘Until you pulled into the lot,’ you explain. ‘How many times?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looks annoyed for a moment, expression readable even with the shadowy backlighting, then he takes a breath that chases it away. Leaves him slack. ‘Twice,’ he admits.

‘I’m flattered.’ You squeeze past him, shoulders brushing, to get into the kitchen. ‘Have you considered sleeping pills?’ you ask, reaching for the cupboard that will act as your artillery: whiskey, rum, tequila. The cognac he’d gotten you for your last birthday. You throw a glance to him before targeting the glasses by the sink. ‘Or were you hoping I’d bore you to sleep with urban planning regulations?’

‘I’m not here for jokes,’ he says, quiet enough to make you pause.

‘Sorry.’ You clear your throat once. ‘Habit.’ You put two glasses out, glad to have your back to him. You couldn’t have apologised to his face. ‘What’s your poison?’

‘Anything.’

You go for the cognac. Maybe he’ll recognise it. ‘Here.’

He’s a step further into the kitchen, still uncommitted, but he takes the drink readily. You watch him lift it to his lips, watch him swallow, sigh, watch his gaze go from you, to the fridge, to the floor. To the glass as he drinks again.

This is a stranger, you think, another person standing in his skin, working the bones. You don’t know how to deal with this Carrillo. He’s faced failure before, and more loss than any normal human could withstand, but he’s never come to you for help about it. Not even when you were together. He dealt with it alone, kept it close, kept it moving.

You take a sip.

‘Something else will come up,’ you tell him, unconvincing even to you. It feels like a condolence. Something you’d print in a card and throw away again, once the wound had settled. ‘You won’t be any use to anyone like this.’

He nods.

You continue, working it through as you go. ‘You’re good at your job, Horacio. I think, you just, you run yourself into the ground without realising, and now it’s caught up to you.’

Again, he nods. The silence itches at your skin.

He may as well not be here, you may as well be talking into the buzz of the phone-line again.

‘Say something,’ you plead; or command. Who knows which angle you’re aiming for. ‘For your own sake.’

‘I was wrong to push you away,’ he answers, like he was waiting for the invite to say it. He’s looking at the fridge again, at the humbling portrait your niece drew of you, and insisted on presenting to every visitor that graces your kitchen. It stares back at him, black crayon and accusation. ‘It didn’t help,’ he says. ‘I think it made it worse.’

The cognac stings as you force a mouthful down. You let it settle, fire into your chest, before you reply. It made him worse, he means. It lead to this.

‘I think,’ you start, slowly, ‘that you only want that to be true. But, it doesn’t work like that, not with you. Everything has it’s place.’

He compartmentalises, in all things. When you were together, you had no effect on his work, when you’re apart, it’s just the same.

‘Maybe.’ He laughs, dry enough to make you wince. ‘Does that make me a coward?’ he asks, looking at you finally. ‘Wanting it to be your fault?’

‘Yes.’ You hold his gaze; his eyes are dark, and rich, and begging for a salvation he’ll never admit to. ‘It makes you human too,’ you add. ‘I mean, no-one wants to believe in truly, truly, chronic bad luck.’

His jaw twitches, air puffing from his nostrils.

‘Sorry.’ You’ve done it again. ‘But you know what I mean.’

Sighing, he nods—generous of him to give you that—then drags a palm down his face. You imagine it, rough, warm. You replace his face for your hip and it doesn’t feel like a memory, though it should, it is. You used to be familiar with the feeling of it.

‘I’ll go,’ he says, but he doesn’t move. He’s carried himself all the way to your door step, to your kitchen, under the halogen light, and he’s still pretending he doesn’t need something from you. Always lying to himself more than anyone.

You hand him an excuse to stay, free of charge. ‘At least finish your drink.’

But it’s gone in one, tipped back and into his throat. The glass is set on the side, abandoned, before you can react. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he says. He’s found resolve somewhere in the cognac.

‘Wait.’ You catch his arm before he can leave, your own drink sloshing up the sides with the urgency. ‘You can stay,’ you tell him, voice raising as he attempts to interrupt, ‘and it won’t break your promise. It won’t change anything.’

His head shakes, brows pinching together. ‘It wasn’t a promise.’

‘You don’t lie without reason.’

‘I said we wouldn’t—’

‘So we won’t,’ you bite. ‘I can tell why you’re here, Horacio, and it sure as fuck isn’t a relationship.’

You watch his shoulders tense. His gaze sits in line with yours, daring. What is it then? What? You can see it chewing at his insides, teeth to the membrane. Say it so I don’t have to.

It’s obvious, to you, what he needs. What he came for. He wants to be right about something again, he wants to commit to an act and reap the rewards of it. He wants you, specifically, he wants flesh without the cost, carnal and thoughtless. Then, he wants to sleep. He needs to sleep.

You finish your drink, and put your hand out.

                                                             *

It’s like the first time. New, unfamiliar. Hands that have forgotten each other, curves that bump, and slide off, legs that twist, unsettled between one another. It’s pure luck that you made it to the bedroom, clumsy and awkward as it was. Like he’d never been here before, like he’d forgotten the shape of your hallway and the number of rooms. Compartmentalised, you remember, he’d put you and all things to do with you into a box, tucked away and ignored. You were just unpacking it.

By sheer force of will, you’re lying topless now, with him over you, bare chest to bare chest. Panting like you’re scared of what’s next. Your teeth knock as you kiss him, once, and then again. You attempt to laugh about it, but he moves down and away from your mouth before you can find his eyes. Embarrassed, maybe, eager, you hope.

No, you don’t care. Let it be either.

It’ll do him good to be bad at something without consequence.

You stretch your chin up, inhaling, and let him harvest from the rest of you, lips to your neck, your collar, you exhale. His stubble feels wrong against your breastbone, foreign, scratching. Fine grade like glass paper. It pulls you awake from the dream you hadn’t realised yet.

Testing his reaction, you put a palm on his head and push him further away from the heart, the chest. He goes slowly, fingertips digging and grounding, like anchors dragged from the harbour—nails to your flesh—before settling his hold onto your hips.

‘Horacio,’ you start, with your eyes closed and your head back in the pillow. His nose brushes below your navel as he waits. ‘Lo quieres?’ you ask.

Lips to your inner thigh. Teeth.

‘Tell me,’ you breathe.

‘Sí,’ he says. ‘I want you.’

You lift your hips from the mattress and he takes the cue for what it is, pulling your underwear down and off, onto the floor with the discarded shirts. You rake your fingers across the tops of his shoulders as he comes back to you, over you. Mouth pressed to the ache of you.

You grip his hair. His tongue is the first thing about this that you recognise.

‘I want you,’ he says again, unprompted and panted into your skin. His voice is rough, low, kept close to himself like a confession.

Now, you’re getting somewhere. Now, he’s folding into it without putting up a fight.

You move your hold from his hair to his face, along his jaw, until he allows you the space to find his lips and drag your fingertips over the soft of them. When they part, you go into the mouth, two fingers to his tongue. He sucks.

You’ve never had him like this. Pliable, reactive. You pull your fingers free and watch him fall forward again, back into his work, his motions careful and performative. There’s a need for praise in his actions, in the reach of his palms across your chest. A type of supplication you can’t ignore.

So you give it freely. Out loud, sweetened and paired with his name, cushioned in sighs, you tell him what he needs to hear, then you tell him again.

It’s like the first time, and it’s like a death. It won’t happen to either of you twice.

#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #narcos fanfiction #horacio carrillo x you #narcos imagine

[tropes-and-tales]

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.

#horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #colonel horacio carrillo x reader #narcos #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

[ecoamerica]

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[bullet-prooflove]

14. You’re way too young to be broken

I’m in my Horacio Carrillo feels for this one.

You're young, far too young to have had your life blown apart by the cartels but it's happened. He wishes it hadn't, he wishes that your brother hadn't died, that you hadn't come to Columbia, that you didn't know the stench of death and the taste of cocaine but you do and he can't change it.

Ironically the things that he wishes for are the things that have brought you into his life and into his bed. He can't imagine a world where the two of you hadn't met, he would never admit it but he believes that fate brought the two of you together. Two broken souls finding each other at just the right time.

His ex wife read novels based on this kind of thing.

He lies on his side in your bed, thr sheets draped over his hips and he allows his fingertips to trail over the scars that are etched into your skin.

Shrapnel from a car bomb right here in his city. He remembers the night he heard the call go up, the way it felt like his heart stopped beating in his chest when he heard your address. You had been lucky, talking to one of your neighbours when another car had bumped yours. You'd escaped the blast but not the fallout.

"You're being morose again." You murmur as you roll onto your back, your hair falling across the pillow as you stare up at them with those knowing eyes of yours.

"Maybe." He concedes as his thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek. He leans in close, his lips brushing over yours as the first blush of the morning creeps from your blinds. "But I have you in bed and there are much more important things I'd like to focus on."

#horacio carillo x you #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo #horacio carillo #maurice compte #hoarcio carrillo #horacio carrillo x you

[goodnitedrdead]

miscalculated steps

Colonel Carrillo x Reader

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

Word Count: 2.5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that was until you met Horacio. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[spooky-pomegranate]

Pablo's Ghost (Part 4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Carrillo.”

At the sound of your voice, he moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please…” you whimpered.

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

“Si, mi amor?” He asked innocently.

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

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

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

“Do you mean-” he started.

“Yes.” You didn’t let him finish.

Carrillo buried his head into the crook of your neck.

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

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

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

“Mhmmm,” he groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Horacio I’m going to…”

“Come for me, mi amor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Te amo. I love you.”

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

[mlmxreader]

Corazón | Horacio Carrillo x m!reader

Anonymous asked: Carrillo x male!reader

Carrillo finds out the reader is queer and has a massive crush on him when he’s crashing on the reader‘s couch one night and overhears him talking to a friend on the phone. Now, Carrillo knows he’s queer but has been terrified of confronting those feelings, for obvious reasons, but he’s just human and the most handsome man he’s ever laid eyes on just admitted to finding him hot. So…

I think the prompt "He's so hot and he's sleeping on my sofa and I don't know what to do" fits well for the phone thing.

summary: Carrillo isn't queer, he knows he's not queer... but goddamn, he can't get over the sacred mornings and the holy nights.

tws: swearing, smoking, pining, queer denial

For a while, Carrillo had been crashing with you and staying at your place, mostly due to the fact that his own home was being fixed up - something to do with insulation, he didn’t really care - and he needed somewhere to stay, partially because he had a soft spot for you; he could have stayed with Javier, who lived a lot closer. He could have stayed with one of his men, who he wouldn’t have cared if they had to pay an arm and a leg to get them both to work in the morning. He wanted to stay with you, and this was just the perfect opportunity. The perfect chance and he wasn’t sure if he would or could get another in his life. Every day, waking up to see you pottering around the kitchen, was a goddamn treat; the fact that he got to see you at your most handsome, groggy and just woken up, drinking a black coffee and smoking a cigarette as you got your things together for work. All morning breath and still half-asleep. Carrillo lived for that moment; even if he was always sound asleep when you got home from work, he loved seeing you in the mornings. There was something so sacred, so blessed, about mornings.

Still, if anyone had asked, Carrillo would have told them that his interest in you was purely platonic; you were just friends, only friends. He convinced himself of that at all costs. Just friends, only friends. He wasn’t queer, there was no way he could be queer; sure, he had queer friends and he loved them, but he wasn’t queer himself. No. Not Carrillo. No… but then, those mornings when he saw you shirtless, when he saw you with sweat on your back, your voice so thick with sleep that it was too hard to ignore. Those mornings when he saw you and he couldn’t help but to feel his heart thunder as his hands shook slightly and he licked his lips; those mornings when he saw you and he had that fleeting thought of what if run through his mind. Those mornings. Those beautiful, sacred mornings. Sometimes, those what ifs made him groan under his breath as he thought, if only for a moment, what it would be like to know you as something other than a friend. Something different. Something… warm and soft and loving. Kisses. Hand holding. Hugs from behind.

God, those beautiful and sacred mornings meant so much.

Even the nights, if he was awake, were so blessed and so holy that he couldn't ignore them. The nights when you were too tired to make it to the bedroom and ended up falling asleep on him. The nights when you were so hungry that you woke him up by getting something to eat, only to flash him the smile that made his knees go weak and offer him a bite or two. The nights when he was so tired he couldn't bring himself to speak, but would still come up behind you while you were cooking and he would hold you close and press his face against the side of your neck.

Those holy nights.

But there was still no way that he was queer; he had never been attracted to men before. He had never thought of other men the way that he did you, and surely that meant that he couldn't be queer. Carrillo knew that he couldn't be queer; he had never had any of the experiences that his friends did, and surely, if he was queer then he wouldn't suddenly be attracted to a man he had known for so long… right? Surely, if he was queer, then he wouldn't suddenly be looking at your stomach when you stretched and your shirt rode up a little. He would have been doing it for a long time if he was queer, right? And surely, if he was queer then he wouldn't suddenly be needing to push his hips up as his breath shuddered while he watched you wander around in the house in those fucking grey jogging bottoms without a shirt. Surely, if he was queer, he would have been doing that for as long as he had known you. He would have been feeling those things for you for all those years… right?

Still, as he laid on the sofa, a pillow behind his head as he kept one hand on his stomach, the other propped up behind him, he couldn't help but to smile; you had thought that he was asleep, judging by the way that you crept around.

"Yeah, I dunno, man," you sighed. "What if he hates me for being queer? I mean, you know that… certain people 'round here don't take kindly to queers."

"Nah," came the crackly reply, "you're gonna be alright. This is Carrillo! He's known you for years, and you know as well as I do that he's got queer friends and he loves 'em. He isn't one of the ones that you should worry about."

"I dunno," you frowned. "Do you think he knows I'm queer? Like, is it even worth telling him?"

Carrillo grumbled softly, not loud enough to disturb you, as he smiled and even dared to let out a quiet laugh; sure, he felt bad that you were panicking about how he would react to him being queer, and he didn't mean to make you feel so unsafe in his presence.

"C'mon," you sighed. "He's so hot and he's sleeping on my sofa and I don't know what to do - what do I do, Javi?"

"Tell him. Tell him you're queer and that you have feelings for him, for fuck's sake."

You turned around, facing away from him as you leaned on the counter and sighed, frowning a little. "Do you really think things would be alright? I mean, what if he… what if he doesn't feel the same? Do you think we can still be friends?"

"Yeah, of course," Javier replied, "these things happen."

Carefully, with all that military training put to good use, Carrillo dared to creep over to you, sneaking up behind you and slowly putting his arms around you, pulling you back against him as he buried his face against the side of your neck, only daring to growl out a handful of words, "tell Javier to fuck off."

"Javi, I gotta go," you breathed out. "There's, uh, there's a really, really hot Colonel who wants my attention."

Javier told you he loved you, and wished you the best of luck before he hung up; all your attention on Carrillo, you whimpered softly when he bit at the soft flesh of your neck. You leaned into him, into his touch as you put your hands on his and sighed heavily.

"Horacio…"

"Si, mi tigre?"

That nickname. The one he always used for you, the one that he always insisted that only you could be called and that only he could call you; you could even remember when he had nearly torn Javier's head off of his shoulders for uttering it. It made you smile as you hummed softly.

"What are you doing?"

"I… I'm not sure," Carrillo admitted quietly. "I just… I think you're really fucking handsome, (y/n), and I… I wanna be with you, romantically."

"Fuck," your voice went slightly horase as you turned around, letting him pin you between his body and the counter. "Horacio, please don't tease me…"

"I heard what you said to Peña," he hissed. "Do you really feel that way about me?"

Slowly, you nodded, putting your hands on his chest as you let out the softest of sighs. "Of course I do…"

Carrillo smiled, daring to press a kiss to your forehead as he kept you so close. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his own. "Do you… do you want to be, uh, I'm not sure how you wanna say it, I mean-"

"Boyfriends?" You asked, and when he nodded, you grinned. "Si, si mi amor."

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; spam likers WILL be blocked. as will blogs that refuse to reblog or to give feedback. if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG

#mlem writes #colonel carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo #Horacio Carrillo imagine #Carrillo #narcos fanfiction #narcos x reader #narcos oneshot #narcos imagine #narcos

[twistnet]

hungry eyes [ horacio carrillo ]

⋯ SUMMARY ; you had your eyes fixaited on the commander most of the morning, not realizing that you had definitely been showing him exactly when you wanted him to do

⋯ WARNINGS ; female!reader, slight smut [ illusion to smut; nothing explicitly stated, dirty talk + bedroom eyes ] + mature language

⋯ NOTE ; this content is strictly for those 18+ ; any minors // ageless // blank blogs interacting with this post // masterlist will be blocked

horacio carrillo. the commander of search bloc and one of the organizations currently in the process of helping the american dea with tracking down and removing drug lord pablo escobar from his foothold of power in colombia.

you had been assigned in colombia almost as long as your partner, javier peña, had been. the both of you bonding over your shared interests and the fact both of you had come in during a particularly rough time.

as your time in colombia extended, you quickly made friends, or acquaintances, with most of the people you worked with on a daily basis -- mainly those that worked in search bloc along side carrillo. javi had described him as a man void of emotion, other than anger, and was someone he even had a hard time getting along with from time to time. but, you found it relatively ease to speak to the commander, surprising and amazing most of those you worked with.

it also helped that you found the man to be quite attractive, definitely different from any of the previous partners or crushes you had during your time in america. and in doing so, you had formed a connection with him -- while not quite sure on what to call said relationship, you understood that he deeply cared for you.

and after a late night of love, you had found yourself staring off after him while on assignment -- not exactly the smartest thing to do, but you couldn’t help but admire him from afar. knowing exactly what laid just underneath the green fatigues he wore, and the certain softness he had for you.

horacio had noticed your stares, opting to ignore them as he worked after realizing that you didn’t even know you were doing it. and while it had only unnerved him for a short time, he found it to be quite endearing, though he would never say that out loud.

however, your stares had managed to strike a cord within him after some time. the burning feeling of your eyes drilling into the back of his skull was getting harder and harder to ignore, and when he had gone to put an end to your staring -- thinking he had done something to upset you, he had found he reaction to be quite the opposite.

as he looked you over for the first time that day, actually attempting to get an understanding for your stares, he realized that it was backed by a whole different emotion: lust.

evident by your teeth tugging at your bottom lip, the way your chest expanded each time he happened to glance your way, and the slightest hint of darkness creeping around the edge of your eyes.

so, when everyone had returned to the embassy -- carrillo heading off towards his office with you and javi making your way towards the ambassador's office, he devised a little plan to get you in his presence to talk about your ‘staring problem’.

the second you entered his office, closing the door tightly behind him, he spoke, “stop giving me blowjob eyes, hermosa.” the single sentence uttered without even a glance your direction as you sputtered, cheeks rushing with heat as you trying to rack your brain for the right thing to say, “i... i wasn’t giving you blowjob eyes...”

horacio chuckled softly at your attempt to cover, however, the slight wavering in your voice had given you away. not that he wasn’t already aware of the way you had been looking at him all day, “really, then why the looks all day, hmmm? what were you thinking about when you were looking at me? cause i can tell you want i think, but i want to hear it from you...” he practically purrs, enjoying the way you shift from one foot to the other, and take a deep breath to calm your nerves.

“i... i was thinking about last night. a lot about last night.” you confession, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment as your gaze drops to the floor. suddenly finding your boots more interesting than the man in front of you.

“hermosa, look at me.” immediately, your eyes snap up, locking with his as he stands from behind his desk, slowly circling around the edge until he’s standing just in front of you, eyes wide with lust, “still reminiscing about last night?”

“yes.” you answer quickly and simply, knowing he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. heart beating rapidly as he shot you a small smile, easing your worry before he scooped you up into a searing kiss, hand grabbing a hand-full of your ass and eliciting a strangled moaned from your lips.

“wait for me to finish up this paperwork tonight, then i’m taking you home.” he utter against your lips, waiting until you nod in agreement before releasing you back to work. smiling to himself as you attempt to hide your lightly swollen lips from the rest of those in the common office beyond his own.

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