humo caliente 3
It's just too freaky that El manages to make his way over to the bed without a noise. Not even the zipzip of fabric against fabric. No jangle, no creaky floor boards. Just a hand on Sands' shoulder, moving down to the throat.
"I didn't mean that."
Whether that's bullshit or not, he doesn't know yet. When everything you say is bullshit, and everything you do is bullshit, the line starts to blur. It happens.
Like he's afraid of El actually doing something, he swallows, thickly and upside down. He frowns when El doesn't. Do anything. The hand recoils, and this time he hears him walk away. He'd been expecting a more carnal side from the guy who drops men like a disease.
Come on. Bend the blind guy over the bed. Get down and dirty. It's as easy as insert coin here.
Sands' never, in his life, tried to be seductive. All for the sake of relieving some stress, he's really hoping he's being something like it now. The picture of seduction, draped over the bed, arms hanging over his head, head bent back and turned to the side. He can feel the hair in his face.
Sands isn't anything hideous to look at. Well, with his sunglasses secure. He may be a little grimy, but who isn't in Mexico? And oh, that's new. Fucking in shades.
"Hey, hey. You still here?"
"I'm here."
"Good, because I'm feeling really cool about this now."
Something creaks—a chair maybe—and he thinks he hears a gun click. No, he knows that was a gun. That's his kind of music.
He lies still on the mattress. Breath temporarily leeched.
"Going to fuck me, or shoot me, there, El?"
"I could do both."
Like he can run. Like he would run even if he could. He's never in his life tried doing that either. He'd pull his gun and take a bite out of El before he went down.
It would be clumsy, it would be foul. But that was life. And shooting a blind man was like shooting a man in the back. Sands doesn't think El could pull the trigger and do the duty. Just to be merciful.
That makes him grimace, and he says, "Kinky. I expect you're just a man-killer, and not a man-fucker, then?"
"I'm not a man-killer."
"Oh? What's your crystal clear record got to say 'bout that?"
El is quiet.
"So you just fuck men? That, I didn't see coming."
"Boca vulgar..."
Sands laughs, loudly, and starts when the hand's suddenly back on his throat. Light touching and a thumb ghosting over his jugular. Nothing but a rumour. If he had eyes to close, they would be.
"You look nicer than you sound," El says.
It's turned into playing with snakes. Snakes, because he still can't fucking see. And what that gun clicking was, may mean he'll be waking up in an alley or somewhere worse. He's not going to call this trust, because the next thing you know, with where trust gets you... you could be eyeless.
Which is the idea. There's not much to worry about now.
Sands breathes through his mouth. He doesn't move from where he is and doesn't do any touching of his own. The one hand has grown into two, and they're slowly moving lower and picking at clothing as they go.
Over his belt buckle, up his sides.
"Not to interrupt, but you have really soft hands."
"Gracias."
Without eyes, touch feels like a world of new. And fingers that know what they're doing help especially.
He's asking his lungs for a break already. They don't seem to listen, and El keeps on going. Smoothing a palm down his arm, over his chest, back along his neck. Pushes the hair out if his face. Leans over and gusts a breath in his ear.
El has his hands under Sands' shirt and on his hips when there's a hesitation.
That doesn't sit well with Sands. He hiccups.
"What?"
He didn't hear anything, not that he was listening, but fuck. Fuck, he really needs to be touched now. Screw being shot, screw the cartels, screw, screw, screw. He really wants to God damn screw.
"You're enjoying this?"
Sands acts like he wasn't just trying to will himself to see. Like he wasn't thinking about butt-fucking, guns, or breasts, or fried eggs because he's just as hungry as he is horny.
"Talking, why is there talking? I'd be enjoying it even more if you put your hands... lower. In the crotch area. I need some help with that."
So he's being a bit impromptu with a guy he's only met twice... But you only live once. And he never said he wasn't a jackass. A jackass who's blind and doesn't want to fuck something he'll regret later. He can picture himself stumbling into a gay bar too easily, or feeling up fat thighs.
El says, "Alright."
This, if anything, is safe ground. He's managed to scratch the stumbling, the bar and the regret. Everything else is still sitting there and just itching to happen.
He's just sitting here itching to happen.
Menacing disembodied hands again. They go through his hair, over a cheek, along the jaw. They're moving higher when he suffers out, "No."
"If you fancy your fingers at all El Mariachi, you won't try that."
El's hand is hovering above Sands' sunglasses.
He's being his cat through and through, as it were. Because curiosity killed the cat, and though they may have nine lives, that doesn't bring back severed fingers. No matter how feline you are.
El doesn't feel inclined to say "sorry", but he doesn't touch the sunglasses. He leaves them as they are, smokey, hiding something, which is really a whole lot of nothing, and lands his hand on Sands crotch.
Sands might have smiled, if we wasn't so busy groaning, "Finally," and then "Harder."