#narcos Mexico inagine

[ashlingnarcos]

hi bb, 1. are you taking requests? (if yes) 2. can u give us benjamin content (DILF alert) something angsty with fluff ending PLSS

I am taking requests! 🥰 I cannot promise that I will write every request, but I'll write for those I can!

bride’s choice

You wanted to hate Benjamín so badly, but from the the very first day, it was impossible.

On the night that you learned of Mayo’s suggestion that you marry into the Arellano Félix family as the permanent solution to that perpetual blood feud, you knew he was right, and hated him for it, and made preparations anyway, even as your brother Hector shouted and swore and said it would never happen.

You drove to the party where your future husband was celebrating his cousin’s fifteenth birthday, and using a pair of your brother’s binoculars, you searched for him, pausing every now and then to compare a face to a newspaper cutout. For a villain, Benjamín was all wrong. He was slightly clumsy on the dance floor, wore a plain white shirt without even a gold chain, and laughed when a baby spit up some of her dinner on him.

Still, on the day of your wedding, right after you kissed him and under the cover of the whole church cheering, you said into his ear, “On my fifteenth birthday, Cochiloco stole me a car.” You could still picture him, grinning and gesturing at it, bursting with pride and only 19 years old himself. He had been family.

It was not until much later, when you were deep in enemy territory, the master bedroom of the Arellano Félix house, that you got your reply.

“I’m sorry,” said Benjamín. And when you said nothing, he added, “I want you to be happy here.”

You weren’t happy, of course. It wasn’t home. On a particularly bad night, you called Mayo’s home and left a threat in a voicemail that had you anxious for days afterwards, waiting to see what he might do: I’m going to tell my brother. You used me and you sold me. How long could you last without him? But then there was no reply, and that was worse than any reply could have been.

Nothing escaped Benjamín’s attention, but he never reproached you, only supported you. You kept trying to find the catch, and couldn’t. One dinner, you told him about how your father had taught you to farm, and you kept expecting for a polite, bored look to eventually glaze over his eyes, but it never did, not even when you went into the details of irrigation systems. The next day, the head housekeeper mentioned to you that if you wanted, you were very welcome to have a hand in, even completely oversee, the ten acre ranch the family had bought last year for summers. It was like that.

You waited for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. Even on days when homesickness made you snappish and restless, Benjamín never failed to treat you with an old-fashioned courtesy, gentle and thoughtful. It took you weeks to realize that, although you were already married, he was courting you. He left your favorite kind of chocolate bar on your pillow, arranged for your childhood best friend to come visit when she was in town, and put up pictures of your parents on the big wall of family photos.

And he never crossed an invisible line down the middle of the bed. Eventually, despite yourself, and despite everything that had happened, you wanted him to.

Five months after your wedding, it was your brother’s birthday party, and when you felt a man pressing up behind you, you felt a sudden leap of delight and anticipation, thinking it was Benjamín. Finally.

“Are you still angry with me?” said Mayo. “You know it was the only lasting way out.” His breath tickled your ear. You had imagined this moment so many times, and yet, now that it was happening, you found it left you cold.

“I’m married,” you said.

“That’s business. But what about pleasure?”

You turned to face him, lifting your chin. You used to find the easy, assured, amused look of his to be endlessly sexy, but in that moment, you just found it infuriating. “I’m married, Ismael.”

His gaze shifted subtly. “I’ve missed you too, if you need me to admit it.”

That struck you. You had always felt that he’d thrown you aside like a plaything he was tired of, but here he was, not even drunk yet, offering himself. You had to look away.

And there Benjamín was, watching you from across the dance floor, misery clear on every line of his face. Rage, too—but then you realized that he would not lash out in the way you expected, the way Chapo or Ramón or even your brother would have. I want you to be happy, he’d said. It seemed he would let you make your choice.

You crossed straight through the dance floor, not looking to the left or the right, until you’d reached your husband, and then you kissed him. After a moment of surprise, he sank his hands into your hair and kissed you back with a passion that made you forget where you were.

When at last you broke away, he tucked a tendril of your hair behind your ear and asked, “Can we go home?”

There was another question in his brown eyes, and you knew what he meant. You put your hand on his chest.

“Yes,” you said. “Let’s go home.”

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