Title: "Bliss"
Summary: Sands has a few things on his mind. Slash.
Rated: R. For sexual situations.
Notes: There's an underlying structure to how this is written, but I'm not going to point it now, as it's meant to be unintrusive. Would be happy if people spotted it; would also be, in a way, happy if people didn't. (If you're curious, lemme me know and I'll e-mail ya.)
Feedback: Would be a thrill.
Disclaimer: Not mine. All Rodriguez's.
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"I don't want to know your name."
Growling low in his throat, he thrusts himself forward into that willing mouth, cutting off any further words, just in case. Names are, when you come down to it, merely used to encapsulate—shape—define—the form and function of something, or of someone; he already has the only one he'll ever need.
Oh, yeah, this is more like it.
Reasons, he decides, as his breath starts to come a little faster, aren't necessary after all: they're unwieldy, they're indiscreet, and they're far more complex than they're ever required to be.
And they're an absolute waste of time; and time, as they say, is money. No, the direct and the immediate are definitely the ways to go. Conversation's overrated, anyway.
Everything is this, everything is in the here and now: in the solidity of the wall at his back, in the flaking cheap plaster that he makes sure to keep against his palms, in the friction of grit beneath his bootheels, scouring grooves into the creaking floorboards. In the lips sliding over his rigid flesh, in the guitar-marked fingers on his skin, in the flaring heat that maybe, just maybe, manages to reach the emptiness inside.
Shifting his weight, he pushes hard enough to make the chains rattle audibly above the raucous music and voices that leak from the room beyond. Bitterness surges up alongside the sudden spike of pleasure, but he forces himself to plunge in nonetheless, to lose himself in that churning froth of composite sensation, if only for a little while.
Losing yourself, however, is no great forfeiture when you have nothing left to lose.
"It's fifty pesos," he's abruptly reminded, and the voice is just as thin, and as nasal, and as wrong as when he first propositioned it not five minutes ago.
Snarling, he flings the coins ringing to the floor so that there's a hasty scramble and jingle of chains after it, and stalks out of the back room before his expression can change.
Some days, being blind isn't nearly enough.