requested by: a wonderful anon <3 i also caught the other request you sent in, and am working on that!! thank you so much for the wonderful ideas, keep them coming! warnings: mentions of prostitution, general seductive (i hope) behaviour.
You looked up from your novel. Isabella’s eyes flicked away from you, gaze suddenly very intent out the window. You didn’t shuffle in your seat, even though it was uncomfortable. You didn’t shrink away, didn’t even care. She was a queen, sure.
But on this plane, you were thequeen.
You laid your book in your lap and openly looked over at Felix, watching him as he sat opposite you.
He wasn’t looking at you at first, but he must have felt your gaze. He turned to you too, and though you couldn’t see his eyes through his shades, you knew he was looking back at you. You smiled. He nodded, face straight and neck stiff.
That was it. The whole interaction.
The sea was visible through the window, wide and blue - you were on your way to Mexico.
You weren’t entirely sure how; you were of no use to Felix really, but somehow you convinced him. A Colombian, and better yet, a Colombian prostitute known to have previously been with the Medellin cartel. You were basically a flashing sign to all of the authorities saying that Felix was now in the cocaine business, but he still brought you.
Clearly, he could care less. He knew he was untouchable.
You retracted your stare from the sea, directed it back at Felix, and noticed he was still looking at you. Or at least, your general direction.
You decided to test it. You opened your novel once more, Felix clear in your peripheral vision. You scooted in your seat only slightly, your dress riding up a little to expose your thighs, which you then crossed, expression neutral and airy as you could manage.
Felix stiffened, cleared his throat, and promptly turned his face to the window.
Gotcha.
He’d been cold to you, calloused, and strategically you were useless to him. But he’d let you board his plane. This was why.
You settled back with your book, smug on the inside, but it only lasted a few minutes.
He called your name, and that choppy accent made his words seem harsher than they needed to be. “You’re gonna dye your hair, change your name. And you’re not Colombian anymore - its best you drown that accent. The job I have for you will take a new identity, and manipulation.”
“The… job?”
“You didn’t think I brought you here for nothing, did you?”
It took control to keep your lips from pressing together sourly. Instead, you focused on keeping your face lax, your brows raised patiently, though inside you were reeling. “Well, no.” Not even a lie.
Isabella knew what you meant, you could see it in her face. But you wouldn’t be humiliated. “I can manipulate, Felix. How else would I have got on this plane?”
Imagine meeting Miguel Angel Felix Gallardo as part of the Medellin cartel.
requested by: anon. thank you sO MUCH, anon, i’ve been dying to write for narcos: mexico. if you have anymore ideas, please please shoot them in. i’d love to write for kiki too, and i think rafa could be an interesting lad to write. send more narcos meixco !! <3 warnings: implied prostitution, alcohol, mentioned drugs (of course).
He was so uncomfortable. Back straight against the couch, a glass of tequila in hand and the bottle sat by his ankles. Poison had insisted it was all they had left along with a sombrero - it wasn’t true. But a Mexican narco in the heart of the Medellin cartel would never be anything but the butt of the joke, even if he was as calculated as Felix Gallardo.
Between the attentive minutes you had to give to certain men, you’d watched him for almost an hour, playing his role, pretending like he fit in, like he could talk to these animals. Honestly, he did a good job of it, to the point that you almost questioned if he knew they were laughing at him. But the tightness of his shoulders and the set of his brow told you otherwise.
This was a smart man. Perhaps he could help you.
The woman he brought with him, who hadn’t left his side all evening, finally whispered something low in his ear and headed towards the bathroom. You seized your chance.
You unfolded your legs and approached him, bending low until your fingers grasped the bottle of tequila at his ankle, returning to upright slowly, his gaze like a weight on you. You raised a delicate brow and tipped your head, gesturing outside. “Come outside, unless you want to spend your evening with these assholes.”
You didn’t wait for a reply before heading outside, only glancing over your shoulder when you were out of sight of the majority of the party, and sure enough, he was following behind you.
The gazebo was quiet once you’d dismissed a smoking sicario or two. You placed the bottle on a chair and leant against the ledge. The air was tropical, almost sweet to the taste, and the sound of the hippopotamus wallowing was gentle, peaceful in the distance.
Footsteps approached. Gallardo’s. You could tell from only hearing that he walked well, confidently. A strong man in the face of pressure. That must be what got him here today, under the radar of such a dangerous man as your boss.
He settled beside you, joining you in leaning against the ledge, looking out to the lake. He didn’t speak for a while, but when he did, he didn’t sound as dangerous as you imagined. His voice was casual, gentle even, a hint of a laugh in his tone. “Do hippos like Mexicans?”
You couldn’t help the snort that escaped. You turned to look at him, a brow arched, “I don’t know. But I imagine they like you more than the guys in there do.”
“I didn’t come here for them to like me.”
Bullshit. “You never meant to come here, did you?” His confused, somewhat hostile expression hardened as he looked at you. You raised your fingers to his eyebrow, which was only beginning to come up in a light bruise. “Well, you were shoved in the car, none too gently. Am I right?” He leant away from your touch, brows furrowed and he stared back out at the hippos without answering. “Then you never meant to see Escobar. You were banking on the Cali cartel.”
“I got the Cali cartel’s cocaine,” he snapped. “I also got Escobar’s.”
You couldn’t keep the smirk out of your voice, so you didn’t try to hide it. “Unintentionally.”
His glare was sharp as he turned away from you, heading back inside. “They like me in there more than you do.”
“No no no,” you laughed, reaching for his wrist gently. You didn’t pull it, only held it, and although he jerked as if to pull away, he didn’t. He turned towards you slowly, a warning glint to his eye, but you remained unintimidated. “Ilike you, Felix. You’re the only one in this entire place who’s worth his word - that’s why you don’t belong here.”
He scoffed, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and placing one between his lips. “And I suppose you don’t either.”
“Correct. I don’t.”
He laughed, hand rummaging in his pocket for a lighter that clearly wasn’t there. You clicked your tongue at his attitude, pulling your own lighter from the front of your dress. You met his eye as you raised the lighter to the tip of his cigarette, the flame catching in the deep, gentle brown of his eyes. He wasn’t the type of man you were used to.
You held the flame to ignite the tobacco, and his hands raised to steady your wrists until it caught. But you kept the closeness, your voice a whisper. “Take me to Mexico with you.”
summary: nostalgia tastes sweet in her mouth as they remember all they were, and realise all they could have been
w.c.:4.5k
warnings: he gets a little rough when he’s angry, implied rape, reader is slightly self-destructive, canon-typical violence
a/n: i have absolutely nothing to say for myself lol other than i watched all of narcos mx in a 28 hour haze, wrote this in two hours, and then let it sit in my library for weeks because i now realise miguel’s character is kinda ooc. but i’ve had some vodka and i’m feeling brave so it is now seeing the light of day.
“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri
~*~*~
She supposes that she shouldn’t think of a man like him as kind, but there’s a gentle familiarity with which he looks at her through the glass that separates them, telephones held up to their ears. He looks softer like this, in the brown jumpsuit of the prison, hair mussed, body curled to fit into the booth. Or maybe to make himself smaller for her, though he’d never done that before.
She smiles at him, that one smile he’d once commented on, “I don’t trust smiles like that, mija,” and she never asked why, but the words had been said with an odd sort of resigned humour, and so she had never felt like she needed to ask, and his own lips curl upwards at the sight. Those wicked eyes study her intensely, the way they always had, and that’s familiar, too. She leans on her elbow, resting her face against the phone. “You look like shit.”
@lesqui you got me over here crying in the club. I love it. Your characterization is beautiful and it makes me want to binge read more Miguel stories by you ( I’d like to be added to that tag list if you’re feelin’ the Miguel inspo in the future ).
