#sky rojo fanfiction

[narcolini]

putting it right

moisés (sky rojo) x gn!reader, 18+, smut/angst, 3034 words

warnings for guns, dubious morals, canon typical sentiments

for day 24 of whumpril: ‘what have you done?

a/n: its me and my moi fics against the world at this point. if no-one else is doing it then i simply just have to

tagging: @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa @hausofmamadas​ 

He might not even show. He might not come at all. You stare at yourself in the mirror, under the glow of the shitty yellow bathroom light. The motel you’re in isn’t one you’d normally choose, under any other circumstances, but for today it’s perfect. As dirty as you’re going to be. Stained no matter how hard you scrub it clean.

You sigh, splashing water over your face. It doesn’t matter how you look, really, because he’s in deep enough not to care anymore. To think you’re beautiful despite, and because of. To stare at you like he loves you. God. You flick another palm full of water onto your cheeks, your neck. It’s cool enough to feel like relief, just for a moment, and then you’re red hot again. Scorching with shame already.

He has no reason to suspect that anything’s changed, or to look at you any differently. He probably doesn’t think anything of the shit awful place you’ve invited him to, because God knows he’s used to worse. He probably thinks you’re playing into it. A motel on the side of the road, a night together like strangers, it’s part of the fun, no?

He’ll be here soon. You pat your face dry, your hands, the flaming skin around your collar. You aren’t doing anything you haven’t done before. At least, not to start with. You know him, you know how to be with him. That’s easy. Everything else, well, you’re trying to avoid thinking about it. What you won’t be here for, doesn’t matter. You just have to be how you usually are: hungry for him, relentless.

You scan the main room from the door of the en suite; the bed, your bag—packed still, but sat at the foot of it—the wine you’ve put on the bedside, and the drawer you’ve left half-open. Everything’s in place. It’ll be easy, once you have him here. And you’re going to be fine, remember, you’re going to be fine, even after it all happens. The worst will be the guilt, you suppose. That’s already creeping in, filling the gaps, staining the carpet. You’re gnawing at your bottom lip like you’ve already done what you intend to do.

He knocks before you can overthink it any further. Two taps to the door, just one knuckle. Light like he knows you’ll be waiting for the sound.  

You take a breath, straighten your shoulders, smooth down your shirt. It’ll go perfectly, it will. You’re only doing exactly as you always do. It’s Moisés, after all. You’ve been alone with him more times than you can count.

You pull the door open, smiling, and lean your hip against it to greet him. ‘Hola, guapo.’

He’s in one of his usual outfits, tight-fitting shirt, black jeans, western boots hidden beneath. His chin drops as he looks you over in return, before saying anything at all. You know what he’s seeing—you’d dressed up especially, made sure to only put on items that he’s complimented before. Clothes that he’s seen the least, really, because he took them off so quickly. But it’s done as you thought it would. He’s smiling by the time he’s back to your eyes, hand reaching for your waist already.

‘Te extañé,’ he says, purring it into your mouth, with his lips following shortly after.

You’re glad, because you can’t say it back to him. I missed you. There’s that guilt again, curling up the floor, snaking around your ankles. You kiss him and hope it goes away, lips to lips, tongue slipping through.

He kicks the door shut with his heel. ‘I almost didn’t come,’ he says, whispering it. A kiss in-between, his hands to your neck, your jaw. ‘But I couldn’t stay away.’

You hum in place of an answer, and for a moment he has you. His palms on your skin, his cologne down your throat. You almost forget what you’re there for.

‘We’re all addicts, aren’t we?’ you ask, letting your fingers stray down his back. ‘For something?’

You know his answer. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he loves you, again, like he loves you. You let him—you have to, for now. For this to work.

‘One day I’ll take you away from here,’ he says. He puts the promise of it against your neck, in-between the scrape of his teeth, the push of hot breath across your skin. ‘And then we can have this.’ To your collarbone, the top of your shoulder. ‘Every day.’

‘Really?’

He’s said it a thousand times. Before now, you always thought there might be some truth to it. Some value in letting yourself believe him.

‘Yes,’ he pants, starting at your clothes at last, fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘I need you.’

But you aren’t here for that. He is, you aren’t. You let your hands fall the rest of the way down, finding the gun you’ve learned to expect tucked into the back of his jeans.

‘And do you need this?’ you ask, pulling it free, hand loose around the grip of it.

He abandons his mission, leaning back to duck away from the waving weapon, his eyes rolling afterwards. ‘Cariño,’ he laughs, ‘cuidate.’

You take a step back, away from him, settling it in both hands now. It’s as heavy as you expected it to be, but still strange to hold. Foreign to point toward him. ‘Would you teach me to use it, if I asked?’

‘No.’ He’s smiling still, watching you play. ‘Who’re you planning to shoot, dulce?’

You line it up, nose to his chest, so close that it catches on one of his buttons. You could pull the trigger right now—if you wanted to. It’ll be loaded, ready. You know that. ‘People like this shit, y’know, fucking with guns around.’ You say it like you’re considering it, like you’re testing waters you never intend to tread. ‘It turns them on.’

He doesn’t move. His gaze flicks from you, to the gun. Back again. ‘I know.’

Of course he does. He’s probably seen it more times than you care to imagine. ‘I’m not sure if it’s for me,’ you say, tracing the end of the pistol down his stomach. ‘One mistake, and—’

When you twitch it back up, angled toward his face, he flinches, palm grabbing your wrist in the same moment. ‘That’s not funny,’ he scolds, holding your hand and the gun in the air beside you both. ‘It’s not a toy.’

‘No,’ you agree, ‘it’s not.’

He pulls your hand back to his chest, taking the gun without any complaint from you. ‘You shouldn’t be touching it.’

‘And you shouldn’t bring it when you’re coming to meet me.’ You layer a smile over your lips. ‘Can we put it away, baby, somewhere safe?’

You know what he wants to say—I have to carry it, I need it—but he doesn’t bother. Instead, he nods, and walks around the bed to the table on the left, and the drawer you left open. He tugs it out, putting the gun inside, then pauses. His eyebrow arches, his fingertips on the drawer’s handle still.

‘What’s this?’ he asks, flicking a curious smirk in your direction.

‘What?’ You’re feigning innocence, climbing onto the bed from the foot. You go on your hands and knees over the covers. ‘Is something in there?’

He hooks the handcuffs with his index finger, lifting them free from their hiding place, to dangle in the air by his head. ‘You didn’t bring these?’

It’s almost too easy, the smile you give in return, the blush you can’t fight even though you know, you know. ‘Oh,’ you purr, ‘those.’ You’re far enough up the bed to reach for him now, hands to his waist, to the belt loops of his jeans. You pull him toward you, putting his thighs to the mattress. ‘I thought we could try something new,’ you say.

It’s a yes before you’ve even made your case. He’s looking at you intensely now, breath heavy as he stands over you. His hand goes to the side of your face, his thumb to your bottom lip. ‘You or me?’ he asks.

You swallow. ‘I was thinking you.’

That, he hadn’t expected. He laughs lightly, through his nose, with a fond amusement growing in his eyes. ‘En serio?’

You nod.

‘You surprise me, cariño.’

And surprise is all you have.

You tug him toward you again, bringing his knees onto the mattress, before guiding him back against the headboard. He hasn’t said yes, but he hasn’t said no yet, either. You have to convince him of it. You have to make him forget who he is, just long enough to become someone else yourself.

‘You’re always in control, Moi.’ You climb over him, thighs parting over his lap. ‘Don’t you get tired of it?’

He sighs, one hand running over your ass, the other trapped between your bodies, handcuffs in his palm. ‘I don’t think I am,’ he says. ‘Not anymore.’

You kiss his neck, feeling him relax and tighten all at once. You know what he means, that Romeo is the one in control, not him, but you can’t work with that. You can’t tug that thread without it all unwinding. ‘Let me,’ you breathe by his ear, ‘I want to try.’

‘Yeah?’

You hum, reaching to take the cuffs from him. ‘It could be good for you,’ you smirk, ‘making you wait.’

He’s not used to it. He gets what he wants, when he wants it. He does what he wants, with no-one to stop him, no consequences. No guilt.

‘Please, Moi,’ you beg, rolling your hips over his, over the hard length of him beneath.

When he lets out his next breath, it wobbles slightly, staggering over his chest. But he nods, and he smiles, and his arms go up like he wants it now. Like curiosity has melted into need.

You stretch up, on your knees, to lean over him, glad that he’s looking at your chest and not your hands—because they’re shaking now, failing at the most crucial part. They aren’t really handcuffs, not by police standard. But they were the most secure you could find. Real metal, not plastic, not fluffy and coddling like they always are in those shops.

You feel him press a kiss to your sternum, feel his head tilt up to take in the smell at the base of your throat. Even now, even while you’re doing this, you smile, your body reacts. It would be so easy to give into him. You settle for returning the gesture with one of your own, kissing the inside of his wrist before cranking the cuff closed around it.

He reacts slightly, twitching under you.

‘Too tight?’

‘No.’ He adjusts himself, legs spreading slightly, free arm falling momentarily to run a hand up your ribcage. ‘It’s good.’

You wouldn’t change it even if it was cutting off the blood flow. You’re too far along now to go any further back.

‘Your hand, baby,’ you prompt, inviting him to lift his arm once more.

He does, putting it up alongside the other, and allowing you to thread the cuffs behind the poles of the bed frame, before locking his second wrist in place. Just like that.

It’s almost a shame—almost—that this is the last time. That it has to be. The thrill of seeing him like this, pliant, waiting, kept still beneath you. It’s almost enough to make you change your mind, to pretend this is the same as every other night and enjoy the position you’ve put him in.

‘You look good,’ you tell him, sitting back onto his lap again. ‘I like you like this.’

His brow arches. ‘Really?’ He’s still settling into it, fidgeting against the restraints, testing the limits of his movement. ‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Tranquilo.’ You put a hand to his stomach, then bend to kiss his collar, his chest. ‘Enjoy it, Moi.’ You know you are. You’re savouring it, keeping the image of it safe in your memories.

He relaxes slightly, trying for your sake to do as he’s told. When you pluck apart his shirt, to kiss the scorching skin beneath, he sighs, head back against the board. When you reach the band of his underwear, just below his naval, his eyes close. His wrists tug against the cuffs, desperate to reach for you.

‘Okay,’ you can hear him smirking, talking like he’s half asleep, ‘it’s not so bad.’

‘See?’ You catch the band with your teeth, pushing down on his hips as they lift to meet you. ‘I know you.’

You know what he likes, and you know what he does.

Any longer now and you’ll go back on yourself, undo everything that you’ve set up. Forget the mission and lose yourself in the sport of this. As much as you want to tease him, for hours and hours, until he’s begging you for release, you can’t. If not for your own sake, for theirs. A deal is a deal.

You sit up before it can happen, climb over his legs and onto the floor, before he can sigh again, or twitch under your touch. Before he can do anything to make you doubt your choice. You’re by your bag at the end of the bed, rooting in the front pocket, before he realises this isn’t a part of it.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, sitting straighter.

You ignore him, finding your phone and pulling it free. The text is already typed out—you made sure to do so long before he arrived, incase you failed with the cuffs—so it takes less than a minute for you to hit send and seal his fate; your fate. You watch it switch from sent to delivered, before chancing a look at him.

He’s frowning, confused because he doesn’t know to be angry yet, and tilting his head like he’s trying to laugh it away. Like he’s missed a joke and is trying to find the punchline still.

‘You stopped to send a text?’ he asks, with a nervous humour behind the words.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

You weren’t going to apologise to him, that was never supposed to come out—you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. But there it went, and here it comes again, ‘I’m sorry, Moi.’

It’s connecting, you think. The cuffs, the motel, the gun in the drawer away from him. The questioning laugh is sinking into something else, breaking into an expression you can’t stomach.

‘I couldn’t…’ There’s not enough time to explain it to him. It had taken you days to reach this conclusion, to decide on a path that led you both here, to the motel, and them to the parking lot outside, waiting for your signal. You have two, maybe three minutes before they get here—and that’s not long enough. That doesn’t even scratch the surface. ‘You can’t run forever, Moi.’

It clicks. His face folds, betrayal laid thick over his features. ‘What have you done?’ He asks, quiet enough that you could save it, really, if you wanted to. You could push the vulnerability back until he trusted you again.

But you can’t, you won’t. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say again, the only words you can manage.

He thrashes against the cuffs suddenly, rattling the chain against the bar. ‘What the fuck have you done?’

It’s easier now, to leave, because he’s switched to anger so quickly that you don’t recognise him. You don’t even feel bad, really, when he’s panting like a bull, rocking the bed beneath him. If he broke free, you aren’t even positive that he wouldn’t hurt you, because you’re on the other side now. You vs. Him.

‘You’re helping them?’ he spits, biceps bulging either side of his head.

You don’t answer. The clock is running out and you won’t be here to see it. You grab your bag, your phone, and head for the door before he can ask you anything else. Yes, you’re helping them, yes, you led him here and set the trap. Yes, you’ll regret it for weeks, maybe years, afterwards. But it’s the right thing to do. You have to remember that.

He shouts your name, roaring in between, as you open the door. Says it again, and again, as you shut it behind you, his throat so raw it sounds like he’s crying. You don’t recognise it. But they do, this is the man they’re used to, after all.

Your entry into the hall couldn’t have been better timed. As you shut the door, they turn the corner, Coral, Wendy. Gina. You release a breath you’d been saving, because now it’s out of your hands. They’re here, he’s there, and you’re free to go and never look back.

‘I was going to ask if he’s in there,’ Coral starts, as she arrives in front of you, ‘but, well.’ She laughs, her statement punctuated by another shout for you, your name, a heavy rattle of springs against the bed frame. ‘We should have given you horse tranquilliser.’

You can’t laugh. ‘His gun’s in the bedside,’ you tell her, rooting in your pocket for the handcuff key. ‘Here.’

‘You should have swallowed it.’

‘Coral,’ Wendy chides, before taking the key from you. ‘Thank-you. Seriously. We owe you.’

It’s nothing, you try to say, it’s the right thing to do, but you can’t force it. Your tongue won’t work anymore, held down by the guilt beneath it.

Wendy catches on, somehow, her voice softening a fraction. ‘I know he’s been good to you, but, really he—’

‘I know.’ You nod. ‘It stops here.’

In the room behind, Moisés says your name again, begging for it, for you, and that’s the last you can endure. With a final nod to the girls, you leave, pulling your bag tight to your shoulder. You have to go, now, have to leave it all before you change your mind. Him, them, the sound of your name on his lips. You leave all of it in the motel, rotting on the side of the road.

[mrslackles]

Can you and your fans give me your food for thought? Thoughts about how they’re playing Good Girls? Thoughts on it ending? 😭 thoughts??

Hi Anon!

I think by the time I'm answering this (so sorry about the delay!), you've probably seen the articles explaining what happened. That the show is basically too expensive to produce and Netflix is no longer acting as a show saviour unless it's going to result in real, additional profit. I think for NBC it was a simple numbers situation as well, and I don't really have more thoughts on that aside from what I've mentioned on here before -- their marketing for the show was lacklustre, so in some sense they did kinda set it up to fail.

As for further thoughts (and I really mean this as comfort, not criticism or to be a bitch), I would recommend taking comfort from the cancellation by analysing the trajectory of the plot. When you take it apart and really think about it, although a lot happens, nothing much new ever occurs. The world expands some, some things are revealed, but ultimately the dynamics stay the same. Nothing well and truly develops. There's this constant, throbbing buildup full of promise that is never quite totally satisfied. That sounded sexual but, also -- yeah. Kinda exactly like that. So many questions forever left unanswered (seriously, has the videotape from the season 2 finale ever come up again??) in favour of just stacking new ones on top. So when this finale ends on a cliffhanger and leaves you wanting, I hope that gives you some sort of comfort -- that it never really would've resolved anyway; that it would've just been more rinse and repeat with new dialogue.

I know a lot of people are mourning the experience of Good Girls, though, and I totally get that. Losing live reactions/blogging/tweeting, experiencing new fic based off new episodes -- fandom, basically -- and seeing specific actors portray your fave characters in a world you love is a big hit. It's hard losing a show you loved, no matter the context, and I'm really sorry for everyone experiencing that heartbreak right now. I know a lot of us gave far more to this show than 45 minutes of viewing time once a week and so in that way, it feels like something you invested in has been ripped away. All I can say is, I'll always be here and we'll always have the incredible writers and library of fanfiction they've provided and probably will continue to provide (plus new people will find the show and write new things!). The nicest thing about fandom is that (at least if it's moderately sized to begin with), it's never truly dead. Just changed.

Also, as a last thought, I highly recommend Sky Rojo on Netflix. While the plot can also tend to stagnate a little, the pace is dizzying, the trio of women are so enjoyable (and ride-or-die friends!), it's feminist to the core and the storytelling is so painfully aware of the message it's creating, taking apart classism and [spoiler] exploitation. And season 2 is coming soon!

[narcolini]

the other man, pt. 2

moisés (sky rojo) x gn!reader, 3406 words

warnings for blood, gunshot wounds, DIY medical treatment

for day 17 of whumpril: cry for help | self treatment | ‘i can’t do this.’

a/n: the way this poor guy has no (?) fics on here at all, and im already maiming him. my god

tagging: @cositapreciosa @drabbles-mc​

part one here

You left him there. You left him there, and it’s been hours, sun sinking beneath the horizon, warmth slipping into cold. He hasn’t rang you. Not even a text. He’s probably dead, right? You probably left him to die. Shirt splattered with red, arm stretched across the concrete. Gun just out of reach.

You groan, turning to push your face into the pillow. It doesn’t help to imagine it. Even if he’s alive, you might never see him again. What if’s won’t do anything but torment you, if there’s never any closure, no evidence of the alternative.

The last you saw of him, he was alive. In control. Not scared in the slightest, as far as you could tell, so that’s what you’ll remember. What you’ll cement as fact. Alive, uninjured. Unrecognisable to the man you thought you knew, but not dead, at least.

Go away with me, he said. He knew they were coming. He tried to get out, you with him, hand in hand, before they got there. That meant something, right? The Moisés you knew was holding out still, before the gunfire. Putting you and him in the sun.

‘Fuck,’ you sigh, and flop back over to stare at the ceiling. A lifetime of wondering, then. That’s what you’ve been cursed with. You won’t sleep all night, wondering if he’s alive, wondering if it was a mistake to try and know him, and then in the morning, you’ll dress. Open the shop. Sell string bags and sunglasses to tourists, then go home and wonder again.

You almost resent him suddenly, hot and striking across your chest—he could’ve told you. Could’ve given you some warning that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the type of guy to go on coffee dates with. To give your address to, to let brush his fingertips over you. You were half a breath away from falling for him. And the whole time, he was entwined in something dangerous enough to put you at risk. Real, true harm, only a car crash away.

It was cowardice, really, keeping it from you for his own sake. It made him a coward. Or stupid. Head so far in the clouds, he thought you’d never see the ground.

The buzzer to your flat goes, sharp and rattling through the box by the door.

You sit upright, out of the covers, to follow the sound before the first press is even complete. Then you’re in the hallway, heart thumping, when it goes again. Prolonged, this time, because whoever’s pressing it, down on street level, isn’t relenting. They’re just holding it and holding it, and it’s echoing off the walls either side of you, so loud it’s making you cringe. Wince.

You reach the door, click the camera icon on the intercom. It takes a second to warm up, grey and black fuzzing into shapes, into features. It’s him. God, it’s him. His forehead’s against the wall by the camera, but you recognise the nose, the jaw, the swinging earring.

He doesn’t lift his finger from the bell until you say his name, desperate and questioning.

‘Cariño,’ he replies, tinny through the box. It sounds like he’s panting, hissing the words out. It could be the connection. You can’t remember how it sounded before now, how people besides him, right now, spoke through it. ‘Let me in.’

Your hands are sweating, slipping from the button you press to speak back at him. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’

His head drops momentarily, before lifting again, gaze flitting about to find the eye of the camera. ‘I need your help. Please.’ He cuts himself off, panting a noise out like he’s in pain. A sound you’ve never heard him make.

You’re swinging from the door before he can ask again. Leave it open, to save time when you come back. It’s late enough in the night that you don’t have to worry about neighbours, and you’re only on the first floor, only one communal stairwell away from him.

Your feet slap against the stone as you descend, cold chilling up your bare legs. The t-shirt and gym shorts you’re wearing were never meant to leave the home, were never meant to be seen, by him of all people, riddled with moth holes and paint. It doesn’t matter. He needs you.

The latch on door at the bottom sticks, for a moment. You rattle it free, desperate, then lug the huge timber open to get at him.

‘Moi.’ It comes out like a breath.

He’s standing at half the height he usually is, his chin down to his chest, one arm stretched to prop him against the brick. You pull him forward like you’re starving, hook a hand around his shoulder to get him in from the night.

It doesn’t matter, now, that he kept things from you. That he thought he could. He’s alive, standing in front of you, and alive. You can’t wait until the door’s shut again, you have to hug him, have to feel his heartbeat against your own. You tug at him—

He holds you off, firmly, heel of his palm pressing into your collarbone. ‘Don’t,’ he bites, harder than you’d expect from him.

For a split second, you’re offended, anger flitting between your ears, but then you look down. You see why he’s stopped you.

‘Shit, Moi. Fuck.’

He’s bleeding, and a lot. So much, that you must be stupid, or blind, to have even missed it. Too caught up in the relief of seeing him, that you hadn’t really seen him at all. It’s dark down his thigh, staining one leg of his jeans, and splattered up his forearm. He’s got one palm pushed to the source of it, more red than the usual tan of his skin, tight to his stomach. The ring on his pinky looks like it’s carrying a ruby, gold hidden beneath.

‘Get me upstairs,’ he says, through the grit of his teeth.

‘What? No, we’re going to the hospital.’

He pushes a shaky breath, taking a half-step into the entry way. ‘Please.’ His cleaner hand shifts from your collar, to sit on your shoulder for support. ‘Upstairs, cariño.’

It had done you well to trust him the last time he asked something of you. You can only hope he’s making the right decision again, choosing you over the medical staff he so obviously needs.

You pull his wrist until his arm is sitting over your shoulders properly, taking as much of his weight as you can manage. Kick your foot out to shut the door behind you. It’s clumsy, messy. He’s heavier than you expected, all limp, tired muscle, that fights you with every step. If you didn’t have to, life or death, you wouldn’t manage it. You couldn’t lift him.

He’s wincing by you ear each time you go up, hissing it through the set of his jaw, but you can’t help that. This is the only way there is.

‘Sorry.’ You stagger as you reach the mid-way landing, pulling him and his heavy steps around the corner. ‘Last bit.’

He nods. His hand is still planted to the wound by his navel, but it hasn’t stopped the blood from spreading. It’s on the stairs behind you, on the second leg of his jeans, on you. It’s on you, smeared up your side somehow, and on the collar of your shirt, left from the hand he’s hanging over it. You don’t look at it. Don’t think about it. Your door is in sight, wide open and ready for you.

‘There.’ You’re breathing heavy like you’d ran, as you put him against the wall in the hallway. ‘Hold on.’

You lock the door behind, thread the chain in the latch, like that extra piece of metal will stop anyone who might’ve followed him. There’s fingerprints of red, everywhere you touch. It doesn’t matter. It’s okay. Just more paint stains to scrub out, right?

When you turn back, he’s not slumped against the wall still, but is making his way to the kitchen. Rigid, stiff with pain. He looks like he’s limping, but his legs are good, you’re sure they are, it’s the flex of his stomach that he’s trying to avoid, trying to overcompensate for.

‘Moisés, wait.’ You follow after him.

‘Do you have a sewing kit?’

‘What?’

‘Needle, thread.’ He looks over his shoulder. There’s blood on his chin, streaking down his neck. Everything he touches is marked with it.

You don’t make him ask again, disappearing into the second room you use as an office. There’s one in the drawers there, a gift from your grandma that you’ve used once and never again. You know what comes next, you can work it out, he’s going to want to use it. On himself, he’s going to stitch himself shut. Drip blood on the tiles while he threads it through his skin.

‘Here.’ You try to pass it to him now you’re back, but he just nods, and continues to manoeuvre himself around the kitchen. You put it on the side, offering a hand for support when he lifts himself onto the breakfast stool. ‘What happened?’ you ask, though you already know.

He laughs, breathy and barely amused. ‘What d’you think?’ He peels the hand away. ‘I got shot.’

‘Fuck.’

You feel the heat drain from your face, feel the room spinning slightly. There’s a hole in his stomach, staring back at you, leaking blood that’s almost black.

‘I need you to get it out,’ he pants, looking up through his lashes, ‘the bullet.’

‘What?’

‘It’s,’ he winces, repositioning himself, ‘it’s gotta come out.’

‘No.’ Your head shakes. ‘No, I can’t, I don’t know how.’

He tries to smile, nodding. ‘It’s easy, okay? I’ll talk you through it.’

But you can’t even stand straight. You’re swaying, sweating though you’re cold, goosebumps running up your arms.

‘Wash your hands,’ he says, doing his best to sound like it’s easy. Like he isn’t wasting breath and energy on instructions. ‘You have a lighter? Get a lighter, a knife, put it through the flame—’

‘Fuck, wait.’

He’s still going and you’re only at the hand washing part, scrubbing desperately. No matter how thorough you are, it still won’t work, you still won’t be clean enough to root about in his stomach.

‘Tranquilo,’ he sighs. ‘Tenemos tiempo.’

‘Do we?’ you bark back at him, flicking water as you shut off the tap. ‘You look like you’re fucking dying, Moisés.’

‘I know, I know.’ He’s pushing his hand over the wound again, feet slipping from the bar of the stool as he tries to stay on the seat. ‘If it was going to kill me, it would have.’

You don’t have to be medically trained to know that that’s bullshit. It could have damaged him elsewhere, somewhere deeper than surface level. He could drop dead in a day, or a week, regardless of how well you manage things right now.

‘Okay,’ you mutter, ‘okay, lighter, knife.’

You find them both in the same drawer and bring them back to him, like he needs to supervise the next step. As if he isn’t taking longer, slower blinks, and deeper swallows of air. He doesn’t look at you directly once you’re there, wet thumb slipping from the wheel, again and again, before you finally catch the spark.

‘Like this?’ You put the flame under the blade, waiting.

He nods. ‘Lo est—esteriliza.’ He winces, looking up after you’ve torched the metal to the point of changing colour. ‘Ta bien.’

You toss the lighter onto the counter. Now you’re standing in front of him, hands shaking slightly, with the knife poised in mid-air like you’re about to fence him, not dig a bullet from his stomach. ‘I don’t know how to…’

He lifts his hand again, wet with fresh blood, though you can’t tell how much. The bleeding has slowed slightly, maybe. You hope. He nods, groaning as he pushes his hips forward. He’s trying to flatten himself as much as the stool will allow, pulling his torn shirt away from the site.

The room swings, tilting around you. ‘I can’t do this,’ you whisper. The knife feels hot to the touch, even from the handle, it feels like gripping a scalding poker meant for cattle. ‘I can’t.’

‘You can,’ he counters, you have to, he means. ‘It’s okay.’

‘No, no, I really can’t, Moi.’ You swallow, pushing back against the rising bile. ‘You—you.’

He takes the knife from you clumsily, though his hands are far from clean, and bends to see the wound himself. You didn’t mean for him to do it, did you? You were going to say something else, you were going to—

‘Shit,’ he hisses, slipping in his seat again. The knife is wobbling in his hold, because he’s shaking more than you are. Red fingers unable to grip the thing tight enough to start.

It’s not going to work. He won’t be able to do it himself.

‘Damelo.’ You pluck it from him without waiting for an answer. ‘What do I do?’

His chest heaves, breath staggering out of him. ‘Try and feel for it,’ he says, panting between each word, ‘use the knife to lever it out.’

You don’t have time to doubt your ability anymore. He’s lagging, shaking from the pain now the adrenaline’s wearing off, and you have to do it for him. There’s no-one else he can go to, clearly. He wouldn’t be here if there was, so it’s you, or nothing.

You step between his knees, one hand on his stomach to steady you. You can’t see the bullet, obviously, just black and red, and slick wetness that you really don’t want to touch. There’s no going back now.

You put the tip of the blade into the opening and he growls, clenching his teeth around the noise. His stomach tenses beneath you, his thighs pincer around your hips—it’s all impulse, subconscious reactions that he can’t stop. The body trying to protect itself from the intruder.

‘I think I feel it.’ Hard where everywhere else is soft, it catches against the end of the knife.

‘Fuck.’ He’s huffing air from his nose, steaming like a bull. ‘Get it out.’

‘I’m trying.’

You’re cutting the edges of him, splitting the skin where it wasn’t split before, but eventually, you think you have it. The end beneath the bullet. You press down without warning, because it wouldn’t have helped anyway, and force it out. Right back the way it had come.

It doesn’t clatter to the ground, but instead rolls down his stomach, slow and wonky, to sit in his lap. It’s smaller than you expected. That, caused all this?

He says your name once. You’d been staring at it, knife away from him and in the air again, eyes on the bloodied metal on his jeans. Right, yeah. Close the wound.

The intrusion has caused more bleeding, but there’s so much already that it doesn’t make you pause. You’re the one riding on adrenaline now, reaching for the sewing kit, finding thread, a needle, while he hums in pain beside you. He’s got his lips pressed together, a whimper following each exhale he forces through his nose.

You’re beyond words now, the both of you. He doesn’t need to guide you through it. Can’t, really. And you don’t need to lie to him that it’ll only be a little longer, only be a little pinch. It’s just time to get it over with. Sew the skin together as best you can, hope the damage isn’t enough to kill him. Toes over the edge, and jump.

*

He had slept for a bit, afterwards, and you sat at the end of the bed watching him. You’d stitched the wound as best you could, but it won’t hold. It won’t do him any good in the long run.

He hadn’t wanted to wash himself once you’d finished, like you thought he should. So you’d helped him into the bedroom and cleaned what you could from his skin with a facecloth. It didn’t get it all, and he wouldn’t let you wipe too close to the site, but his hands are clean at least. His face isn’t streaked with blood anymore.

You put him in the biggest t-shirt you own, bought to be oversized anyway, and he looks like a child in it. Besides where the sleeves stretch tight over his arms, it drowns him. He slept not long after. Propped against your pillows, with the sheet up to his waist. It’d been a relief; he looked peaceful. You didn’t mind missing out on your own sleep just to watch him.

Now, though, he’s coming to. You know, because his brows are pinching slightly, twitching together as the pain returns to him. He takes a bigger breath than he should, chest lifting, stitches straining, then hisses and opens his eye.

He looks afraid for a second, shoulders tensing. Then it drops, and he sees you, and he blows a breath too forced to be real, genuine relief.

You smile limply. It’s three o’clock, the birds aren’t up yet. The room is dim still, lit with the in-between blue of night and sunrise. ‘Morning, Moi.’

The apple in his throat bobs as he swallows. Then his hand goes up, pointing, and you’re on you feet before he even has to ask. You pass him the glass from the bedside, which he takes with both hands, drinking like he’s been denied it for weeks.

‘Thank-you,’ he says afterwards, handing it back to you.

You nod and leave it on the edge of the cabinet, so that he might be able to get it himself next time. ‘Thought you might not wake up,’ you admit, returning to your post on the end of the bed. Just a hand’s distance from his covered feet. ‘So, thank-you, for not doing that. Don’t think I could explain a dead man in my bed.’

He smiles, just with his lips, because it doesn’t reach his eyes yet. ‘I wouldn’t have come,’ he says, leaving you to fill in the rest as he takes another shallow breath.

He wouldn’t have come, he means, if he thought he would die. But what would he have done instead? Crawled off into the bush like animals do, found somewhere quiet to die on his own?

You might not know him as you thought you did, but you care for him still, of course you do. You don’t want to think of him going like that, alone and in pain. The time you've spent together hasn’t been a complete waste—it can’t be, you won’t let it be. There’s something about him, about you. Something you shared over pastries in the mornings by the beach.

‘I feel like I’m sitting with a stranger,’ you admit, putting it to him quietly, like any louder and it’ll hurt him, press into the swelling beside his navel. ‘I don’t understand.’

You thought you had more to the say, but that covers it all. You don’t understand. You don’t understand why he was attacked, why he had a gun, why he kept half of his life hidden from you.

‘You have a lot of questions,’ he says, voice low and thick with sleep. Or hoarse from grunting in pain.

You nod, shy to meet his gaze.

‘Ask them.’ He shrugs, a minuscule gesture, more led by his expression than anything else. ‘I don’t want anymore secrets.’

He’s tired, you can tell, not only from the day before, the injuries, but from the combination of it all. From the weight on his back, the cost of folding mystery over his life. He wants out. Wants the truth between you, no matter the consequence.

‘If you want me to leave, after you…’ He swallows, jaw clenching as he nods, like he’s trying to convince himself of it, before putting forth the idea. ‘I’ll go. You won’t see me again.’

The knee jerk reaction is to tell him that you don’t want that, that you would’t send him away in this state—or any, really—just because of who he is. What he does. But you know that’s a self-laid trap, waiting to be stepped in. He could say anything. He could be anyone.

‘Okay,’ you reply, accepting his deal. ‘Let’s start at the beginning.’

[narcolini]

the other man

moisés (sky rojo) x gn!reader, angst/action, 2610 words

canon typical violence and action

for day 15 of whumpril: flinching & ‘do you trust me?’

a/n: admittedly, i haven’t finished the show yet, so don’t have the full scope of moi’s timeline but.. when has that ever stopped me from putting a guy in a situation before? im moulding the blorbo how i like <3

tagging: @cositapreciosa @drabbles-mc​ (you guys must b sick of this kjdfhg)

You knew him without ever really knowing him. In the outskirts of things. You didn’t know his job, or where he grew up. Didn’t know how his parents were, if they were alive still, or married. If he had cousins or nephews. If his brother was the only friend that he had—if that’s who he spent all his evenings with, where he went after dark. You didn’t know him at all, in that sense.

But you knew him in the mornings. In the sun, arm raised to shield his eyes. Opposite you at the café of his choosing. You knew that he liked a pastel de nata with his coffee, and sitting outside, even when the wind picked up. Newspapers curling around the table legs.

You knew he wanted to travel, like you. Loved dogs, like you. Wanted to be a better person than either of you had managed yet.

I don’t give back as much as I should, he’d say. You ever try to balance it out? The good and the bad?

You knew him like that, and it was enough. You knew him enough.

On the day that it happened, you hadn’t been planning to see him. Expected him to text the day after, maybe, to invite you to the beach as he said he might. You didn’t think he’d show up at the shop, before you’d even wound the front shutters up.

‘You free?’ he asked. ‘For coffee?’

You laughed, keys dangling from your palm. ‘Now?’

‘Claro que sí, ahora.’ He was insistent.

‘I’ve got to open, Moi. We don’t all work at night like you.’

He fidgeted, rubbing his nose with the knuckles of his fingers, and looking behind him, behind you, like he was waiting for something. Expecting something. You watched his earring swing as he turned back to you.

‘You’re the boss, right?’ He shrugged. ‘Open later.’

‘You’re making me nervous,’ you said, eyeing him carefully. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No.’ He pouted, head shaking. ‘Solo quiero verte.’

You went with him because he’d never been desperate like that before, and it stirred you warm, spun your chest into hot treacle, to give him what he wanted. He offered his hand and you took it, palm swamping your own, warm and callused. He chose somewhere you’d been a handful of times, then led you through the tables out front, straight to the entrance.

‘Qué?’ You stopped between the seats. ‘We’re sitting inside?’

He nodded, holding the door open for you. ‘It could rain.’

But it was as clear a day as any, white clouds, no breeze. Nothing to be blown in from the sea. The feeling was slipping, then. He wasn’t acting how you knew him to be.

‘Okay,’ you said, brows pinched in confusion, but you were willing enough to play along. He’d always been practical, realistic. Any reason he might have had, hidden or not, you had to trust. ‘If you’re paying, we can sit anywhere, guapo.’

He smiled, touching your back as you passed him. You didn’t miss the second glance he took, either, the scan of the road through the glass of the closed door; but you didn’t comment. You let him live in the secret of it, the pretence that this was normal, that he just wanted to see you. Even when the excitement was starting to fade into worry. Even when he ordered an espresso, only that, and sat across from you, bouncing his knee.

‘What is it, Moi?’ you asked, smiling through the nerves. ‘Bad night?’

His head shook, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers linking in the space above his lap. ‘No worse than usual.’

‘Wow.’ Your lips stretched tight. ‘Is that why we don’t talk about it?’

Why work was off-limits, why questions were never met with answers. Why he disappeared once the sun set, and came back before he’d slept, just to see you.

He eyed you for a moment, dark and intense in a way he often wasn’t. Scratched his chin, thumb to the stubble, glanced out through the windows. ‘I want to ask you something.’

‘Claro.’ You shrugged. You were already waiting for it. ‘Go on.’

‘Go away with me.’ It wasn’t a question at all. ‘Tonight.’

You scoffed, stirring sugar into your coffee. ‘Go where?’

‘Montenegro.’

The spoon clattered from your grip, hot cappuccino flicked onto the table and your wrist. ‘No estas serio, Moisés?’

But he was serious, and waiting for an answer. ‘Just to start. Then we can go wherever you want. Travel, like we’ve talked about, see the world.’

‘You hit your head or something?’ You laughed, for lack of anything else to do. ‘I can’t just leave.’

His jaw flexed once, then he was leaning forward, his arms over the table to meet you. He took your hand in the both of his, held on like you might’ve snatched it away again. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I don’t have time to convince you, cariño.’

‘What?’

‘Say you will.’

‘I can’t. What about the shop, my—’

‘I have to go tonight,’ he stressed. ‘I want you to come with me.’

He was right to hold on, because then you did feel like sitting back and pulling yourself away from him, hand out of hand. From the desperation in his eyes, the fear—a new emotion, one you’ve never seen in his features—fear, and worry, and fast-waining hope.

‘What are you talking about, Moi? Why do you have to go anywhere?’

You didn’t know him, you didn’t know him enough. Something was catching up at last, biting at your heels. Chasing him away from you.

‘Are you in trouble?’ you asked.

He shook his head. You didn’t believe it.

‘Please,’ he reasoned again, whispering now, ‘we could have something good. Real.’ He squeezed your hand. ‘Normal.’

But everything was normal, until that moment. Company in the morning, a walk down the beach. Lunch late and dinner early, before he disappeared again. That was normal. Travelling the world, without warning, with a man you’d never even seen in the comfort of his own home, was beyond normal. Dangerous, even.

‘No,’ you told him, ‘no, are you kidding? Of course I can’t Moi.’

You need time to think about it, you wanted to say, but that was taken from you like everything else.

It was a car, into the front of the café, bumper ploughing through the outside seating and everything in between. You didn’t register it as that, at first. Your immediate reaction was bomb, fuck, we’ve been bombed. Glass splitting, windows collapsing beside you. The sharp stings of cuts scattered across your cheek.

It happened so fast, so quick and so loud, that you don’t even remember reacting to it. It just was, it happened, and you were there, heart jumping like they’d stabbed you with an EpiPen, and then it stopped. Just like that. No building collapse, no screams. Quiet in place of chaos, with the grumbling of an engine sitting two feet away. Not a bomb, not a planned attack, but a car. Driven full speed toward you, your table. Moisés.

‘What the fuck?’ you started, looking to him, the waitress, the rocking car, half-in, half-out, of the building. ‘Are they okay? Did they…?’

‘Shit.’ Moisés was staring through the shattered windscreen, standing already. Alert and poised, and scaring the shit out of you. ‘Bastard.’

‘Moi, what—’

He ripped you from the seat before you could finish piecing together what had happened. Before you could see what he’d seen: the empty driver’s seat, the second car parked further down the road, and the armed men climbing out of it. He pulled you up, then down, dragging you across the room in a clumsy stoop. When you reached the till counter, he ducked you behind it. Roughly. Rougher than he’s ever touched you before.

‘Stay here,’ he ordered, voice hard and sharp.

‘What?’ You were panting, eyes wide. ‘Moisés!’

He disappeared before you could ask why, arm reaching for the gun you’d never noticed, sitting in the waistband of his jeans. If he brought it every time you met with him, or just that one time, because he knew he’d need it, you don’t know. Even with the disaster right in front of you, the sight of it knocked you sick. Worry pooling in your stomach. I don’t know him at all, you thought, he carries a gun, and I don’t know him at all.

‘Go!’ you heard him shout, barking it to the staff. ‘Get out of here!’

You shrunk into your hiding place, shaking without realising and rattling the plywood behind. Stay here? Stay here and wait, while he ordered every one else to leave? While he ran out front with a handgun?

He’s crazy. That’s what you decided, he’s crazy, dangerous, a gang leader in hiding, that you were too mesmerised by to interrogate. Happy with his smile, his looks. The feel of his hand on your lower back. Too smitten to ask anything important of him, to think that anything about his lifestyle was strange.

‘Fuck.’ You gritted your teeth, fists clenched like that might will away the shakes, and bring courage in their place. ‘Okay. Okay. You’re okay.’ You were getting out of there. You weren’t going to wait for him, or wait for whatever the fuck he’d dragged you into to get to you first; you were going to stand up, run for the back, find the cooks’ entrance—

And then there were gunshots, and you were the one screaming. Frozen in place, unable to run anywhere at all.

He’s going to die. It spun around in your head, heavier and harder to shake than anything you’d thought about him before then. He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die. You clapped your hands to your ears, attempting to muffle the blows. Maybe he was crazy, maybe he was someone you shouldn’t be spending time with, or dreaming about, maybe you should have never met him at all—it didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to hear the gunshot that killed him.

You sat like that forever, it felt like, cowering behind the tills, palms pressed hard to either side of your head. Wishing it would stop, wishing he would win, wishing you wouldn’t have to step over his body after all of it came to an end. Your mouth was so dry from worry, that you were wheezing. Dragging breath after breath through the sandpaper of it. In, in, in, out. Again. Over and over, just to keep yourself going.

You were focusing on it obsessively—so fixated that you didn’t realise your eyes had closed, didn’t see Moisés when he appeared again in front of you, out of breath and sweating.

He put a hand to your shoulder and you flinched, gasping, your own hands falling away to help you scramble along the floor in the opposite direction. It was him. Not whoever was after him, but him, alive still.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, reaching for your face. ‘It’s me.’

You nodded, abandoning your attempt to flee, but unable to shake the wild fear from your eyes. It was him, yes, but what did that even mean anymore? The Moisés you knew, would never have been victim to a targeted hit and run, or have known how to shoot back when guns were pointed his way.

‘We’ve got to go,’ he said, speaking quickly and carefully. Knowing you were scared, knowing you didn’t have time to be. ‘Okay? We’re gonna get out of here.’

‘Where?’ You were whispering, voice crumbling around each word. ‘Go where?’

His gun was in his hand still. One palm to your cheek, over the forming scabs, one wrapped around the handle of his weapon.

‘Out front,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘You’re going to go first, out the door, I’ll—’

‘You’re insane.’ You shook your head, pushing against his chest wildly, fingers twisting in the collar of his shirt. ‘Stop it. Stop it, Moi.’ The hysterics were bubbling out, spilling over. Lashing from your tongue into the unmoving wall of him. ‘I can’t.’

‘Shh.’ He hushed you, bringing himself closer, ignoring the frustrations you were taking out on him. ‘They don’t know who you are,’ he said. ‘Right? They’ll shoot at me, not you. I’ll be right behind. They’ll see me.’

‘No, no, I’m not…’

‘You run to the car.’ He broke away briefly, to pull the keys from his pocket and give them to you. ‘You get there, and you go.’

You couldn’t blink, you couldn’t move. The keys in your hand felt like a grenade, pin pulled, victims pending. ‘And I wait for you?’ you asked, hoping for an answer that didn’t make you want to vomit.  

His head shook a fraction. ‘And you go. For me, okay? You get the fuck out of here.’

He meant it. Counted on it, even, on you leaving him there.

‘Moi…’

‘Do you trust me?’ he asked, brown eyes steady on yours.

You stared at him. Twenty minutes earlier, you did. The day before, you did. But then, on the floor of the café-turned-trench, you didn’t. You couldn’t.

But you had to.

You nodded minutely, but it was enough of a gesture to convince him of it. He pulled you into him at the signal, his hand to the back of your neck, to put your forehead to his, and then a short, rushed kiss to your lips.

You didn’t have time to savour it. You can’t imagine it, or re-live it now, no matter how hard you try.

‘Go,’ he told you afterwards, helping you to your feet, ‘I’ll be behind you.’

You didn’t believe him, but you ran. Faster than you knew you could. Across the floor, over the pebbles of glass, the scattered menus. Through the door that was made redundant by the crash, hanging diagonally from its frame.

When they open-fired around you, past you—at him, because he was there, like he said he would be, ten steps behind—your arms flew up to your head, forming a shield that’d do nothing, really. All instinct and fear. You kept it there as you ran, eyes on your feet, because you weren’t about to trip and fuck it all up.

The car was only parked on the opposite side of the road. You reached it, in what felt like a heartbeat, because they weren’t looking for you. They didn’t care about you. No one turned their attention when you dropped the keys, hands shaking, keyring clattering to the tarmac. You forced them into the lock afterwards, sweat on your brow, and climbed inside.

You turned the engine over, feeling the car bounce to life under your seat. In a second, you could have been gone, away from them all and to safety. But, your foot hovered over the accelerator, hand locked on the gear stick, unmoving.

He was right there. Right behind, a little longer, and he could have dived into the back. Barked at you to go, with him safely inside.

You found him in the rear view mirror, watched him take a shot before twisting and crouching behind an upturned table. They weren’t the motions of someone inexperienced, thrown into trouble, paddling to survive. No, it was like watching a soldier in the field. No army greens, but all of the control, the composure. He’d done it all before.

And you go.

He’ll be fine, you told yourself, he knows what he’s doing.

And you go.

You put the car into gear, leaving him and the gunshots behind.  

>>>part two

[hausofmamadas]

You’re a fucking genius. Whatever, I don’t even care anymore. I have nothing left in me.

═

✷ He’s probably dead, right? You probably left him to die. Shirt splattered with red, arm stretched across the concrete. Gun just out of reach.

Me at the end of the last fic skdjdjdjd not realizing there was a part 2, like there is no way that mf is still alive except when I remember your Lalo fic and how you tricked me into thinking that mf was totally alive for half the fic when it turns out he was fuckifnsjhrhreheb dead the whole time, it’s fine. I’m not concerned about the potential psychological warfare I’m wading into, nopenopenope

✷ The last you saw of him, he was alive. In control. Not scared in the slightest, as far as you could tell, so that’s what you’ll remember. What you’ll cement as fact. Alive, uninjured. Unrecognisable to the man you thought you knew, but not dead, at least.

GODDDDDDDDD THE FACT THAT THEYRE TRTING TO WILL HIM ALIVE LIKE LYING AWAKE IN BED AT NIGHT, LITERALLT NOTHING IS WORSE THAN WISHING THAT SOMEONE WHO’S NOT AROUND ANYMORE COULD STILL BE AROUND, LIKE NOTHINT IS MORE INDICATIVE OF GUT WRENCHING LOSS AND ITS ONLY MADE WORSE BY THE FACT THAT READER AND I DONT EVEN KNOW WTF HAPPENED TO HIM ugggghhhdhdhdhhs also honorable mention: slapping you back and forth like we’re in a novela for the “what you’ll cement as fact” bc how very fuckign dare you

✷ A lifetime of wondering, then. That’s what you’ve been cursed with.

actually PHYSICALLYYYYY clutched my chest reading this

✷ You won’t sleep all night, wondering if he’s alive, wondering if it was a mistake to try and know him, and then in the morning, you’ll dress. Open the shop. Sell string bags and sunglasses to tourists, then go home and wonder again.

Can you see how well I’m doing not copy/pasting the entire fucking fic rn??!??????? LIKE REALLY DOING SO GREAT AT IT, A+ FOR ME this is not what failure looks like but the selling string bags and sunglasses to tourists, like once again, just trying to muscle thru a loss like that, and specifically an ambiguous loss where you’re liek “am I even allowed to be upset about this? ... probably not” so you’re just sweating and cringe smiling for Jesus bc if you allow the muscles of your face to relax into any other expression, you’ll literally burst into tears and send perfect strangers fleeing for the exit to avoid the sobbing basket case who supposedly owns this store. I mean do I personally have any experience with anything like this??? Ofc course not. But can I see how, maaaayyybeeee, possiblyyyyyyyyt, a person could pooteeeeentialllyyy feel that way. 10000% 🤫 these are not falsehoods in any way whatsoever

✷ You were half a breath away from falling for him. And the whole time, he was entwined in something dangerous enough to put you at risk. Real, true harm, only a car crash away.

AREEEEEEEEEEEEYOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFUUUUCKINGKGGJTJJRJRJRKIIIIIIIDDDINGMMMEE YOU WERE HALF A BREATH AWAY FROM FALLING FOR HIM????????!!!;!;!4!!44 LEGITIMATELY FUCKING DISGUSTED AT HOW FIRE OF A LINE THAT IS, LIKR AVTUAL GENUINE DISGUST, I ALMOST CHUCKED MY PHONE LIKE IT WAS A HOT POTATO, I AM NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING

✷ It was cowardice, really, keeping it from you for his own sake. It made him a coward. Or stupid. Head so far in the clouds, he thought you’d never see the ground.

SKSKSKSKKSS I snorted so loud at this roast bc as dreamy as Moi is, tbis is also him, to a fucking tee

✷ Prolonged, this time, because whoever’s pressing it, down on street level, isn’t relenting. They’re just holding it and holding it, and it’s echoing off the walls either side of you, so loud it’s making you cringe. Wince.

Okay, I’m there right now bc this is monstrously descriptive (cariñoso) and I have a headache already

✷ 'Cariño,’ he replies, tinny through the box. It sounds like he’s panting, hissing the words out. It could be the connection. You can’t remember how it sounded before now, how people besides him, right now, spoke through it. ‘Let me in.’

YOU CANT REMMEBER HOW IT SOUNDED BEFORE NOWWWWWJDJDIEINESBSIEJWOXOSNNW9/&2&293&4 I SWEAR TO CHRIST IMMACRUALLY GOING TO MURDER FOR THIS BC ONCE AGAIN, SUCH TANGIBLE LITTLE MOMENTS LOKE CORNERSTONES OF AMBIGUOUS LOSS, LIKE ARE YOU TRYING TO HURT ME!!!!!!!!!!:$:&3!3&3 HAVENT YKU DONE ENOUGH IN THE YEAR WEVE BEEN FRIENDS GOOD GODDAMN

✷ You’re swinging from the door before he can ask again. Leave it open, to save time when you come back. It’s late enough in the night that you don’t have to worry about neighbours, and you’re only on the first floor, only one communal stairwell away from him.

nononononononooooooononono don’t do that, don’t leave it open, like I completely get the logic but Romeo whoever is after him is probably an actual fucking psycho, dontdoitdontdoit plsplspls, god I am grinding my teeth, THE SHEER DREAD

✷ The t-shirt and gym shorts you’re wearing were never meant to leave the home, were never meant to be seen, by him of all people, riddled with moth holes and paint. It doesn’t matter. He needs you.

The funny thing about this is I actually think the domestic, regular?ness of this? Moi would be so fucking hot for sosksksks like it’s just so completely outside what he sees all the time, like taking a field trip to a place you’ve never been, and yes, in the real world, we wear big ass t shirts and boxers to sleep in

✷ The latch on door at the bottom sticks, for a moment. You rattle it free, desperate, then lug the huge timber open to get at him.

So, I’ve like never been to Spain before but I can picture exactly what this looks like and I just love the attention to detail, that you’ve like captured the different architecture that a flat in Spain would have vs like the US, or Mexico, or the UK, like where most of the other fandoms you write for take place. Bien hecho, mi comadre, lo ves bien

✷ He’s alive, standing in front of you, and alive. You can’t wait until the door’s shut again, you have to hug him, have to feel his heartbeat against your own.

YOUUUUUDHDIEHWBWNSOKSMAPWMENE HAVETOFEELHISHEARTBEATAGAINSTYOUROWN LIKE FUCKKKKKKKKKK OOOOOOFFFFFFFFFF WITH IT OKAYYY?????BBBSJSJSJE

✷ He pushes a shaky breath, taking a half-step into the entry way. ‘Please.’ His cleaner hand shifts from your collar, to sit on your shoulder for support. ‘Upstairs, cariño.’

So likeksskeksksksks when I take this sentence entirely out of context, like so, can we all just moment of silence at how actually blindingly sexy the description of his hand sliding from collarbone to shoulder is *bows head, closes eyes* ...... and amen

✷ You can only hope he’s making the right decision again, choosing you over the medical staff he so obviously needs.

SKKPPPPPDFTTTTTTTKDKDKDK IM ACTUALLTKTJFJD FUCKIGN CHOKING BC THIS JUST SMACKS SO MUCH OF “wait, come again???? So, you’re picking me over the hospital?? God fucking help you, my dude” SKSKS

✷ He’s heavier than you expected, all limp, tired muscle, that fights you with every step. If you didn’t have to, life or death, you wouldn’t manage it.

Idk what it is about the tacit self-awareness that liek were it not a life-or-death-scenario, this rock solid hunk of muscle would probably be an immovable obstacle just grounds this in so much reality a way that makes me angry bc it’s so well-written and snaps me into the urgency of the situation in a way that is actively causing a nervous system reaction despite the fact that I know none of it is real

✷ Your door is in sight, wide open and ready for you.

GODDDDDKDJDJ NOT THE DOOR WIDE OPEN, IM MUCH AFEARED

✷ There’s blood on his chin, streaking down his neck. Everything he touches is marked with it.

What is wrong with me don’t answer that, we already know it’s everything that I read this and immediately was like ................. aight, hot. KEKW

✷ There’s a hole in his stomach, staring back at you, leaking blood that’s almost black.

GODDDDSSSMJJJJJJJJJJJ SHUTT TF UPPPPPPPPOO I HATE YOU THIS IS SO FUCKINGKDJDJEJEHWBEJDHDBE VISCERAL AND TANGIBLE AND INSPIRED AND I LOVE YOU AND I HATE YOU AND I LOVE YOU AND I HATE YOUUUUUUUVSHEB

✷ He tries to smile, nodding. ‘It’s easy, okay? I’ll talk you through it.’

I can fuuuuullllyyyyyyyy fucking see this so clearly and it’s the most charming smile, to the point I want to slap it off his face bc no, despite his efforts to console Reader DIGGING A FUCKINT BULLET OUT OF SOMEONE’S ABDOMEN WITHOUT PUNCTURING A MAJOR ARTERY IS NOT ALL HAHAHAHAHA EASY, ESE MENSO ME ESTÁS BROMANDO????

✷ No matter how thorough you are, it still won’t work, you still won’t be clean enough to root about in his stomach.

See, Reader knows what’s real

✷ 'Tranquilo,’ he sighs. ‘Tenemos tiempo.’

‘Do we?’ you bark back at him, flicking water as you shut off the tap. ‘You look like you’re fucking dying, Moisés.’

ONCE AFAINSKSKSJSJDDJ READER KNOWS

✷ 'If it was going to kill me, it would have.’

You don’t have to be medically trained to know that that’s bullshit. It could have damaged him elsewhere, somewhere deeper than surface level. He could drop dead in a day, or a week, regardless of how well you manage things right now.

I love this more than anythingjsjdjdjdjdjdjejd bc it’s so me, but also like the fact that it’s making me think Reader is for some reason, super into true crime, like listens to a lot of true crime podcasts or is like an avid fan of Grey’s Anatomy of Dr. G, Medical Examiner or some shit like that sksjejejeje like the fact that they understand how deeply unqualified they are to do this jobsksksksje like in my head, they’re going, “bitch, you telling me this as if I don’t watch prestige TV, okay?!? Like I have HBO, I have seen Breaking Bad, I have seen The Sopranos.”

✷ ... wet thumb slipping from the wheel, again and again, before you finally catch the spark.

GODDDDDJDJDUEJEHEVEB ONCE AGAIN FUCKKKKKKKK OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF THE WAY THIS IS SO PERFEXTLY DESCRIBED ACTUALLYYYYYY LOKE IM TAKING NOTES ON THE SKILL/TECHNIQUE AND ALSO PLOTTING YOUR DEMISE

✷ The knife is wobbling in his hold, because he’s shaking more than you are. Red fingers unable to grip the thing tight enough to start. It’s not going to work. He won’t be able to do it himself.

‘Damelo.’ You pluck it from him without waiting for an answer. ‘What do I do?’

THE WAY RHIS ENTIRE FUCKING THINGGGTTT HAD ME ON THE WDGE OF MY SEATTTTTTT AND THE BOOM, READER RISES TO THE OCCASION AND CUE ME JUMPING UP, FLINGING MY BUCKET OF POPCORN IN THE AIR, LIKE IF I WAS IN A SPORTSBALL STADIUM ID BE ON THE JUMBOTRON AS LIKE THAT MEGAFAN

✷ His stomach tenses beneath you, his thighs pincer around your hips—it’s all impulse, subconscious reactions that he can’t stop. The body trying to protect itself from the intruder.

First off, hot. Secondly, disgusting. What specifically is disgusting?? No, it’s not the blood or the gore, it’s the fact that this is so concrete and real and raw and vivid, and skilled and IMJUSTTTTTTTTTTTJJ BITING MY ACTUAL FIST OUT OF FEAR AND PERHAPS MINOR AROUSAL AND THEN YOU GOT CLOCK ME WITH A LEFT HOOK WOTH THAT “the body trying to protect itself from the intruder” AS IF IM NOT ALREADY UNCONSCIOUS FROM THE REPEATED BLOWS IVE BEEN DEALT READING THIS WHOLE ASS THING

✷ The end beneath the bullet. You press down without warning, because it wouldn’t have helped anyway, and force it out. Right back the way it had come.

Pfftttkdjdj the nerdy physicist in me is like fully thinking about the fluid mechanics and nodding at Reader like 😌 yes, that’s how one should go about doing that, despite the fact that it’s probably blindingly, agonizingly painful

✷ You’re beyond words now, the both of you. He doesn’t need to guide you through it. Can’t, really. And you don’t need to lie to him that it’ll only be a little longer, only be a little pinch. It’s just time to get it over with. Sew the skin together as best you can, hope the damage isn’t enough to kill him. Toes over the edge, and jump.

UGGGHHHHHHHHHHSJDJDHSJDJDJDBSJXJSJSLWOEKEMRNT TNTOROTN RMEE I DONT EVEN KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN bc in like every movie and tv show where this happens, like this is a list of all the cliches, ways characters reassure each other but it MAKES SO MUCH SENSE that actually this would be done in total silence, like Reader needs to concentrate, Moi is just shy of passing out so ofc neither of them is trying to placate the other with like words of encouragement and something about that, like eschewing all the cinematic cliches makes this feel MORE CINEMATIC TO ME???????????? To the point THAT I AVTUALLT WANT TO FUCKING FILM THE DAMN THING MYSELF I CAN SEE IT THAT CLESRYLDKDKDKDKDJENR

✷ You’d stitched the wound as best you could, but it won’t hold. It won’t do him any good in the long run.

UHHHHHHH BEG PARDON, IS HE FUCKINGKSKDJDJDJDJDNE DYINGG, HES TOTALLY DYING ISNT HE, JUST WHEN YOU LULLED ME INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY EXCEPT ITS MY OWN DAMN FAULT FOR LETTING MY GUARD DOWN AROUND A KNOWN TERRORIST

✷ His face isn’t streaked with blood anymore.

The way I read this and went “boooooo” sksksks

✷ You didn’t mind missing out on your own sleep just to watch him.

Uhhhhhhh— I mean— this is just— sisjebwhfiisnaksdnnwnwoxmssksoddkenene this is legitimately so wholesome and romantic I want to fucking throw my phone on the ground so hard, my screen shatters

✷ The room is dim still, lit with the in-between blue of night and sunrise.

OHHHHHHFUCJJJJJJJKKKKKKKKKOFFFFFFFFFFFF THE IN- BETWEEN BLUE OF NIGHT AND SUNRISE, ITS GENIUS, I HATE YOU, IM SOBBING

✷ ‘So, thank-you, for not doing that. Don’t think I could explain a dead man in my bed.’

KSKSKSKSKSK the way Reader is lowkey like “half a breath away from loving you Moi, yes. So glad you’re not dead, but I also would not be able to explain this mess if you’d died, so double thank you” very pragmatic sksks

✷ He wouldn’t have come, he means, if he thought he would die. But what would he have done instead? Crawled off into the bush like animals do, found somewhere quiet to die on his own?

UGHHHHHHHHMYWHOLEHEARTTTTTT BC ACTUALLT YES THIS IS PROBABLY EXACTLY WHAT HE’D DO, LIKE THIS MF IS AN APEX PREDATOR, HE’D COMPLETELY STALK INTO THE BUSHES TO DIE ALONE LIKE A CAT DOES AND ITD BE SO HEARTBREAKINT BC HED THINK THAT’S EXAVTLY HOW HE DESERVES TO DIE AND UGJDODIDISJDODIKSOWOSK

✷ ‘You have a lot of questions,’ he says ... Ask them.’ He’s tired, you can tell, not only from the day before, the injuries, but from the combination of it all. From the weight on his back, the cost of folding mystery over his life. He wants out. Wants the truth between you, no matter the consequence.

Literally I have no breath or thumb strength rather to scream further, like I am as tired as Moi no I’m not, I’m just dramatic sksjs but this is so fucking poignant and beautifully written and heartbreaking and I JUSTTTTTTJFJDJDJDJEHEHDH LIKE I DONT INOW WHAT TO SAY, I AM SPEECHLESS LIKE I AM FULLY WITHOUT SPEECH TO ARTICULATE THE DEPTH OF WOW THAT I FEEL READING THSI FUCKINGKDJDJDDJR PARAGRAPH

✷ 'If you want me to leave…I’ll go. You won’t see me again.’ The knee jerk reaction is to tell him that you don’t want that, that you would’t send him away ... just because of who he is. What he does. But you know that’s a self-laid trap, waiting to be stepped in. He could say anything. He could be anyone.

'Okay,’ you reply, accepting his deal. ‘Let’s start at the beginning.’

HE COULD SAY ANYTHING. HE COULD BE ANYONE. You wanna know what you’ve done to me? This.

This is what you’ve done. These are the crimes you have committed, bc this??????b. THIIISSSSSSSS??????!!!!!!!!!!!!:&:&:Bbbbbwbebejjejenr IS SOME OF YOUR BEST SHIT TO DATE, AND IM NOT FUCJINT JOKING IN THE SLIGHTEST OR BLOWING SMOKE UP YOIR ASS OR EXAGERATTING FOR EFFECT which yes .... I have been known to do THIS IS ACTUALYYYYYYYYYYYY ONE OF THE MOST FIRE ENDINFS TO ANY FIC IVE EVER READ, ITS BESUTIFUL, ITS PERFECT, ITS LINDA EVANGELISTA OKAYYYY????????? And I love you and hate you and love you and hate you for it, nunca lo olvides que has hecho en ese día, acciones terroristas, guerra psicológica, dañó permanente y duradero de la shingada pues

the other man, pt. 2

moisés (sky rojo) x gn!reader, 3406 words

warnings for blood, gunshot wounds, DIY medical treatment

for day 17 of whumpril: cry for help | self treatment | ‘i can’t do this.’

a/n: the way this poor guy has no (?) fics on here at all, and im already maiming him. my god

tagging: @cositapreciosa @drabbles-mc​

part one here

You left him there. You left him there, and it’s been hours, sun sinking beneath the horizon, warmth slipping into cold. He hasn’t rang you. Not even a text. He’s probably dead, right? You probably left him to die. Shirt splattered with red, arm stretched across the concrete. Gun just out of reach.

You groan, turning to push your face into the pillow. It doesn’t help to imagine it. Even if he’s alive, you might never see him again. What if’s won’t do anything but torment you, if there’s never any closure, no evidence of the alternative.

The last you saw of him, he was alive. In control. Not scared in the slightest, as far as you could tell, so that’s what you’ll remember. What you’ll cement as fact. Alive, uninjured. Unrecognisable to the man you thought you knew, but not dead, at least.

Go away with me, he said. He knew they were coming. He tried to get out, you with him, hand in hand, before they got there. That meant something, right? The Moisés you knew was holding out still, before the gunfire. Putting you and him in the sun.

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