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ashlingnarcos · 3 years

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The Dancer

Ramón Arellano Félix/Reader, Kitty Paez/Reader, Implied Other Ships

Tags: party girl, bittersweet, this is kind of about finding freedom in your own inability to control the future but also kind of about the Narcojuniors being hot and silly and also kind of about Benjamín being a good dad

Length: 1.7k

A living legend among the Narcojuniors, word has it that you’ve fucked every sibling in the Arellano Félix family. That’s not true. It is, however, almost true…

The nightclub is your natural habitat: lights purple, blue, green strobing your face, sweat slicking back tendrils of hair to your face, fringe of your dress flirting along your legs, dancing, always dancing. You can dance alone, but why would you, when there are so many ready partners? You go to sleep at four, five in the morning, wake up in hotel rooms and other people’s houses, sometimes alone and sometimes not. Either way, you slip out of bed and go stand on the balcony (there is nearly always a balcony), sipping coffee in a silk slip, in a man’s button-down, in nothing at all, just sunlight.

Your worst enemy is boredom, and your best friend—well, what does that matter? Isn’t it enough to stand silhouetted in the archway just before the party begins, isn’t it enough to be greeted eagerly and warmly by people who like you—to be liked everywhere you go? Youth and beauty will do a lot for you, but then there’s the recklessness. You’re not reckless exactly like many of the other Narcojuniors, maybe because you came from another place. While their parents are judges, politicians, businessmen, yours is a general, a hard army man who came up from nothing and took you and your family with him. He doesn’t speak to you any more. You don’t need him to, either. You’ve learned what there is to learn from the man. If you drive a getaway car—and you don’t make it a habit, but hey, shit happens—you drive with both hands on the wheel, nimble, icy-veined. If you end up facing a leering threat—and you don’t make it a habit either, but jungles breed predators—you make your escape fast and light, and sic your attack dog as soon as you can find one.

Speaking of. Here’s two of yours, winding their way through the party to you, no doubt intent on hello kisses. They look like a matched pair, like they coordinated outfits—and honestly, knowing these ridiculous boys, the probably did. Kitty’s in a black suit with crimson shirt, and Ramón’s black and gold silk shirt is unbuttoned enough to catch your attention with the hollow at the base of his throat, a familiar spot. You grin at him through the crowd, remembering, savoring the last of your drink and the attention.

If people think you’re attached, they’re mistaken, but they tend to assume that you’re Ramon’s girl, and that has a little bit of truth to it.You could never work as a long-term, monogamous thing—he’s too rash and reckless even for you, and you’re too hard to pin down for him—but fucking hell, the sex. There’s hardly a wedding or a birthday party that goes by without you taking him to some coatroom, some back hallway, burying your hands in his hair and while he fucks you against the wall. Yeah, he gets jealous, a lot. There’s nothing he can do about it, is there? You’ve never made him promises, have you? If he wants to get angry, all the better—then he fucks you like he’s got something to prove, kisses your neck so hard it leaves marks that you won’t hide in the morning. You never do him the honor of getting jealous in return. That’s not your style. But you enjoy his moods when they come.

And Kitty? He’s actually the closest you have to a regular, mostly because he’s never once tried to tighten a collar round your neck like the rest. He takes everything easy, doesn’t mind it when you slip in out of his house like a cat, pilfer his closet, disappear for a week then show up in his bed sans explanation; in fact, he seems to enjoy the lack of obligations there. It’s off and on, but he never takes you for granted, which is a rare combination. For a guy who likes to pop his collar, he can be very nearly a gentleman: if you’re driving along a coastline on vacation, he’ll buy you flowers at a roadside stand, and sometimes, if you haven’t come twice in one night, he takes it personally and gets on his knees. And he makes you laugh. You need that.

Like right now. After they reach you, and get their kisses, Ramón asks you if you’re coming after the party to see Pancho’s birthday present. Kitty is already digging into his back pocket to get a picture of it, and both of them look at you all expectant and proud as you squint at it, then start howling with laughter.

In the picture, there’s the ruins of an old bungalow, roof caved in and one wall completely destroyed. Right next to it is an incongruously tall crane bearing a huge wrecking ball. Hanging dangerously high from the crane, like it’s monkey bars are Ramón and Kitty, grinning like kids.

“We had to test drive it,” Ramón, by way of explanation.

“Of course,” you say, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, mocking him. “It makes sense. I, too, like to light my cigarette using a fucking grenade.”

“No, it’s a symbol,” says Ramón earnestly. It’s so funny and kind of sweet, the way this man still wants your approval for everything after all this time. “We’re going to knock down the Paraíso hotel so Pancho can build a new one. To expand his—what was it?”

“Portfolio,” Kitty says, just dryly enough that you can tell he knows exactly how funny it is that Ramón has somehow got it into his head to concern himself with investment diversification. Bless him.

“That,” says Ramón triumphantly. “Expand his portfolio.”

“Right,” you say. “And it’s just a tiny little bonus that you get to knock down fifteen stories’ worth of building while you’re at it.”

“Exactly.” Both of them beam at you.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you say, “but I have to run an errand after this. Wait for me?”

“Of course.”

You watch them go with fondness, finishing your drink. The two of them are always cooking up mad schemes—or Ramón is trying to cook them up, while Kitty’s mostly along for the ride, and it never ceases to entertain you, whether they succeed or (which is more common) go awry. You’re often invited to participate, but you never do, preferring just to watch. Maybe that’s one of the reasons the Arellano Félix family let you into their circle so easily. Your lack of interest in making money, gaining power, arranging the future makes you far less of a threat. It’s that, and the pussy. And, for a couple of them—for Enedina, you think—something more. Something few people perceive unless they spend time with you. You’ve got a couple rules. That makes you safer in some ways than anyone else who swears to well-behaved, monogamous devotion.

See, word has it that you’ve fucked every sibling in the Arellano Félix family, right? But there’s an exception to the rule, and it’s not Enedina. It’s Benjamín. There he is at your elbow now, looking faintly miserable in the background of his brother’s birthday party, offering half-heartedly to get you a drink refill. You decline, and ask him what’s wrong instead. His daughter, he says, Ruth, out of the country for some treatment. He says out of the country like it hurts him.

Let’s be honest, when you first met the family, you had Benjamín on your to do list. At that time, you didn’t quite see him as a man so much as an adventure. But when he speaks of his daughter, you always remember that Benjamín is something rarer than a powerful man; he’s a decent father. You won’t make that harder for him. You belong to the streets, but you’ve got a full fucking soul.

You offer Benjamín some small sympathy, and he takes it politely, as though it’s nothing, as though you can’t understand. And it’s that, that politeness without emotion coming from him, that politeness without any connection, that brings out of you your one secret to life. The thing you haven’t told any of the people you bed (and never will).

Her name was Maribel, and she was your sister. Twin sister. You used to share everything: same genes, same clothes, and the same heart condition, the one that took her before her twentieth birthday. The same disease that may someday suddenly take you. Any day now.

It’s rewarding, seeing that look on his face: that he knows now you understand. There is a comfort in it, in being two people standing in the same space who both know exactly how much of this world they control—that is to say, none of it. There’s a companionship.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Why mourn?” you say. “We can mourn when we’re dead. Until then…” You incline your head to the party: drinks, laughter, dancing, family, strings of gorgeous lights webbing a constellation above it all. Until then there’s life. But he doesn’t understand it. You can tell, looking at his face, he doesn’t understand it, though he longs to. He still knows fear. Maybe it’s bred into him, maybe it’s a side effect of his responsibilities, but he’ll never learn the lesson you learned. Fear is for other people. You wish you could teach it to him.

You lean in, and he doesn’t pull away. You kiss him on the cheek, and you see his chest rise and fall in one convulsive breath. You have him then. But you’re not going to do it. There’s Ruth the younger to consider, inextricably tied to Ruth the elder. And so you put a gentle hand on his shoulder and slip away into the party, leaving him with an empty glass and the smell of your perfume.

You know the life you want, and it’s the sort of life that has, later that night, a joyous, drug-fuelled threesome with Kitty and Ramón. It’s the sort of life with no attachments, no excuses, nothing due—the sort of life you can slip in and out of like one of your silk dresses, when the time comes. All you have is the present, and so you bite into it like a ripe fruit, licking up the juice running down your fingers. Other women can keep their their careers, their husbands, their children, their futures, all the rest of it—you wake up to fresh flowers in your bedroom and you know who sent them, you know that you are loved, you are alive, and tonight, there will be dancing.

#Narcos Mexico #Narcos Mexico fanfiction #Narcos Mexico imagine #Ramón Arellano Félix x Reader #ramón arellano félix #Kitty Paez x Reader #Kitty Paez #benjamín arellano félix #as always this is fiction based on the fictional show #and as always i am feeling so normal and so fine!!! a;dfkjaslfjd

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