Title: Frankly, my dear…
Author: Kerttu
Pairing: El/Sands
Rating: R for some action… Yes, THAT kind.
Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!
Summary: Post-movie; what a bastard does
AN: Un-beta'd, all mistakes thus are mine. Thank you Maureen for feeding my smutty mind. Thank you all who convinced me that I should pursue this further. My third OUATIM vignette, so let me know what do you think.
Frankly, my dear….
By Kerttu
Sands was a selfish bastard, there was no doubt about it.
El stared at the ceiling, unsatisfied and tired. He heard Sands shift leisurely beside him, under his arm, and mumble something through sleep. After all, he had got what he wanted.
At first a shot of morphine.
A small dose as El did not want to deal with a crazy man on withdrawal who had a trigger-happy attitude that was even worse than his own and that was saying something.
When Sands had settled down El had thought that he could now have some time for himself and perhaps spend it with his guitar.
Well, Sands had other thoughts.
"Hey!" and the American's hand caught his arm.
"What?"
"I feel neglected." came a petulant answer.
El rolled his eyes but sat by his houseguest.
"How?"
"The recreational drugs have always made me, for the lack of a better adjective phrase, absolutely horny." Sands chuckled and the sound was not nice. "I can SO imagine your face right now."
"Really?"
"Yes, I can." Sands propped himself on the elbow and pulled the man closer. He leaned in, whispering in El's ear: "Has anyone propositioned the great El Mariachi like this?"
"No." El looked at Sands. The gringo was shivering slightly because of the uncomfortable position, he still had his many bandages and he reeked somewhat… and yet, for some odd reason El wanted him.
And somehow Sands knew it.
"So, shall we kootchi-goo?" Sands's voice promised the heavens although all he could possibly deliver was a hell.
And they were there already.
Together.
El drew a long breath. "Why should I-"
"Because you want to, I am willing, and, frankly, my dear, you are the host!"
After that the things became somewhat blurry.
El remembered clearly how Sands had hooked his healthy arm around his neck and dragged him down into a kiss that was brutal and hot and savaged the breath out of him.
He did not recall how he ended up straddling Sands's hips, his own trousers biting in his stomach, or when the American pulled his hair out the ponytail.
He did recall the pain when Sands yanked at his hair in rhythm with humping against him, the American's bright blue boxers already stained.
He also remembered how Sands felt under his hands and tongue: dangerous, feverish and salty like a strong shot of tequila. The small animal noises that were released from the back of the American's throat were a very vivid memory, too. And the way how the sudden rush stopped with the abrupt strangled groan and a deep sigh.
Sands sagged back on the bed, blissfully boneless, but when El tried to kiss him, the man smacked him lazily.
"What?"
"Get off me and leave me alone before I begin to despise you again."
"What?"
Sands's fingers grabbed a strand of El's hair and pulled, hard. "I said: Leave. Me Alone." He curled up on his side. "NOW."
Feeling totally confused, El got up and looked down at Sands. The gringo fell asleep as he was watching, seemingly pleased like a child.
That left him standing there, high and dry. After a moment he ran his hand through his hair and decided to take a shower. One reeker was more than enough.
He managed to take his shower and then his guitar out of the case but the songs had to wait.
The frightened whimper from the bedroom stopped him. El felt like hitting something, and repeatedly, but he put the guitar carefully away and walked in.
Sands was trembling, moving restlessly and he was sweaty again but not in a pleasant way.
El knew the signs by now well enough to predict that the pained whimpers of a nightmare will escalate into groans and screams and Sands will wake up and then it would mean another shot of morphine to make him sleep again.
Of course, there was the other option... which El was not very inclined to use, being recently kicked out of the bed and all.
Sands moaned and gasped and El's instincts decided instead of his mind. He laid down by the man's side, drew Sands into his arms and whispered soothing words to him till the American calmed and nuzzled the pillow as he always did.
So Sands had got everything: his chemical high, his sexual satisfaction and his serene sleep.
El had got, well, almost nothing.
That made Sands a selfish bastard.
Which, as much as El knew him, he truly was.