Title: Mental
Author: Kerttu
Pairing: Sands/El
Rating: R to be on the safe side
Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!
Summary: Post-movie; dreams in a padded cell
AN: Un-beta'd, all mistakes thus are mine. Bows to Maureen for the padded cell scenes, and to arabwel from sandsfic for spur kink.
Mental
By Kerttu
The dark and quiet were for doing unspeakable things in bed and, perhaps, when there was no energy left, for sleeping.
It was not meant for thinking, although thinking in the dark and quiet was not that bad.
Usually.
It got downright lethally boring when there was nothing else to do.
Sands knew it and hated it with vehemence.
Being blind after his unfortunate escapade was a fact he did not and could not ignore. Being locked up in a padded cell was, as far as he knew, a complete misunderstanding.
Being locked up in a padded cell AND strapped was something so wrong it begged a blizzard of bullets.
So he had to think when the restraints even forbade him of twiddling his thumbs.
It was not at all Sand's fault that all female voices made him stir crazy after Ajedrez, especially if they promised to 'take care of him'. In the light (or dark) of the recent events that could only mean a bad thing.
A very, VERY bad thing.
He only hoped that he had managed to strangle the nurse with the IV line before they stopped him. It would at least validate the doctors' concern and the following move-in into this small room. To be locked up because of an attempted murder (self-defence! Piped Sands' subconscious indignantly) was in Sands' opinion no true reason at all. 'Attempted' did in essence mean that the thing had not occurred.
Not truly.
They restrained him further when they made the re-occurring mistake of sending another nurse in.
She, unfortunately, managed to break free on her own. He was, after all, quite strongly sedated, and still recovering of his wounds.
After that they learned and now only males crossed the threshold of his cell.
After a while he understood also that they had upped his medication because he began seeing things.
In itself that was not a bad thing, he did want to SEE but, well, whatever they were pumping into him made him visualise events that could only be described as 'Kamasutra for the Kinky'. He must have seen every person from his life in an at least erotic if not completely pornographic situation. Even his primary school teacher Mrs Jonesy, for crying out loud!
Though, Sands had to admit that he had never thought of using the pair of compasses in that manner…
Live and learn, as they say.
The only problem of those visions was the almost perpetual boner. Sometimes he came due to his drug-dreams but mostly he suffered.
That was the time when he began tweaking his visions for fast release. He quickly learned that Ajedrez, however enticing and slutty, could only give him a raging boner but nothing else (Talk about payback being a bitch…).
He steered clear from other family-members and hired help of the Barillo cartel; he was not into monster-sex after all (Cucuy… shudder!!). Nightmares he had aplenty already.
His former co-workers from CIA and even his own mother were better but it took too much planning and concentration; so Sands really did not bother with that after few tries.
That left Ramirez and, well, El.
Ramirez was cute in a cosy kind of way but visualising anything else but vanilla gay sex with him did not work. Somehow there was no other way to bend this guy.
Sands had never been too keen on vanilla anyway. He wanted his dessert with a complex taste of caramel and mocha and bitter dark chocolate.
This brand he could only get from one place of his mind. As a result he went into that little cantina hundreds of thousands of times to meet the The and each time they ended up eating but not dinner.
After some time he did not even have to get the settings, he could very well just imagine himself in this padded room and the door opening and him turning and seeing – because in those dreams he COULD still see – how in walked the biggest Mexican he had ever seen.
They did it in this little room in every possible and impossible way:
Sands, not strapped and riding El like a rodeo clown, the stupid mariachi pants jingling all the way with each thrust;
Sands in the straightjacket, El teasing him by ghosting a feathery caress slowly all over him, followed by the sharp-but-not-quite-fatal touch of his spiked spur until Sands writhed in a muted whole body screech of pleasure and came hard when El moaned into his ear;
El restrained and Sands going down on him, coaxing all kind of delightfully animalistic sounds out of the Mariachi.
And his favourite where they both made good use of the soft padding and shagged rough, hard and quick like short-circuited Duracell bunnies against the wall, Sands legs wrapped around El's waist.
Those fantasies eased him every single time. They gave him his sight back and that was not a small matter.
However, they did not make him free. He was still in the little room, the ventilation humming day in day out and doing nothing to cool the hot Mexican air.
Sands was a prisoner: both of the padded room – not his choice – and of his mind that was the only way open for a temporary escape from reality.
And escape he did. He heard how the male nurses grumbled about the evidence of his dreams yet again causing them to change the bedding.
That did not bother him.
When they did not want to release him in the spatial sense of the word, they absolutely should scoop his poop and cum.
Sands only smiled and visualised El crawling in the bed behind him and rubbing his Mexican cock against his American ass until they both came.
Who said that those two nations could not achieve anything together?