Just Another Day in Paradise
By vanillafluffy and Kerttu
Rating: strong M to be on the safe side
Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys! (Though Rodriguez claims that)
Summary: Post-movie; Kerttu's Mentality universe where Sands has eyes.
AN: All remaining mistakes are ours. Bows to Maureen for being the veritable spring of naughty ideas, to Vanillafluffy for being the sounding board and co-author and to mystorymydream for giving the idea of tequila body shots.
Time in the bathroom was sacred.
It was one rule Sands had set and about the only one El agreed with wholeheartedly. He NEEDED a period of time when he did not have to worry about Sands making some stupid demands. It was a moment of luxurious solitude.
Some parts of El missed the baths he and Carolina had shared but Sands was not Carolina and that was that.
The rule did not mean, however, that El left himself entirely vulnerable during the bathing time. One just never knew around Sands.
No, a gun was always within his reach as a safety precaution.
El relaxed under the showerhead, steaming water beating down onto his shoulders. It was a good place this time – there was enough hot water to last even after Sands' lengthy aquatic indulgence. El rested his forehead against the tiles and enjoyed the warm cascade. God only knew that he needed the time-out – living by Sands was taxing enough but living WITH him was positively exhausting.
On many levels.
El sighed when he felt the minute change in temperature that signalled the end of hot water. He made a quick work of the wash and managed to escape the cold shower entirely.
The first thing to wear were pants, always – in their line of living it was essential to be ready to take off with a split-second notice and doing it without covering one's essentials was more than humiliating. He was about to towel his hair when there was an angry yell in the bedroom, a string of colourful curses – Sands rarely used one phrase of swearing twice – and the unmistakable sound of the gun being cocked.
El threw the towel down and took off towards the bedroom. If he did not make it there in time, the room would be shot to pieces and they would have to leave.
Again.
Sands had done it before, and, well, motel/hotel keepers did not want to see them again after that.
There was, of course, no knowing what had set Sands off this time. It could be anything from tasteless food to wrong colour of the bed covering to a not-appealing radio station.
El burst into the room, skidding to a halt when Sands automatically zeroed in on him. He also realised that he had left his own gun to the bathroom and his other firepower was tucked away in the guitar case that was across the room.
The American nodded in acknowledgement and re-aimed his silencer-equipped gun at the tray.
Oh, it's the food once again.'
El moved closer, readying himself for a jump. He had only this one chance.
"They think that we are the bloody girls with hemorraging twats, El."
Sands commented sweetly but the Mexican already knew how poisonous that sweetness was.
"Why is that?"
"Just look at it!" Sands pointed with the gun. "LOOK."
El did. Everything appeared fine to him. He took a step closer, the carpet under his bare feet treacherously soft.
"You don't see the fatal flaw, do you?" Sands groaned and then screamed: "They brought LEMONS, El, lemons!"
"Ah… And you like limes."
"YES! Lemons are for the pussies."
Sands turned towards the tray taking a careful aim and El bounced.
They went down on the bed in a tangle of limbs but at least the soft pop of the shot went wild and the only thing suffering from it was the outer wall of the room.
Sands wriggled like a snake on stimulants but the Mexican pressed him bodily down. "Stop this. Let go off the gun."
"No." Although Sands could hardly breathe under El, he was not going to surrender his gun. He LOVED his gun. It was his last line of real defence.
"Let. It. Go." El's voice was slightly breathless from the wrestling.
"No."
"Then I will not let go either."
"Fine by me." Sands grinned up at him, eyes shining with mad glee. He relaxed but El knew far better than to let go. However, the Mexican did try to shift his weight and Sands managed to free one of his legs. Using his cowboy boot he heeled El quickly to the kidney. El gasped with pain and Sands laughed. "You will lose, you guitar-for-the-brain fuckwad."
He hit El again and something in El's face – beside the obvious pain – changed.
"You want your sex lethal and rough, right?"
"You cannot DO rough, Latino lover-BOY." Sands' beautiful smile oozed smugness.
And then he couldn't see or breathe, because there was a pillow on his face, held down by a large hand. The other one pressed his gun holding hand against the bedcovers.
At first Sands grinned mentally and tried to relax. He could hold his breath quite long but seconds ticked by and the need for air got stronger and stronger. He had had no warning and thus he had not drawn a breath before… His heart rate began to climb and he really-really had to breathe… RIGHT NOW!
El waited, looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand. He would hold for little over one minute and-
Sands began thrashing and it was not even a minute yet. El held on, grim with decision and not allowing Sands to turn his head free.
Soon the American went limp. El counted five seconds more, lifted the pillow away and leaned down. Sands was too still, so he kissed him, blowing air in.
Sands moved and began to breathe but did not come to.
El smiled darkly, but his eyes grew soft again. He plucked the gun from Sands unresisting fingers and got up.
It was time to show the American the ropes.
He was still on the bed, but now naked.
And tied up.
"What the fuck--?" Sands struggled against soft cotton ropes. "Goddammit, El, cut me loose--this isn't funny!"
The bed tipped when El climbed on it.
El's knees were on either side of Sands's hips, the crotch of his worn jeans pressing against the American's pelvis.
Sands' eyes shot hollow-point bullets at him. "What the fuck are you-"
El only smiled, a dangerous smile, and began to trace the contours of Sands shoulders and collarbones with the tips of his fingers. Sands thrashed aside but the binding held and he could only abuse the man above him verbally.
El tuned Sands' curses out, continuing to let his fingers explore the younger man's tawny skin. As Sands threatened him with increasingly vicious retribution, the mariachi leaned over and allowed his lips to close gently around Sands' nearest nipple.
"You're not getting away with this, you bastard--" Sands clenched his teeth as a quick flick of El's tongue against the tender button sent a shiver of heat through him. "When I get loose, I'm gonna sent you straight to fucking Broadway!"
In response, the mariachi released the captive nipple, only to seek out the other and target that one. For several minutes, he continued to alternate between one taut peak and its mate until the man on the bed began to breathe heavily. Sands might have been simulating rage, but it was perfectly obvious, in his naked condition, that those weren't his only feelings on the subject...
This pleased El. He was not sure what Sands reaction to this treatment would be but it was good for now. He crouched down, close enough for Sands to feel his body heat, and leaned on his elbows. "Anger suits you."
"You brainless fuck! Let me go at once!"
"No."
The hot breath on Sands' neck sent another shiver to his groin. Bloody Beelzebub and his whoring hordes, was he hard!
How could El know that this was his... his... Sands didn't even know whether to call it his ultimate fantasy because the whole situation scared him shitless - to be tied up and controlless.
He always lived his life in and for control and the idea of losing it... was thrilling but terrifying and El was somehow making him live it right now...
A swipe of El's tongue on his neck, a brush of lips and then the teeth sank in and Sands was coming so hard it hurt.
When the ringing in his ears stopped and he realised he had screamed his throat raw, El was undoing the knots of the bindings that held his legs.
"So now you are letting me go..."
"Not exactly."
Before Sands could do more than shift his weight, El had somehow grasped his legs and spun him so that he was now face-down on the bed. He tried to get his knees under him and rise, but El was lying full-length upon him. Kissing the back of his neck...the fucking bastard knew that was a passion-trigger for him...
Then the mass on his back relocated; El was straddling him, weight centred neatly between the curve of the American's butt and the length of his thighs...meaning that El's denim-clad crotch was pressed firmly against Sands' sweet spot.
"For a guy who doesn't believe in torture, you're awfully damned good at it," grumbled Sands to hide the apprehension he felt. There was enough slack that his wrists weren't hurting, but thoughts of what the mariachi might be going to do made fear war with arousal in his belly.
Something wet trickled between his shoulder blades, and his first wild thought was that El had just shot his load, but on the heels of that thought was the knowledge that the mariachi was still half-clothed (Not naked, not tied to a bed--I'm gonna get you for this!) Then the other man began to massage him, and he realised it was just oil.
"You need to relax more, my friend," El murmured, strong fingers kneading his shoulders. "You are much too tense. There are many ways of resolving conflict without the use of guns."
Telling the mariachi to go fuck himself would have been counterproductive.
"You mean – you choose some other weapons, right?" came a mumble from the pillow.
El chuckled. "You can say that."
He really did have an amazing touch. Sands was enjoying the other man's caresses, and besides, if the bulge in El's jeans was anything to go by, the possibility of someone getting fucked pretty soon was looking better and better...
Perhaps some spurring on was still necessary? (In a manner of speaking, because he would douse those accessories in alcohol for 24 hours before allowing El to use them in a playful manner.) He rested his cheek at the pillow and asked: "Where did you learn about breath-play?"
El's fingers concentrated on a particularly tense spot on his back and Sands muffled a moan when that loosened. Only then did the Mexican answer: "Man sees many things when he has to move a lot."
"And who strangled you?" There was no answer but Sands smiled into the pillow and relaxed. Gotcha!'
It did not take long – and his severe post-orgasmic state only helped things along – when Sands felt like a piece of warmed dough.
A very horny listless piece of dough because El kept kissing and nibbling at his nape AND soothing his back and shoulders. He was being remoulded by the mariachi, simmered in passion and he wasn't sure what would be the end-result of all this.
The control issue came back with full vengeance and Sands' breath caught without any external help.
Why was he allowing El to do all this?
Ajedrez had been a good lay, but El could put her to shame; and Sands did not dispute that. When something was working for him, he did not change that. But what El was doing to him crossed the line and he still allowed it… What was going on?
"You are thinking again, my friend."
"Someone has to, you chain linked fucker."
The lips of El smiled when they touched his back. "Not while in bed."
"Really?"
"Yes. Here you have to feel."
"I hate you."
"I know." El ended his impromptu massage with a slow tender caress across Sands' back. He lifted himself and murmured: "Turn around."
Sands obeyed, mellow from the massage but still smirking: "You do know that the hotel keepers would like to murder us, right?"
"Why?" El was looking at the tray of drinks that had caused all the morbid sexual heat.
"Because this oil will not come out of the bed sheets."
El looked at him and smiled. "They can try."
"To murder us or to wash the sheets?"
"Both." Then the Mexican stood up and went to the small table. "You hate lemons?"
"You are not coming with these things close to me!"
El only laughed and carried the tray to the bed. "Be still now." He sat down, arranged the lemon slices so that he could reach them, opened the liquor bottle, carefully moved closer to Sands, shook the salt on his hand (the scarred one) and lifted the bottle above Sands.
"What the heck are you doing?"
"Patience." El tipped the bottle a little and the alcohol streamed onto Sands' stomach, pooling there. "What-"
"Don't talk or move." El put the bottle away and, snagged a piece of lemon, leaned closer and lapped like a dog, the tips of his hair getting soaked in the tequila.
Sands breath caught in his throat again, he was still like a stone when El turned, sucked the lemon, swiped at the salt and then the Mexican's lips latched on his nipple, bathing it in a perfect combination of hot desire.
"Jesus…"
It came out a breathless groan.
And then El repeated the whole routine with the other nipple, sucking at it. Being still became a great difficult task when El just kept going, printing his torso with his especial tequila body shots.
When El leaned in and kissed him, the bitter-salty-sour taste of it made Sands gasp again.
"You are also trying to murder me", he commented when El freed his mouth to nuzzle his neck.
"Of course." El rose up and looked at him. "And you love it, don't you?"
Sands only grinned but lost his mirth when El picked up the ropes again that had held his legs. "El…"
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course not."
"Good." And the man grabbed one of Sands ankles and began to tie the rope around it again.
"You ill, horking…-" Sands fought and cursed but El was stronger and he ended up completely secured on the bed once more.
This time, however, the ropes were longer so he could bend his knees a little. He kept twisting angrily, when El covered him again, held his face and kissed him.
El's mouth still tasted somewhat lemony.
"I will be right back."
"Don't you fucking dare to leave me here like this!"
"I am not leaving the room, only bed." El got up and Sands felt like a monumental idiot because El really only undressed quickly. Obviously it went faster like that.
Then he climbed back to the bed and kneeled between Sands tied legs.
He took a moment to look at Sands. There was something in his gaze that unnerved the American because it was… so utterly honest.
"What?"
"You are so… beautiful when you do not…" El seemed to be searching for a word.
"Do not what? Contradict? Kick back? Scream?"
"All that and more…" El leaned closer, his fingers, skilled with guitars and guns, music and death, slid over Sands knees, hot and coarse but so good that Sands could only swallow convulsively. The burning touch continued upwards, marking his thighs. It was amazing what the man could do to him and… World tilted when El's fingers brushed his erection – it was almost too much.
Then the touch began to tease and caress the tender skin of his inner thighs and sacks and the cleft and Sands lost it. He really could not bare this gentleness. "Stop-stop-stop!"
"Shh… " and the finger slid into him, trying his patience that was gone-gone-gone…
The ropes bit into his ankles and wrists, the finger moved inside of him like an axle of a slick machine and El was soothing him with a soft voice to stop trashing.
The damn mariachi was reducing him to begging and he didn't like it and he couldn't stop it and damn the damned, he felt elevated by this bizarreness.
It pushed him higher and higher and he needed that and it scared the shit out of him and…
The orgasm blinded him and he felt floating in a mist of pleasure until El's fingers on his brow brought him out of his daze.
Then he felt El's buried to the hilt and pulsating in his ass.
Sands almost groaned – there was more pleasure to come and he really was not sure he could bare it.
"Will you give me a … a warning next time when you-"
"No." El sounded determined but sweet. "I told you – in bed you only have to feel."
And he began to move.
Landslides of pleasure.
Tsunamis of burning lust.
The world ceased to exist and Sands fell into the sea of satisfaction.
He was drowning but he didn't care anymore. Why not to die like this? It felt so divine…, the terminal bliss.
It was surprising, no, utterly shocking, to see Sands give in and float.
El almost stopped moving since Sands looked so… utterly not himself, almost angelic in his rapture. And very-very beautiful.
He swooped down and kissed him.
Sands answered, sharing, moving with him, a perfect little moment of harmony.
El knew this could not last but he loved to see the man bared like this. Perhaps this was his soul underneath all the layers of verbal abuse and scheming, all the rapid violence and indifference to life.
Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't but at the moment Sands was the most glorious thing El had ever seen.
All too soon Sands cried out listlessly and almost sobbed with pleasure when El had to move some more to get some himself.
The American was oddly pliant when El untied and then cleaned him. He did not comment either when El took him tightly into embrace. He only leaned into the warmth and fell asleep like a child.
El looked at him and sighed. He knew that Sands would not forgive him this treatment, the man never did, but El cherished the moments when he could just hold Sands and dream of near normalcy in their relationship.
He was tired himself but he did not dare to fall asleep. So he held Sands, looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand and watched time crawl by. When his arm began to fall asleep, he carefully released Sands, tucked him in, got up and removed his clothes, all guns and the offending lemons slices from the room.
He was not sure what to expect when Sands would wake but it was better to be prepared for all possibilities. After all, it was just early afternoon and thus just another day in their shared 'paradise'.