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Angels of Sinaloa

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There’s something about the sound of the ocean rolling against the Sinaloan coast that has always grounded Miguel. The endless crashing of waves breaking against the rocks again and again, rhythmic yet random, beating the shoreline into submission, shaping the land in its image. Just one of god’s many miracles, how the tiniest trickle of water, given enough time and determination, could break enough stone to crack mountains, to shape the land itself. It’s a kind of control that Miguel can almost dream of.

The bleached sunlight filters in through the thick glass. Below, the land is a thick carpet of green shag that shrinks away as they climb. Even though the weight of the headphones they wear, Miguel can hear the whir of the engines spinning round and round, never stopping. They remind him of those Sinaloan waves. From the sky, Miguel will reshape the world in his image. If anyone can do it, it’s him. After all, Miguel made the desert bloom. He brought the stubborn and the senseless together around his table, and saw them for what they were - pieces in a greater machine. His machine.

The endless green of Rafa’s seedless fades beyond the spun cotton clouds. Miguel presses his fingers against the glass and brings them to his forehead, feeling the cold sweat of condensation. He can see the craggy lines of Amado’s profile in his peripheral vision. It’s just the two of them, 30,000 feet, and a shit ton of weed in the cargo hold.

“So this is the future,” Miguel says, his voice rasping through the mic that hovers over his chin. Beside him, Amado laughs. Smiles that easy smile. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and out of the corner of his eye, Miguel can see the veins in Amado’s wrists. He watches as Amado shifts his calloused hands from one gear to another, his bare arm brushing against Miguel’s buttoned sleeves.

“It’s fucking great, isn’t it? Up here we’re more than men. We’re untouchable. We’re angels.”

“Angels,” Miguel repeats, his fingertips leaving clear streaks in the fogged glass. He turns, focuses his gaze on Amado. Slowly, Miguel reaches out, wraps his cold fingers around Amado’s wrist. “Angels don’t need a machine to fly.”

“And yet here we are, flying amongst them.”

Miguel can feel Amado’s pulse race as his grip tightens. The cockpit was never large to begin with, but it feels smaller now. “We are better than angels, Amado. Angels couldn’t build what we’ve built. You did this. You have the controls. All of this is ours, so long as you have the controls.” Lightly, Miguel tugs at Amado’s hand, the bigger man offering little resistance as his fingers slip off the lever. “But if you let go?” Miguel’s voice is soft as it crackles through the microphone. He rests Amado’s hand on his thigh, and releases his wrist. Amado’s hand stays put, his fingers splayed against the expensive pleat of Miguel’s dark suit. Move it just a few centimeters to the right, and he’d feel how hard he was beneath the Italian wool.

Miguel is not a gambling man. By nature, he prefers to know the outcome before he lays his stakes on the table. He’s seen the way Amado looks at him when he thinks Miguel isn’t watching, the hunger in the taller man’s eyes. Over the last year, Miguel has spoken to a great many powerful men. Men with guns and armies, who scorched the earth and left blood soaked footprints. He fears none of them more than the few seconds Amado’s hand lays still on his thigh. The roar of the engines grows louder as the blood beats in Miguel’s ears. Then, slowly, almost accidentally, Amado’s hand slips to the side, his thumb brushing against the tip of Miguel’s cock. Miguel sucks in the stale air of the cockpit like a drowning man, fighting his own instincts to move.

It’s casual, the way Amado’s hand follows the seam of Miguel’s inner thigh, taking in the length of him. Miguel lets his head fall back just slightly, his fingers fumbling to open the collar of his shirt, popping the button through the hole just as Amado rubs the tip of Miguel’s cock. He grips Miguel as easily as he does the controls of the plane, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. Was that satisfaction? How must it feel for Amado to have Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo like this. Here he was, one of the richest men in Mexico, practically keening at the brush of his hand against his cock through thick fabric.

A gale whips around the plane, and the tiny aircraft buckles slightly. It’s almost a relief when Amado takes back his hand to adjust the controls. He closes his eyes for just a moment as the plane dips, then steadies. When he opens them again, Amado is staring at him. It doesn’t take more than a glance to see Amado is hard himself. There’s sweat beading at the hollow of Amado’s throat, and as Miguel eyes him through tinted glass, he can see the heavy rise and fall of the other man’s chest.

“Miguel Ángel,” he breathes, his thumb idly rubbing familiar patterns against a lever, “you are a man like no other.”

“See, Amado?” Miguel says, once he’s sure his voice won’t betray his own excitement, “It is as I said. You cannot let go of the controls.” It's Amado’s turn to gasp, to grit his teeth as Miguel brushes the back of his hand lightly against the outside of his thigh. His hand travels upwards, fingering the smooth leather of Amado’s belt. It’s nothing to unhook the belt, the metal clanging loudly in the quiet of the cockpit, and unzip Amado’s pants. “We may be amongst the angels,” slowly, deliberately, he slides his hand around Amado’s cock, “but we are men.”

It’s not the first time Miguel has been with a man. Miguel delights in power, in control, and there’s nothing quite like stripping a strong man down and shoving him to his knees, knowing that he will give Miguel anything he asks for. Amado is different. Miguel has never cared about the men before him. They could take their pleasure with Miguel’s cock in their mouths, or not. What was it to him? But Amado. Miguel wants to run his nails down Amado’s seams, open him up and see what made him tick. He wants to see the man melt and know it was he who caused it.

“You are always talking,” Amado grunts, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Miguel turns, licking his lip. With his spare hand, he traces the line of Amado’s jaw, his other hand still preoccupied with Amado’s cock. “What else can your mouth do?”

Miguel needs no more encouragement than that. He withdraws his hands, taking private delight in Amado’s choked gasp. His sunglasses fold neatly as he slips them from his face, placing them on the dashboard. Seatbelt unbuckling with an audible click, Miguel bows his head forward. If he enjoyed Amado’s gasp before, it’s nothing compared to the sound he makes when Miguel’s hot breath brushes his cock. It would be a crime for Miguel to be too eager. It’s not often someone has him in the position to give, and Miguel intends to make it last.

Inch by inch, Miguel takes in the length of him. His now unoccupied hands tug at Amado’s belt as the other man wriggles in his seat, trying to give Miguel better access. Somewhere below them, tens of thousands of feet down, there are men harvesting weed, packaging it, and shipping it north. Women answering phones, filing receipts, clocking the numbers. And beyond them, the weak cops, the ones who don’t take his money, and the Americans who he knows better than to buy, trying to put the pieces together. But they can’t reach him here. In Amado’s planes they are untouchable. Free. Smiling, he swirls his tongue around the tip of Amado cock, his teeth nipping lightly against warm skin.

Miguel can feel the tension in his stomach as his hands trace Amado’s hips, tugging down his waistband. The plane dips slightly, then steadies. “Easy,” Miguel breathes, lifting his head to look up at Amado, “If you want me, you must learn control.”

Amado nods, shifting in his seat again as Miguel eases his waistband out from under him. His pants pool around his knees, leaving his thighs bare and pale in the sunlight. Miguel slips his hands between Amado’s thighs, parting them as much as the space allows. “You must tell me when you’re ready to come,” Miguel says, his voice razor sharp, “or I will be very unhappy.”

Grunting, Amado nods again. Miguel hides his smile as his head dips, nipping a kiss against the meat of Amado’s thigh. If Amado thought he was going slowly before, Miguel’s new pace must have been agony. One hand sliding beneath Amado’s ass, Miguel cups Amado’s balls lightly with the other, his fingers tickling beneath Amado’s twitching cock. Miguel’s wanting mouth closes around Amado’s thigh, sucking hard enough to bruise.

“Miguel Ángel,” Amado groans his warning.

“No,” Miguel says firmly, his eyes dark with lust, “Not yet.”

Miguel can feel his thighs clench, can see the strain in Amado’s neck as he nods once. “As you say,” he chokes out, “not yet. But soon, Miguel Ángel, soon.”

Miguel resumes his work, his breath hot against the purpling bruise on Amado’s thigh. Amado gasps when Miguel’s tongue brushes the base of his cock, licking along his shaft until he takes him in his mouth again, sucking at the length of him. It doesn’t take long before Amado gasps again. “Miguel, Miguel I can’t—“

Miguel lifts his head just in time to stay clean. He slips his aviators back on, wiping his mouth delicately against the backside of his hand as Amado spends himself into his boxers. Eyes bright beneath tinted glass, he hides a smile. His warm hands still slick with Amado’s sweat and precum, Miguel ghosts them over Amado’s, which to his delight have remained on the levers. “Put yourself back together,” he orders, his voice steel wrapped in velvet, “I can hold the controls for a moment.” Amado hesitates, then nods, wriggling back into his pants, fumbling his belt back into place before he looks back at Miguel.

Gently, Amado eases his fingers beneath Miguel’s and reclaims the controls, his fingers lingering just a second too long. It’s enough for Miguel to notice how his own cock throbs beneath his pants, begging to be touched.

“See, Amado, control is everything,” Miguel says, the quaver in his voice audible as he grips the arms of his seat. “When we land, you’ll show me what you learned.”

Amado nods, and Miguel glances down. Though it’s been only minutes since he came, Amado is growing hard again. At last Miguel allows himself a smile. The man has earned it, has he not, the knowledge that that he pleased Miguel. It was not easy knowledge to come by.

“Yes Padrino,” Amado says, flicking a few of the controls. The nose of the plane parts the clouds like a curtain and reveals the glittering ocean licking against the Sinaloan coastline. From the corner of his eye, Miguel can see the other man swallow in anticipation.

“Sinaloa awaits us,” he says, straightening his shoulders, letting the mask of Miguel Félix settle back against his skin. They jolt as the plane turns, tilting down toward the endless sea. It’s dark in the sunlight, broken only by strips of white, signs that the currents were battling, forcing their way free. His cotton shirt unwrinkles beneath his fingertips as he stills his body against the descent. Miguel read once that it was the moon and the sun that made the currents fight, that their gravities pulled the waves against each other. From up here, Miguel feels like the moon. He may be smaller than the sun, may be dependent on the earth to keep himself aloft, but damn it all if he wasn’t going to make the tides dance for him. Fingering the button at his breastbone, he threads it back through the hole, then adjusts his cuffs.

“So more than angels, is it then Miguel Ángel” Amado says at last. The plane rumbles as the wheels emerge from her belly, preparing to kiss the earth.

“We are men, Amado.” Beneath the custom cut of his suit, Miguel’s cock twitched, waited. “We are Men of Sinaloa. We are everywhere. We see everything. And we are in control.”