#and i know the strike is delaying things but there went on radio silence months before that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

peachebunnys · 4 years

Text

Pain, with love

pairing: Horacio Carrillo x reader

summary: Arranged marriages are tough, but add that with having to deal with a drug lord on the loose? Horacio Carrillo can only imagine what’s coming for him.

warnings: non canon compliance? reader doesn’t appear much in this part, bad writing lol

a/n: I’d like to thank @angelicpascal for proofreading this chapter, they’re a literal gem <3 This is my first time writing x reader fics, especially for something that’s non-kpop related. This will be a mini-series that I hope you will enjoy :)

3.02k words

Chapter One;

Horacio steadies his hand on the steering wheel, feeling the cool leather texture under his skin as he grips it tighter. The air was becoming cooler, water droplets dripping from the roof of the car onto his arm that was resting on the wind down window panel. The slight drizzle was starting to fog up the windows, and despite the cool breeze, the humid interior of the car was starting to make Horacio sweat.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

The relentless ticking from his wrist watch echoed through the car, and his heavy breathing was a close second to being the loudest thing in the vehicle at that moment. The silence between him and the rest of the passengers was almost suffocating but Horacio was always a man of few words, opting to remain silent and not engage in small talk.

The warm orange street lights reflected off the water droplets, casting shadows of all shapes and sizes onto the dashboard. Horacio looked out the window lazily, looking at the silver wedding band on his ring finger. It reflected the moonlight that was casting down on the streets of Bogota, the row of tiny diamonds sparkling like stars in the night sky. The radio was alive again, a mixture of English and Spanish from his men as they updated their status and whereabouts throughout the streets of Bogota.

“Fuck!”

Horacio glances over slowly, staring at the man next to him who had a cigarette held loosely between his lips, digging through his pocket for something that Horacio could only guess was a lighter. Horacio removes his left hand from the window and fishes for his own lighter, shoving it in front of the brunette who let out an appreciative hum. However, just as he was about to keep the lighter back in his pocket, the man next to him grips his wrist tightly, studying his ring closely.

“Peña,” he warned.

“You’re married? When?” Javier looks at him shocked, eyes filled with pure disbelief, “Could’ve sworn you didn’t have it on last week.”

Horacio sucks in a deep breath, shifting in his seat to look at the DEA agent better, “It was arranged, last Saturday.”

Javier removes the cigarette from his lips, offering the other man the stick as he continues, “Arranged? Saturday? I thought we were close enough that you would tell me about these things, hell, even invite me for the reception at least.” He gives a mock hurt expression, taking another puff when Horacio declined his offer.

Horacio simply shrugged, eyes looking out at the lights coming from neighbouring houses, “It was a small event, family only - couldn’t get you on the guest list even if I tried.”

Javier laughed at the remark, turning to look at Horacio with curious eyes, “so… arranged, huh? How’s she like?”

Horacio rolled his eyes at the question, knowing that despite the fact he didn’t want to answer, there was nothing else he could do except wait and kill time. The rain was starting to lessen, the sky becoming slightly clearer, showcasing the beautiful moon that shined with all its might. The weather was becoming unpredictable these days, and just as you thought the skies would get clearer, it starts to rain again.

“She’s...” He hesitated, god what was she like? He thought about it for a moment, unsure of what to say to Javier. Ever since the wedding and after they moved in together, Horacio hadn’t been home much, spending his nights in the office to draft plans for the raid that they were currently stuck in now. “She’s nice.”

“Nice?” Javier scoffs, “Is that all you’ve got to say? That she’s nice?”

The realisation that he hasn’t quite talked to her much, nor gotten to know her, dawned on him. Shame fills his entire being as he realises he must’ve seem like a complete dick to her over the past few days. Yes, getting married wasn’t what he wanted, but neither did she. The last thing he should be doing was distance himself from her, and not putting in effort to make this relationship work.

And so he decides to call her, in the midst of this dull conversation he was stuck in with Javier.

The least he could do now was to inform her he would be back late, not that she would say anything about it. He reaches out to the backseat of the car, taking the phone in his hand and dialing his house line quickly, hoping to catch her before she went to bed.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

The line picks up, the recipient responding with a hoarse ’hello?’ that makes Horacio suck in his breath again. What was it about her, or this relationship, that made him so nervous? Horacio Carrillo feared only a handful of things, and for some reason, the uncertainty of how this relationship would go was one of them.

“Hello? Y/N?” he asks, “Did I wake you up?”

Your eyes shot open as you heard your husband on the other end of the line, confused as to why he would call at such a late hour. “Horacio? Is everything alright?” You knew he was working late this past week, but who could blame him? He was the leader of the Search Bloc, and you knew that by marrying him, things like that would be bound to happen. You lean against the dining table, eyeing the packed dinner you had kept aside for him to eat when he returns.

For the past few nights, you’ve been keeping aside leftovers from dinner, only to find them completely finished when you woke up the next morning. It pleased you slightly, seeing that your husband was not a picky eater, adding this to the small list of things you knew about him.

“Y/N,” he called out again, “I - uh, wanted to let you know that I will be home late tonight. I’m sorry for not telling you the past few nights.”

You could tell that he was struggling to find words to say, both of you equally unsure of what to tell each other.

“Thank you for keeping dinner aside for me, by the way.” He pauses, “They’re- they’re delicious”

You giggle at the awkwardness of it all, smiling at how sincere yet embarrassed he sounded over the phone.

“It’s alright, I know you’re a busy man. And thank you,” you laugh, “what kind of wife would I be if I were to let my husband starve after he’s been cooped up in his office all day?”

You hear a faint chuckle from the other end, feeling your heart beat faster at how good that voice sounded. It was deep and genuine, and in turn, made you crack a smile too.

“I’ll see you later, goodnight Y/N.”

“Goodnight Horacio,” you whisper before hanging up the phone, and with gentle footsteps back to your bedroom, you went back to sleep.

Horacio, on the other hand, looks out the window, phone in his hand and resting on his chest. He looks back at Javier who was now leaning against the window panel, bored to his wit’s end at how dreadfully slow this mission was going. Intel had mentioned that Gacha would be on his way here - his safehouse, at around ten thirty. But as Horacio stared at his watch longer, seeing the clock strike eleven-thirty - he could only guess that there was either a delay in plans or that intel had simply fed them the wrong information.

With a heavy sigh, Horacio reached out to his radio, fingers running over the buttons with the intention of calling off the raid. It was a long night for all of them, a long uneventful night, Horacio thought. Just as he was about to push the large button, he heard it. The signal.

“Gacha’s men in cars on 7th street, no sight of Gacha yet.”

The message sounded shaky on some parts, with Horacio almost missing it entirely. He slammed the device down and started the car, glancing over to Javier who was tightening the straps to his bulletproof vest on him. With the intention of not looking suspicious, Horacio drove the unmarked police car slowly around the bend, entering the general area of the safehouse to be in position. With the house barely two hundred meters away from them, Horacio called all his units to get into position, waiting for the moment that Gacha shows up.

The safehouse was dimly lit, with only some lights turned on inside. The harshly lit porch had illuminated the front of the house slightly, showing off the pristine white walls that decorated the exterior of the place. It looked like any ordinary family home, and Horacio was sure that they would’ve never suspected this beautiful property to be housing one of the world’s deadliest narcos.

For months now, the Search Bloc, with the help of DEA agents Javier and Steve, have been tirelessly tracking down Gacha’s whereabouts, determined to take him down once and for all. Gacha had made it no easy feat, covering his tracks whenever he was on the move, making it close to impossible to ever pinpoint his exact location. Gacha, as Steve would describe him, was one slippery bastard. The man was always somehow wriggling out of their grasps just as they’ve almost got him. They were lucky though, that this time they’ve had an “informant”, one of Gacha’s ex men, that came straight to them with the information about his new safehouse. And they were sure as hell going to make use of that information in every way they could.

Horacio ducks his head slightly, narrowly missing the street light shining on his face as a series of cars drove past him.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Leaning his head against the cool window panel, Horacio squinted his eyes slightly, trying to count the number of men in each vehicle. With the poor visibility from the rain, which was evidently getting heavier, he could only guess how many men there were. But that was never good enough. Horacio couldn’t afford any guesses, especially on a raid mission like this. He quickly fished out the radio again and called to one of his men, “Trujillo, how many men did you manage to see?”

Without a second to lose, Trujillo responded , “about four in each car, that means we have twelve men including Gacha. All armed.”

Javier cocked his gun and placed it in his holster, straining his neck to look out through the windscreen, “Everyone’s in position?”

Horacio simply nodded, radio inches away from his mouth as he radioed in to his men again, “I want everyone in position, now. Once I give the signal, all units close in onto the safehouse. Surround them.”

As the cars were parked outside the property, Gacha’s men had all swamped to seek shelter in the beautiful house, with a few men taking cautionary glances around them. All of them were soaked from the rain, and wore an exhausted look on their faces - which made Horacio hope that this was something they could use against them. The heavy downpour was starting to lessen, and Horacio knew he had to act quick if he wanted to use the poor visibility to his advantage.

Once he was sure that it was the perfect time to strike, he gave the signal and exited the car, crouching a bit as he held the rifle out in his hands. He walked swiftly towards the safehouse, senses heightened to catch anything out of the ordinary. There were two men guarding the entrance of the house, both of which were too caught up in drying themselves to notice the Search Bloc men closing in on them and knocking them out cold.

With Javier and Horacio standing on either side of the entrance, they took a quick glance at each other, guns firmly held in their palms and nodded. A swift strong kick was enough to break the door open, and the sudden impact had startled the men that were all in the midst of talking to each other.

Guns cocked, shots fired. The bullets whizz past Horacio’s face, missing him by a few inches. His rifle started burning up quickly, like heated glass, while he fired at the nameless men that scattered throughout the room. His bulletproof vest hugged him snuggly as he hid behind the wall by the entrance, reloading his gun, panting heavily as he glanced at Javier who was doing the same.

“From the back?”

Horacio turned his head to peek into the living room, catching a glance of Gatcha running out the back door. He signaled to Javier to head to the back, only for the radio to come alive again, informing that Gatcha had in fact already gotten away in his red pickup truck.

“Peña! Red pickup truck, Chevy!” Horacio yelled from across the door, “let’s go!”

The two of them separated from the rest of the Search Bloc, hopping back into their unmarked Police jeep in hopes to catch up with Gatcha before he gets away for good.

It’s true, isn’t it? These narcos are never as dangerous till you’ve almost got them?

Horacio grips the leather steering wheel tightly, stepping on the accelerator as hard as he could, barely missing all the other vehicles on the road as he drove past them. The cool breeze was a stark contrast to the heated weapon on his lap. The vehicle was in sight, with only a few meters away from their own car.

Horacio could hear Javier call in to available units, indicating where the car was and where to corner it at. As Horacio continued speeding through the streets of Bogota, there was a sudden influx of bullets being shot towards them, some of which damaging the windscreen in its wake. With the screen shattered and rain clouding their visibility, Horacio rammed his vehicle straight into the pickup truck’s boot, sending it spiraling into a nearby streetlight.

The other police vehicles arrived soon after, cornering the truck which made it impossible for Gatcha to escape this time. The men stayed behind their vehicle doors, opting to use it as a shield for when Gatcha finally came out of the vehicle- in which he did after a few minutes. Head bleeding, shirt torn and mouth in a downward snarl, Gatcha held out his pistol at Horacio, screaming a string of curses before pulling the trigger.

Empty.

The Search Bloc men started closing in to him, slowly and cautiously eyeing the drug lord with each step they took. Gatcha’s truck had slight smoke emitting from the hood, and Horacio knew that if anyone were to take a shot at it, it’d blow up instantly.

“Nobody shoot!”

Horacio held out his rifle towards Gatcha, biceps flexed at how hard he was gripping the weapon. “Gatcha! It’s over, lay down your weapon and we’ll take you in safely.”

The tension in the air was thick, with only the sound of nearby cars buzzing through the air. The streetlights weren’t very bright in this part of the city, but Horacio could see that Gatcha was reaching for something from the back of the vehicle. With his eyes trained on the short man barely a dozen meters in front of him, he soon realises what Gatcha was reaching out for.

His rocket launcher.

“Everyone, get down!”

He barely had time to register Gatcha blasting the heavyweight weapon at him, dropping down on the floor as the car behind him shot up in flames. The ringing in his ears was intolerable, and Horacio almost thought he was dead from the way his breathing slowed down instantly. He slowly turned his head behind, seeing the now burnt car behind him and how the windows had shattered next to him, with some pieces cutting deep into his skin.

He turned back, to look at Gatcha who was now knocked down by Javier with the base of his gun, groaning loudly as he clutched his bleeding nose. The way he wriggled on the floor in pain resembled a worm, unable to move anywhere with all the guns pointed in his direction. Horacio placed his hands on the uneven ground, pushing himself up with determination and limped his way to Javier.

He could feel the pain from his injuries wash over his body, but he stared back at Gatcha with a look of determination. Finally, he thought, fucking finally. The sight before him was nothing like how he imagined it to be, and the sense of victory did not wash over him like how he thought it would.

The man that was on the ground, staring at him with stone cold eyes, was shorter than expected, and looked nothing like the demon that Horacio had thought of him to be. Just a simple man that laid on the cold wet roads of Bogota, looking like he was about to pass out any minute.

“Gatcha,” he breathed heavily, “you’re arrested, you son of a bitch. And I hope you rot in prison for the rest of your miserable life.”

The Search Bloc’s men soon came in and cuffed Gatcha’s hands, pushing him roughly into one of the cars. Horacio did feel a sense of relief though, that all their hard work thus far has finally paid off. A part of him was hopeful that when they interrogated him in prison in the next few days, that they might, just might, be able to finally get a lead on Pablo Escobar.

Javier patted Horacio’s shoulder gently, a silent gesture to ask if he was alright. Horacio, in turn, nodded, letting out a huge sigh as he eyed his now destroyed ride back home.

“Come on,” Javier reached out, “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

Horacio waves his hand dismissively, carefully brushing off the dirt on his uniform, “just send me home, Peña. I’ll be able to patch myself up there instead.”

“Alright then, let’s go.” Javier starts the car, smirking as he watches Horacio slump back in the passenger seat, “wouldn’t want to keep your wife waiting now, do we?”

#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #peachebunnys fic #maurice compte

203 notes · View notes

youhatedspain · 7 years

Text

JANUARY

i’m going to change tenses a lot. some of these things want to be present tense and some of them want to be past tense.

And so all the chefs came out of the kitchen for the count down holding champagne flutes on loan from Waitrose half full with the Cava our manager had bought us and everyone had glitter on their face and in their hair and my friend leant over the remnants of chopped lemon to ask the mirror if it was too much as she dabbed some more on under her eyes. And we turned on BBC for the count down but there wasn’t one, just a banging sound which could have been mistaken for the dropping of a steel pan. Then I looked at my phone and it was midnight and so it was midnight and so it was midnight and so it was the next year, instead of the year it had just been, only because of the four zeros next to each other all lined up like that in a row with the colon in the middle, and so, it was midnight, it was the next year. five days in to the year the four zeros told me it was, I listen to Lena Dunham all morning then go to meet Twin and her niece. We drink Mojitos, they are too sweet. It gets dark outside at half past three. Then Lily comes and eats a vegetarian breakfast while we drink rum and takes me to the cinema with her younger brother and we watch A Monster Calls. I don’t enjoy it and I wonder if I don’t enjoy it eternally or if there was ever a version of me who would have been moved by Felicity Jones sobbing in a headscarf underneath a hospital bedsheet.

 Then the next week we think the Screen Unseen is going to be Jackie but actually it’s Hidden Figures. It is really, really, really good. If it weren’t for basic needs like going to the toilet and eating and sleeping I would have been happy for it to go on for seven hours. The next day I get up early.  Southern rail on strike and so one train gets me to Portsmouth to see my mum, eat Wagamama and play records in her living room, then a coach gets me to Brighton to see Frank.  On my mum’s living room floor I straightened my hair in the full length mirror we’ve had since I was five, a mirror that’s seen separation but not divorce, arguments but not separation, boredom but not depression. A mirror that’s seen all the in between stages of all the in between parts of our lives.

sitting in front of it we listened to Fleetwood Mac and I sang along with my hair in between the hot irons, and my mum sitting on the sofa said she thought it had been 1978 - maybe 1978, maybe 1979, she could never remember. She did so much in 1979. Sometimes she looks back on it and thinks, was that 1979 as well? All of that?   I ask her what she did in 1979. Oh, just went all over. Met loads of people. saw loads of music.

 After the coach journey sandwiched next to a nice girl who showed me on her phone where she thought the stop for Hove might be, I tell Frank about Fleetwood Mac and 1979.  We think at each other, maybe this year will be 1979. A version of 1979.  We spend a couple of days in cafes and pubs planning our route through America, I write hastily in the back of my grease stained notebook about Memphis and Nashville and New Orleans and we look at so many Airbnb listings that our eyes go blurry.   we drink Prosecco with her sofa pulled out to make it a bed and watch reality T.V. and play cards in a pub with Johnny Cash on the radio and then silence because nobody goes to change it. We eat expensive Vegan food we are probably too drunk to taste properly. We make fun of Alex Turner, shoe-less in her living room sliding around on her laminate flooring to Miracle Aligner. Everything is good.  Louis and I go to watch La La Land at the cinema like everyone else. We think it’s good, like everyone else.  On the 22nd I meet Twin on the train at Pokesdown and we spent the best part of three hours travelling to our freezing cold Gatwick airport hotel bedroom so that we can eat Marks and Spencer's salads on our beds and try to work out how to turn up the heating.   In the morning we have short showers in the white of the windowless hotel bathroom then catch our delayed flight to Madrid.  Madrid is different to how I thought it would be. The street our hotel is on is lined with clothes shops, each one wearing the same costume as the one before it but with the sleeves cut off or the legs rolled up. Around the corner: a tapas bar specialising in Houmous, and a five minute walk away: a 1920’s style bar with red leather booths and neon signs on its outside.  Punks. Tattoos on their arms, denim jackets with the sleeves cut off, white aprons on over the top of their leather trousers as they roll out the barrel with the specials written on it from inside the restaurant. A Vegan fast food cafe run by two bald men with black eye makeup and rings on every finger; they frown at the line of customers that has formed outside as they roll up the shutters. Incandescent light in the ceiling as pieces of fake meat fall out of our sandwiches.

We make a list of all the bars we want to visit and walk between each one using the GPS on my phone. Nobody is ever actually lost. I have the best margarita of my life in a cocktail bar where Salvador Dali used to drink; black and white photos of him on the walls and bronze cocktail shakers in display cases behind the booths. It’s us and two middle aged men and the bartender. Then it’s us and two middle aged men and the bartender and four good looking people in long scarves and laughter in the middle table, falling over each other into their seats. Then it’s us, and them, and a DJ, and the DJ plays Metronomy, and Twin uses Siri to find out the song then sends it to me on Facebook. Nobody is ever actually lost, nobody is ever actually without the answer.

This month I've enjoyed

READING Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix WATCHING Hidden Figures Brooklyn LISTENING TO PWR BTTM

PWR BTTM might be my new favourite band. I listened to their album in one sitting and then bought tickets to see them in Brighton in April. Frank is coming with me. She has never heard of them but I know she’s going to love them.

#January #autobiographical #diary #travel

1 note · View note