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narcolini · 1 year

Text

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.

#sky rojo fanfiction #moises x reader #sky rojo #whumpril2023 #hes a bad person but god is he sexy 😔#also day 25 is in the works too!! we're doing it boiiisss

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