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120_minutenTitel: The Other Side of the River
Team: Machine
Challenge: Romantik/Intimität – Paarungsrituale (Für's Team)
Fandom: Narcos
Charactere: Javier Peña, Horacio Carrillo
Warnungen: Baby‘s first smut oder so
Sprache: Englisch
Wörter: 1.600
Widmung: Für Aku als Belohnung
Kommentar: War das die Narcos-Fanfiction, die ich ursprünglich schreiben wollte? Nein, aber das ist die, die ihr kriegt.
There are enough beautiful women in Columbia to last him a lifetime. But today, he craves something different.
The Other Side of the River
He had decided not to do this.
There are enough beautiful women in Columbia to last him a lifetime, and it’s not like he hasn’t been successful in that area so far. If his usual charm doesn’t do the trick, his American accent works in his favor here. It’s easy to wine and dine them, to smile and flirt and then take them home.
But today, he craves something different.
He hasn’t even been here a month, but it feels like the last week alone has aged him five years. Every time he closes his eyes he can see the bodies, can taste the smell of blood in the air in the back of his throat.
Every time he thinks about what he could have done differently. Every time he comes up empty. He thought he knew what awaited him here when he took the job, but he was wrong. It’s like nothing he ever experienced.
He doesn’t want to smile, or talk, or flirt. He doesn’t want to think.
He just wants to offer himself up and let somebody else do the rest. For somebody to fuck these pictures out of his head.
Even if it’s dangerous to fish on the other side of the river here.
He’s known of the existence of this place pretty much since he first set foot into Medellín (and maybe that’s saying a lot about that resolution of his), but he’s never been there. Now that he’s winding his way through the narrow alleys, only sparsely illuminated by a few illuminated windows, a part of him is having second thoughts. There are only a few people on the streets, but he’s not sure if he’d prefer there to be more or less. Briefly he reaches for his side where the comforting weight of his gun is resting in its holster.
He almost walks past the entrance, but when he steps inside, the place is more crowded than he expected it to be. He shoulders his way past some people until he reaches the bar, where he drops onto a stool. Only then does he allow himself to look around.
There’s music playing in the background, something rhythmic he recognizes as typically Columbian. A couple of people are swaying in pairs to the beat in the middle of the room. Over by the tables, a group of young men in colorful shirts are having a loud discussion in Spanish over something political. In the shadows, two figures are kissing and running their hands over each other’s bodies.
The atmosphere is foreign, but also familiar, and he can feel the anxiety drain out of him in a sudden rush. He’s been in hundreds of these places. He knows how to do this.
When he turns back around, he catches sight of the man sitting a couple of stools over. He’s alone and nursing a bottle of beer. His face is clean-shaven, with high cheekbones and a long nose, classically handsome in profile. The short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing is clinging to his arms in a way that is doing things to Javier.
He turns his gaze away before he can be caught staring, and leans over the bar to order himself a beer as well. When he settles back into his chair, a voice startles him out of his thoughts. “Mexicano?”
He turns to meet the other man’s inquiring look, surprised that he’s already revealed himself with one sentence. “Americano”, he says.
“I see.” His expression is serious, but there’s something like amusement glinting in those dark eyes.
“But my parents are from Mexico”, he admits, and he’s definitely not imagining the satisfaction on the other man’s face.
A bottle of beer is set in front of him, and he lifts it up in a silent toast before putting it to his lips. He can feel the other’s eyes on him as he drinks, but when he looks over, there’s no indication that his mind isn’t playing tricks on him.
They drink in companionable silence. The man doesn’t ask for his name and Javier doesn’t offer it. But when the stranger sets down his empty bottle with a sound of finality and rises from his seat, he looks over to Javier and tilts his head slightly in a language that is universally understood all over the world.
Javier empties the second half of his beer in three big gulps, digs some pesetas out of his pocket to throw onto the counter, and follows him outside.
They are on top of each other as soon as they’ve ducked into the darkness of the alley next to the bar. The other man is a couple of inches smaller than Javier, but broader in stature, and he crowds him against the wall. Javier lets him, content to let his hands wander, and is delighted when they skim over firm muscles. He shoves one of his hands underneath the too-tight shirt and is momentarily distracted when his fingernails catch on a scar on the other’s back, but then strong fingers dig into his backside and his train of thought is derailed.
It's easy to let himself be man-handled into position, turned around until he’s facing the wall while the man is reaching down his front to undo his belt. His mind empties when he hears the action repeated behind him. The smell of an unfamiliar cologne fills his nose.
He’s prepared for the pain, welcomes it even, but then he hears a small click and the smell of an unfamiliar oil fills the air. It’s not a thorough preparation, but more than he expected, and he has to bite down on the ball of his thumb to keep himself quiet.
He’s pushing back onto the other’s fingers impatiently when he finally pulls his hand away and lines himself up. Javier digs his fingertips into the wall in front of him, the stone still warm underneath his hands from the midday sun, and welcomes the feeling with every fiber of his being.
His mind is blissfully empty, nothing inside except the words he doesn’t dare to yell, all those “Yes” and “So good” and “More”’s. The pleasure is exquisite, purer than he thought it would be. One of the stranger’s hands has settled on his shoulder with his thumb pushing into the muscles of his neck, holding him in place, while the other is digging into his hip. The grip is firm, but restrained, same as the movement pushing into him from behind.
Maybe he could come from this alone, he thinks, if enough time passes, even if that hasn’t happened in a long time. But he can tell exactly when the man loses his patience, because the hand on his neck disappears to close around his cock. Javier bucks his hips and tries to restrain his moans, and it only takes a couple more moments before he’s spilling over the other’s hand.
The stranger follows a few seconds later with the first sound he’s made since they stepped outside, and for a while Javier can’t hear anything except the rush of blood in his own ears and the other’s heavy breathing.
He’s leaning against the wall with trembling legs, trying to catch his breath. When he’s turned around by the shoulders, he moves to pull up his jeans half-heartedly. What he doesn’t expect is for the man to press him against the wall and kiss him, hard. They hadn’t kissed yet, and he didn’t think they would, but now that they are, opening his mouth comes naturally, as does pushing their tongues together and nipping at a lower lip.
When they finally separate, Javier can’t get enough air into his lungs to get rid of the fuzziness in his head, and maybe he doesn’t want to. He watches motionless as the other wipes his hand on a handkerchief and closes his belt again, adjusting his shirt and running a hand through his hair until he looks entirely presentable, while Javier still looks like a mess.
When he finally rouses himself out of the sudden tiredness that has swept over him, he doesn’t manage more than fixing up his jeans. Everything else will have to wait until he can step under a shower, or maybe fall directly into bed.
They don’t say goodbye. They simply step out of the alley with a good amount of distance between them and disappear into different directions. Javier watches him go and he can feel the urge to ask for the other’s name rising to his lips. He stamps down on it hard. This isn’t that kind of story.
He doesn’t shower when he gets back to his room. Instead he falls into bed and sleeps a heavy, dreamless sleep for the first time in almost a month.
Two weeks later he opens the door to the ambassador’s office in Bogotá and sees the man from the bar standing in front of the ambassador’s desk in full uniform. He comes to a sudden halt in the door with the papers almost slipping from his fingers.
“Agent Peña?”, the ambassador says, fully oblivious to his state of mind. “I would like to introduce you to Major Carrillo of the Columbian National Police. He is currently stationed in Medellín and…”
He doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Instead he searches for a hint of his own panic in the other man’s face, but his expression is entirely calm and collected.
He swallows heavily, puts the papers down onto the ambassador’s desk, and extends his hand. “Javier Peña. Pleasure to meet you.”
The other takes his hand and grips it firmly. “Horacio Carrillo. Encantado.” There’s a hint of a smile on his face.
Team: Machine
Challenge: Romantik/Intimität – Paarungsrituale (Für's Team)
Fandom: Narcos
Charactere: Javier Peña, Horacio Carrillo
Warnungen: Baby‘s first smut oder so
Sprache: Englisch
Wörter: 1.600
Widmung: Für Aku als Belohnung
Kommentar: War das die Narcos-Fanfiction, die ich ursprünglich schreiben wollte? Nein, aber das ist die, die ihr kriegt.
There are enough beautiful women in Columbia to last him a lifetime. But today, he craves something different.
The Other Side of the River
He had decided not to do this.
There are enough beautiful women in Columbia to last him a lifetime, and it’s not like he hasn’t been successful in that area so far. If his usual charm doesn’t do the trick, his American accent works in his favor here. It’s easy to wine and dine them, to smile and flirt and then take them home.
But today, he craves something different.
He hasn’t even been here a month, but it feels like the last week alone has aged him five years. Every time he closes his eyes he can see the bodies, can taste the smell of blood in the air in the back of his throat.
Every time he thinks about what he could have done differently. Every time he comes up empty. He thought he knew what awaited him here when he took the job, but he was wrong. It’s like nothing he ever experienced.
He doesn’t want to smile, or talk, or flirt. He doesn’t want to think.
He just wants to offer himself up and let somebody else do the rest. For somebody to fuck these pictures out of his head.
Even if it’s dangerous to fish on the other side of the river here.
He’s known of the existence of this place pretty much since he first set foot into Medellín (and maybe that’s saying a lot about that resolution of his), but he’s never been there. Now that he’s winding his way through the narrow alleys, only sparsely illuminated by a few illuminated windows, a part of him is having second thoughts. There are only a few people on the streets, but he’s not sure if he’d prefer there to be more or less. Briefly he reaches for his side where the comforting weight of his gun is resting in its holster.
He almost walks past the entrance, but when he steps inside, the place is more crowded than he expected it to be. He shoulders his way past some people until he reaches the bar, where he drops onto a stool. Only then does he allow himself to look around.
There’s music playing in the background, something rhythmic he recognizes as typically Columbian. A couple of people are swaying in pairs to the beat in the middle of the room. Over by the tables, a group of young men in colorful shirts are having a loud discussion in Spanish over something political. In the shadows, two figures are kissing and running their hands over each other’s bodies.
The atmosphere is foreign, but also familiar, and he can feel the anxiety drain out of him in a sudden rush. He’s been in hundreds of these places. He knows how to do this.
When he turns back around, he catches sight of the man sitting a couple of stools over. He’s alone and nursing a bottle of beer. His face is clean-shaven, with high cheekbones and a long nose, classically handsome in profile. The short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing is clinging to his arms in a way that is doing things to Javier.
He turns his gaze away before he can be caught staring, and leans over the bar to order himself a beer as well. When he settles back into his chair, a voice startles him out of his thoughts. “Mexicano?”
He turns to meet the other man’s inquiring look, surprised that he’s already revealed himself with one sentence. “Americano”, he says.
“I see.” His expression is serious, but there’s something like amusement glinting in those dark eyes.
“But my parents are from Mexico”, he admits, and he’s definitely not imagining the satisfaction on the other man’s face.
A bottle of beer is set in front of him, and he lifts it up in a silent toast before putting it to his lips. He can feel the other’s eyes on him as he drinks, but when he looks over, there’s no indication that his mind isn’t playing tricks on him.
They drink in companionable silence. The man doesn’t ask for his name and Javier doesn’t offer it. But when the stranger sets down his empty bottle with a sound of finality and rises from his seat, he looks over to Javier and tilts his head slightly in a language that is universally understood all over the world.
Javier empties the second half of his beer in three big gulps, digs some pesetas out of his pocket to throw onto the counter, and follows him outside.
They are on top of each other as soon as they’ve ducked into the darkness of the alley next to the bar. The other man is a couple of inches smaller than Javier, but broader in stature, and he crowds him against the wall. Javier lets him, content to let his hands wander, and is delighted when they skim over firm muscles. He shoves one of his hands underneath the too-tight shirt and is momentarily distracted when his fingernails catch on a scar on the other’s back, but then strong fingers dig into his backside and his train of thought is derailed.
It's easy to let himself be man-handled into position, turned around until he’s facing the wall while the man is reaching down his front to undo his belt. His mind empties when he hears the action repeated behind him. The smell of an unfamiliar cologne fills his nose.
He’s prepared for the pain, welcomes it even, but then he hears a small click and the smell of an unfamiliar oil fills the air. It’s not a thorough preparation, but more than he expected, and he has to bite down on the ball of his thumb to keep himself quiet.
He’s pushing back onto the other’s fingers impatiently when he finally pulls his hand away and lines himself up. Javier digs his fingertips into the wall in front of him, the stone still warm underneath his hands from the midday sun, and welcomes the feeling with every fiber of his being.
His mind is blissfully empty, nothing inside except the words he doesn’t dare to yell, all those “Yes” and “So good” and “More”’s. The pleasure is exquisite, purer than he thought it would be. One of the stranger’s hands has settled on his shoulder with his thumb pushing into the muscles of his neck, holding him in place, while the other is digging into his hip. The grip is firm, but restrained, same as the movement pushing into him from behind.
Maybe he could come from this alone, he thinks, if enough time passes, even if that hasn’t happened in a long time. But he can tell exactly when the man loses his patience, because the hand on his neck disappears to close around his cock. Javier bucks his hips and tries to restrain his moans, and it only takes a couple more moments before he’s spilling over the other’s hand.
The stranger follows a few seconds later with the first sound he’s made since they stepped outside, and for a while Javier can’t hear anything except the rush of blood in his own ears and the other’s heavy breathing.
He’s leaning against the wall with trembling legs, trying to catch his breath. When he’s turned around by the shoulders, he moves to pull up his jeans half-heartedly. What he doesn’t expect is for the man to press him against the wall and kiss him, hard. They hadn’t kissed yet, and he didn’t think they would, but now that they are, opening his mouth comes naturally, as does pushing their tongues together and nipping at a lower lip.
When they finally separate, Javier can’t get enough air into his lungs to get rid of the fuzziness in his head, and maybe he doesn’t want to. He watches motionless as the other wipes his hand on a handkerchief and closes his belt again, adjusting his shirt and running a hand through his hair until he looks entirely presentable, while Javier still looks like a mess.
When he finally rouses himself out of the sudden tiredness that has swept over him, he doesn’t manage more than fixing up his jeans. Everything else will have to wait until he can step under a shower, or maybe fall directly into bed.
They don’t say goodbye. They simply step out of the alley with a good amount of distance between them and disappear into different directions. Javier watches him go and he can feel the urge to ask for the other’s name rising to his lips. He stamps down on it hard. This isn’t that kind of story.
He doesn’t shower when he gets back to his room. Instead he falls into bed and sleeps a heavy, dreamless sleep for the first time in almost a month.
Two weeks later he opens the door to the ambassador’s office in Bogotá and sees the man from the bar standing in front of the ambassador’s desk in full uniform. He comes to a sudden halt in the door with the papers almost slipping from his fingers.
“Agent Peña?”, the ambassador says, fully oblivious to his state of mind. “I would like to introduce you to Major Carrillo of the Columbian National Police. He is currently stationed in Medellín and…”
He doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Instead he searches for a hint of his own panic in the other man’s face, but his expression is entirely calm and collected.
He swallows heavily, puts the papers down onto the ambassador’s desk, and extends his hand. “Javier Peña. Pleasure to meet you.”
The other takes his hand and grips it firmly. “Horacio Carrillo. Encantado.” There’s a hint of a smile on his face.
no subject
Date: 2023-07-23 08:07 pm (UTC)Wer braucht schon viele Worte vor der großen Liebe
oder was auch immer die da in der Serie laufen haben mögen.Ich mag den Charakterisierungstouch, den du eingebaut hast, damit dass Carrillo Gleitgel mitgebracht hat.
His mind is blissfully empty, nothing inside except the words he doesn’t dare to yell, all those “Yes” and “So good” and “More”’s.
Und auch hierzu Sternchen in den Augen, es ist so eine gute Kombi aus so vielen Dingen, die da abgefuckt sind in einem Satz, der eigentlich nur pleasure beschreibt. *__*
...Vielleicht muss ich ein bisschen mehr arbeiten...