Tangible Schizophrenia


Dancing Party

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Sex, violence and general snark.
Pairing: Sands/El, Lorenzo/Fideo
Feedback: Much loved.
Disclaimer: Belong to R. Rodriguez and his gang. Of which I'm not a member, dammit.
Notes: References to Desperado and El Mariachi. //words// are Spanish-speak.
Summary: You've gotta fight…for your right…to Parrrrrteeee!


"El, I'm beginning to sense a disturbing trend in your fashion taste," Sands told the ceiling, tone matter-of-fact. "You should let me rectify that. My gun, your ass."

Kneeling on the floor in front of him, the mariachi merely grunted and twitched something with two fingers. Melodious clinking reached Sands' ears, while his nose was stroked lovingly with the smell of dead cow. "And if you even think of dressing me in color for this, I'm shooting out every one of Fideo's bottles and then locking you in a room with him for the next hour."

//Like fuck//, Lorenzo objected, his offended voice drifting in from the doorway against which the skinny man-whore was leaning. //Nobody gets to mess with Fideo's liquor except me.//

A pair of guns cocked. //No one touches it, period.// There was brief silence as the three other men nodded, Lorenzo and Sands frantically, El with his usual detachment. Fideo was a frightening man when he wasn't drunken into placidity.

Sighing, Sands rebraced himself against the cabinet behind him and resigned himself to El's primping. God, who knew mariachis were so picky about clothes? Especially considering all the shit El put his outfits through…and that, it occurred to Sands, was a little bizarre how his partner never seemed to buy clothing, yet two days after a battle of bullets, fire and assorted chickens still managed to be as spruce as ever. It might be worth looking into sometime. Except that predicated Sands continuing to stay with El after they finished off the last of Barillo's empire, and that assumption brought up a lot of uncomfortable considerations. Like loyalty, and fidelity, and maybe even co-dependency-all of which made Sands' cheek twitch. And his leg, which El promptly smacked. "Don't move," the mariachi scolded.

"What the fuck am I wearing, anyway?" Sands demanded irritably. "How the hell am I supposed to piss in this?"

"Leather," Lorenzo grinned, his lasciviousness sliming all over his words. "Leather and jangly chains and some nice black linen on top."

Angry growling came from Fideo's corner, as well as the thud of someone getting slammed into a wall. Sands' own familiarity with that sound teased out another nervous tic. Huffing once in annoyance, El's big hand came crashing down on the American's right foot, stilling its jerking. "Ouch! Hey-" Sands yelped.

Over by the door, clothes rustled.

"You have on Italian boots, good socks and black leather pants," El described calmly, releasing the foot and returning to his task. "One side of them is held together with short chains, which I am hooking for you. There are more chains on the other side, looping over your hip. You can hook them to your guns, if you want. You also are wearing a black silk shirt with front buttons, your black leather vest, and when I finish, you also have a black linen suit jacket. And your holsters."

Okay. Wasn't too much like mariachi pants, after all. Sands supposed he could live with it. "And?" he asked, raising his voice slightly over the muffled moaning.

"I am wearing black pants, also leather, a white silk shirt and a black…trenchcoat, it's called? With boots. Lorenzo and Fideo have similar clothing, though Lorenzo has a red shirt and jacket, and Fideo is in all black, like you." Finally done messing with Sands' pants, El began buckling guns and other weapons onto Sands. "If you need to take a piss," the mariachi continued, "You just undo the front. Like your normal pants."

"Shut up," Sands muttered.

"Why?" El's absolute favorite word, it seemed. Sometimes talking to the man was more like talking to Chiclet than to a revered pistolero with millions of cartel pesos on his head. "Not you," Sands said sharply. He jerked a chin toward the wet kissing. "Them. At this rate, we're going to be blacklisted out of every hotel in Mexico."

"Okay, okay," Lorenzo panted. //Can we get moving, then? Y'know, gringo, if you had just dressed yourself and hadn't made us tie you to the furniture, we could've been shooting by now already.//

"Look, it's El's fault," Sands snarled. "He just walked in and jingled the goddamn bag at me. Godfucking skinheads, but I was not dressing up like some prancing--"

The belts dropped from Sands' wrists. El handed him his jacket and cane, and then clomped toward the door. "Come on," the mariachi called back, as if he was Farmer Bob and they were his devoted little anklebiters.

Except El knew a guy who married the sister of the guy who sucked off the uncle of the confessor of the guy who was the bartender of their destination, La Perla Negra. And thus, it was thanks to him that they could just walk in through the front door and crash Colombian Night, instead of having to do some moronic skulking on rooftops and jumping through skylights.

Back stiff, eyelid twitching, Sands followed. Jingling all the way.


The American looked very good when he was angry, El noted. Stalking through the crowd, cane kneecapping anyone that stood in his way. Standing still and pointing scowling sunglasses at the bouncer until that poor hulking man forgot about the body-search and simply waved the four men in. El was growing especially fond of how Sands clenched his ass when he was upset. Whether or not there was a cock in it at the time.

So. El liked him. He wouldn't have bothered kissing Sands that first time if he didn't. But how much did he like the American? Was it all merely the aftermath of Dias de Los Muertos? And did his feelings matter, if Sands didn't-

--El stopped, turning his head ever-so-slightly. //Get your hand off my ass//, he said softly, glowering down the weaving…man? Woman? The eyes were definitely drugged out, though not too far to realize that they should make a swift, if reluctant, retreat.

Arms clad in fine red Egyptian cotton draped around El's neck. //Hey, man//, Lorenzo purred, //'s a club. You get kicked out if you don't get groped.//

//Don' wan' that t'happen//, commented a glitzed-up woman who'd slunk up from behind. Her hair sparkled in red and purple. //Wan' let me grope you, then, babyface?//

Grinning, Lorenzo offered an arm. //Sure.//

El grabbed his friend's arm quickly before the pair could be swirled off, whispering urgently into the nearest ear, //Don't forget. Midnight.//

//Yeah, yeah//, Lorenzo replied absently, already sneaking a hand between the girl's breasts.

"Great," muttered Sands from El's elbow, nearly causing the mariachi to jerk in surprise. "Fideo's gonna ream him out on the balcony again, isn't he."

"The elevator, I think," El responded, cupping his hand under Sands' bent elbow and starting off towards the bar once more. "The Colombians don't like talking to the doctors about their dicks, so they only let clean women in here. Fideo won't be quite so-" El caught sight of his friend across the dancefloor, chatting up a scantily-clad waitress, and smiled "-so upset, if Lorenzo sticks to the girls."

"Still bad." Sands deftly side-stepped a tottering drunk, dragging El until the two men bumped together as he did. "I happen to like staying in a nice hotel, thank you."

"Bar's ten feet in front," El said, pulling Sands back so the giggly pack of girls reaching out were suddenly cut off by a leering, pimply hired gun in a wine-stained suit. Listening contentedly to their horrified squeals, the mariachi steered the both of them to a pair of free barstools and tapped once on the wood. //Two Cuervos with salt and lime, sir//, he ordered.

The bartender's head whipped around, and when he saw the newcomers, he nodded. Bringing their row of shotglasses over, he paused briefly to mop a wet spot with a rag, and whispered, //At eleven, there's a special dance in the backrooms. Listen-do me a favor and wait till midnight. That's when the last girl will be done. Your guitar cases are where you wanted them.//

El licked the side of his thumb, pressed it into the salt, then licked off the salt and tossed down the shot, chasing it with a splash of lime juice. //Thank you, my friend//, he replied lowly.

//Hey, no problem. Bastards stole my girl.// And then the bartender moved down the counter, whistling and joking as he served the other customers.

"You started because of a girl, he's starting because of a girl. Man," Sands marveled, "Money's not the root of evil. Women are."

"You started because of a woman," El pointed out, abruptly feeling morose. He missed Carolina. And their daughter, who'd never had the chance; he'd barely begun to know her before she had been snatched away. But Carolina…she had been a woman. Not a girl. Lovely as the sun, deadlier than the snakes that had hunted them.

"Hey." The American's offended voice swept away the memories. "I didn't start because of that dickless bitch. I just-took it to another level, so to speak."


Going slowly so he didn't fumble one of the shotglasses over, Sands meditatively worked his way down the line of tequila, licking, slurping and then sucking at the lime slices. Just what was it about sitting at a bar that made all guys start navel-gazing? Even he was, and he made it a point of honor not to reflect about himself. Wouldn't do to mess with perfection.

Or he could be just fooling himself. Wear a mask for too long, went the old CIA warning, and you became the mask. Problem was, Sands didn't actually remember having one in the first place.

"Do I owe you anything else, now?" El asked disinterestedly. Fucker, Sands thought with sudden heat. Was that it? Paying off the poor blind beggar? A nice fat check with 'for sexual favors' scrawled across the memo line. If the stupid noble prick even knew how to spell 'favors.'

"Why don't you finish this first," Sands tossed back, biting into another lime. The citric acid seared into the cuts on his tongue and lips-fucking mariachi and his great big fucking teeth. The better to eat you with, my dear. "Then get back to me and I'll consider it."

"Fine," El returned shortly. Like he was…hurt, or something. Well, eat shit. Mariachi Man thought he was It. While he was dipping salt for the next shot, it abruptly came to Sands' mind that that was the answer. El was It. The. Whatever. El was the whole goddamned problem in one lean body perched next to Sands. Was even projecting his pathetic MexiCAN angst onto Sands' helpless impressionable mind. The bastard had dropkicked one perfectly evil soul from hell upwards, and now…

"Why did you choose me?" Of course. Every time it all made sense, El came by with his vapidly complex questions and fucked up Sands' castle. At this rate, he might as well not even bother with a moat. "I'm not drunk enough for this," Sands replied sourly. "Why don't you go pick out a nice set of tits, fuck 'em, and then come back and tell me why."

"I would not recommend throwing up in the toilets here," El remarked dryly, his trenchcoat flapping as he twisted around on his stool. Probably to scope out said whores. Horny fuck.

"Don't remind me," Sands spat, licking his hand and then downing the shot, welcoming the deep burn. "Besides, why'd you choose me? Don't really seem like your type."

"What would you know of my 'type'?" El inquired ironically. "You never met anyone I knew until that wedding."

"True. Very true," Sands allowed. "So what's your type, then? It's only…ten-thirty?"


"Oh, my. A whole fifteen minutes off." Pushing his shades back up, the American carefully felt for his last shot. "Point is, we've got time to burn. Come on, tell me."

"Is this," El said, tone amused, "what you call-'turnabout'?"

"Damn straight," Sands answered, sucking the residual lime juice off his fingers. "Like I can get it any other way," he muttered under his breath.


His 'type.' Lounging with his back against the bar, El pondered the question. And then had to temporarily stop, because one couple apparently mistook his widespread legs for an invitation. Stumbling into them, the girl tried for a seductive toying with El's lapels, but only succeeded in smacking him repeatedly in the face with her long ponytail of beaded braids. The boy was marginally better, managing to avoid poking El's eye out with red-enameled nails as he leaned on the mariachi's thigh, squeezing suggestively. //Heellooo, there//, they both crooned, fishy breath nearly suffocating El. //Let's play.//

And then there was a long white streak flashing across his vision. He froze. So did the boy and girl, their eyes crossing as they tried to focus on the metal cane hovering a few inches before their throats. //Sorry, kids//, Sands said affably, still facing the bar as he brought up his tequila with his other hand and took an elegant sip. //He's married, and I'm an in-law. Have to keep my dear brother honest now, don't we.//

//Oh…um…sorry, sorry//, they whimpered, fleeing quickly back to the psychedelic haven of the dancefloor.

//You'd let me marry your sister?// El grinned. Reluctantly, Sands also smiled.

"If I had one? Fuck, no. With your record?" Which brought El back to his thoughts. It was interesting, though, how coming from Sands, the comment didn't seem quite as spiteful. Just made El want to fuck the man senseless, wait until the American woke up, and then fuck him again. Instead of, say, driving rifle barrels through his eye-sockets.

Come to think of it, neither Domino nor Carolina had held back. In words or in life. Both women had associated with the cartels. Carolina had worked for them, contentedly. And she might have continued to do so if El had never come to town and forced her to choose. But not between right and wrong. Between him and Bucho.

Domino. Carolina. Sands. Could any of them make a 'type'?

El thought not. There were likenesses, yes, but a funeral dirge and a wedding march could share the same chords and still belong to themselves. And when one chose music, one chose for the event, and not the past lying behind it. The American, El chuckled to himself, was his occasion now.

"What?" Sands asked curiously. Then, sardonically: "Has God forgiven you?"

"God," El said deliberately, "Has nothing to do with this. He cares for the good. We care for the sinners."


Arching until it hurt, Sands' eyebrow more or less signified all of his-immense-confusion. The mariachi was intelligent, obviously, but he'd never shown any signs of philosophy before. This might not be good. An hour before it all went down, and El getting religion-okay, he'd been religious before, and fuck but that had been funny when Lorenzo'd told Sands about El crossing himself with one hand and firing a semiautomatic with the other. But that, sadly, was irrelevant. Sands needed an ardent killer, here, not a priest.

"Dirt for a pillow and a shroud for a blanket?" he offered hopefully. In reply, El snorted and said, playful as a puppy, "And guns for roses. We make terrible undertakers."

Uh, yeah. "El, you're scaring me," Sands mumbled, disgruntled.

"Good. Let's dance." And the crackbaby actually yanked him off the nice, comfy stool and into the crowd. Cursing, Sands snatched hastily at his cane, and then at his jacket, trying to keep his guns under cover.

"El!" he hissed, grabbing for the other man's arm and hanging on for dear life. "El! Goddamn it, what the-" Sands kicked up and back, and the greasy leech fell off his back "-what are you doing? What happened to all that fucking Hispanic machismo? You know, zealous straightness?"

"Sands." Two broad hands settled onto the American's hips and pulled him against El's chest; he could feel the ends of the mariachi's trenchcoat swirling around the backs of both their ankles. "This is a nightclub. A very dark one. In a very large city, with a steady supply of drugs. No one can see what they're fucking, so no one cares as long as the cocaine keeps flowing."

"But…you…wait," Sands stuttered. His cane was banging against his knees, and irritably, he finally retracted it and just let it dangle from its wrist-strap. El was doing weird things with his feet and Sands' legs, and they kept stepping all over each other's toes. Thank God the mariachi had bought steel-tipped boots, Sands thought crazily, clutching at El's shoulders and trying to…oh, fuck. Fuck. And he was blushing, too.

"You…do you know how to dance?" El asked considerately. Sands wanted to slap him. With a shovel. Or maybe a scythe.

"Yes," Sands gritted, "I know how to dance. I can waltz, two-step, line-dance. I can even tango."

"You don't know," El said with far too much humor sparkling in his voice. "Here, just let me move your hips. Relax; let them roll." Not waiting, the mariachi rolled them for Sands. "Like that."

"You are so lucky we have fifty guys to kill," Sands grumbled, trying to do as El had instructed. "Otherwise I'd take you out back, drape you over the dumpster, and then smash its lid down repeatedly until you squirted."

"You're cute when you're violent." Somehow, Sands didn't get 'sexually attractive' vibes from that. It sounded more like something some old granny would tell her five-year-old grandkid while he yanked out her daffodils.

"Why are we dancing?" he sighed, doing his damnedest to shimmy and mostly failing.

"So we're less obvious. Some of the cartel's men were beginning to stare," El answered, miraculously making practical sense. Naturally, he followed it up with an offbeat note. "One was batting his eyes at you. I think he was insulted when you didn't react."

"Butch, aren't you," Sands drawled, finally figuring out how to shake his hips and do footwork at the same time. It made him feel absurdly accomplished. God. Should've made it a double order of tequila.


Butch? El was going to have to ask Sands about that later, when the American was too sore to remember why and mock him. Besides, right now it was far more fun to tease Sands. El let his fingers rub along Sands' waistband, intermittently slipping a thumb down past the tucked-in shirt-tails to stroke lightly against warm flesh. The fingers on his shoulders tightened. "Aren't you the happy prick," Sands growled warningly, though he didn't move away from El.

Happy. El was. In a very odd, roundabout way that was probably tempting fate, considering the way it didn't even bother dodging around death and violence. Instead, it simply flowed over them and brought them inside, into the fold. "Are you?" he asked.

"Some day, I'm going to find a way to fuck up your mouth so you can't ask me any more questions," Sands mused cheerfully. "Then you can blow me and fuck me and not interrupt the sex with stupid shit like guilt and conscience and justice."

On the other hand, Sands' temper was, possibly, enough of a trial to keep destiny from sending El back to hell. "There is something that I've been wondering," the mariachi started to say, slowly so he could frame it properly.

The American's head thunked softly against El's shoulder. "Oh, hell. I give up," Sands told the coat. "What?"

"Why are you going after the Colombians?" El paused, recollecting his thoughts, and then went on, "I can understand vengeance after what Barillo's daughter did, but these men weren't involved in that. They probably didn't know, until after stories about the blind gunfighter at Dias de Los Muertos reached Veracruz."

Sands didn't immediately answer, leaving the two men to salsa in-not silence. The music was blindingly loud, and everyone around them seemed to shriek their conversations.

"It doesn't matter," the American said at last, tone strangely reflective. "Barillo, Colombians, they're all part of the same thing. In Mexico, which was and is my beat. And those dogfuckers thought they could say different. Well, this country may be crappier than an old whore's pantyhose, but they're going to have to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers."

"Good," El replied, pressing his cheek briefly to the top of the other man's head.


Sands really wished El would stop saying 'good.' It wasn't a word he liked. But he did appreciate the hard-muscled leather-clad thigh grinding up between his own. El's capacity for public sex was amazing, frankly. Not to be believed, except Lorenzo and Fideo by some quirk had even bigger libidos.

Unfortunately, Sands' stomach was getting queasy. He and El…maybe they had gotten married somewhere along the way, and someone had forgotten to mention it to Sands. Most likely because he would've shattered their face with a shotgun blast. But this was kind of massacre-inducing all by itself. How the fuck did El do that? Sands was telling him shit he never told anyone he didn't intend to kill.

Huh. Killing El…was not even remotely a possibility. Sands winced inside, and his guts lurched sickeningly. Why not? The American desperately tried to picture himself holding a gun on the mariachi, pulling the trigger-except the daydream always stopped before that moment, instead warping into a vivid sense-memory of the last time El had tried to get Sands out of bed without coffee handy.

Fuck. Triple fuck. Fuck a duck, with a cherry on top. Sands was in a relationship. Sands needed to heave.

"Help! Get away from me! Help me!" a woman screamed. And then there was the rattling of gunfire, and the people around Sands and El screamed as well, transforming into a frightened mob that blindly stampeded away. And fuck the bathrooms too, Sands thought acidly, forcing his gorge down. It sounded like the plan had just gone up shit creek and over the goddamned waterfall.


Pushing and shoving, El barely got himself and Sands off the dancefloor in one piece, though he was glad to see that most of the innocents would be out of the way. The two men took cover behind an overturned table while El figured out what the hell happened. Sands tugged impatiently at the mariachi's sleeve. "Well?" the American demanded.

"I think one of the bigwigs in the back was drunk and made a pass," El responded tersely. "The dancer turned him down, and then he tried to rape her. She broke free and ran to the front to get her boyfriend. Another bigwig. Then the fight broke out. "

"Where's everyone?" Sands asked, palming a gun.

"Lorenzo and Fideo are both upstairs. They got to their cases. Mine is across the room." With a three-way gunfight between the two men and the hollow bench. With thousands of bullets flying across the room. On the other hand, the cartels had definitely started it this time. El slid his own two guns out of his sleeves and cocked them both. "Count of three," he told Sands breathlessly.

The American nodded. "'Kay. Three!" And they exploded out, running sideways with their backs to each other as they sprayed the room with gunfire. Men fell like rain in a storm.

The two men had nearly reached the booth that hid El's guitar case when one Colombian, driven into frenzy by adrenaline, suicidally charged forward with a shrill scream. El put five bullets into the man, but he kept on running, his gun discharging randomly all around the mariachi. And then they collided, sending El backward over a broken chair.


Sands noticed immediately. Not because the level of noise had suddenly dropped; not because he missed El's footsteps. Because he suddenly couldn't breathe. And only after that did the other details strike him. "El? El!" Sands yelled, diving frantically into blackness.

By sheer luck, he fell into the booth, landing with a hollow thud on top of the bench seat. Sands yanked himself up, grabbing the edge of the wooden plank that covered the guitar case, then let go and twisted, firing. Two men fell, and another screeched pitifully, his staggering steps, a beat with no rhythm, marking his pained retreat. Turning back to the bench, Sands blew holes with his gun all around the edge, and then stomped, hard. The plank collapsed in with a resounding crack, sending the American toppling forward onto the case, which was astonishingly untouched by the bullets. "El?"

Angry and fearful, almost irrational, Sands tossed his gun at the next idiot coming up, hearing it hit with a wet thwack, and then wrenched up the case one-handed, tossing it and himself out onto the floor. "El?"

//You'll meet him in hell//, said a furious voice, and Sands heard the trigger begin to scrape back. Flipping swiftly over, he snapped out his cane and sent it whipping into the other man's knees. The bullet passed with a roar by Sands' ear, scorching it with the heat of passage, and Sands threw himself forward to finish off his opponent-only to find nothing.

//Bastard!// the Colombian shrieked from beside Sands on the ground, and-

--a gunshot.


//Idiot! Fool!// El yelled, dragging the American back against his chest. He put another bullet into the thrashing gunman before them, silencing him permanently, and then squeezed Sands until the other man gasped for air. //Don't ever fucking do that!//

"Fuck you," Sands panted, relieved. He shoved El's guitar case at the mariachi, and then pulled another gun out of the holster at the small of his back. "I'd very much appreciate if you didn't keep dying, too," Sands retorted.

"You would?"

"Yes," the American said edgily. And then he shot over El, dropping another gunman. "I would. 'Cause you still owe me. At this rate, you'll always going to owe me."

That made El feel warm, despite the ridiculous odds they were facing. "Then I shall try not to die," he declared, flaring his words. Then he leapt up and back into the fight.

"Pompous dick," Sands sighed, and rose after him.


One reason why Sands loved fancy hotels was that they never asked questions. Never, if you paid enough. Not even when four of their guests stumbled in during the early hours of the morning, covered with blood and dust and assorted other icky substances, while carrying three banged-up guitar cases. Not a scream. The floor maid just offered Fideo extra towels and soap.

As soon as they got through the door, Fideo and Lorenzo lurched through the connector to their room. And forgot to close the linking door behind them. Groaning, Sands dragged himself over and pulled it shut, then locked it, and after that, he turned back to find El had already claimed the shower. The frustrating, insane bastard son of Our Whore. Like Sands was going to stand for that.

The American tugged off his boots, and then stripped off his jacket, vest, shirt and weapons, leaving them on the table by the car keys and Sands' shades. Then Sands tried to take off his pants, but only succeeded in undoing the fly and shoving them halfway down his hips, where they got stuck. "Goddammit," he swore tiredly, leaning against the wall and pointing eyeholes at his legs.

Gradually, it filtered from his ears to his brain. Singing. The fucking shitsucker was singing. In the shower. "That's it," Sands said loudly, and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door open.


El banged his leg on the tile in his surprise and cursed fluently, snatching aside the curtain to glare at Sands. //What-//

Wearing nothing but half-done leather pants, chains jingling, Sands stepped into the shower spray and dropped to his knees before El, seizing the other man by the legs and forcing his back to the wall. "You know something," he began conversationally, then stopped.

The leather had been snug to begin with, and now there were rivulets of water trickling down its sleek black surface and spangling its silver chains. Mouth dry, El's eyes followed the water back up Sands' firm belly, tracing the trickles in reverse as they streamed down well-defined chest muscles, beautifully-curving shoulders, a black slicked-down draggle of a ponytail. They sluiced across the gorgeously elegant planes of Sands' face, slowly effacing the black and red smudges from the high cheekbones, the determined chin and the lovely, lovely lips.

"You know something," Sands said again. "I'm not taking it anymore." And then he leaned forward and swallowed El's cock. Letting out a shout, El slumped backward, grabbing at the showerhead for support.

It was volcanic and stormy and holy Mother of God, but Sands was curling his tongue around El's rapidly-stiffening flesh as the American swallowed, constricting and relaxing that wonderful throat around El's cock. Sands coaxed it to full erection, every so often letting his teeth scrape over the heated skin, and then he showed El no mercy, sucking and bobbing his head furiously as his hands prevented the mariachi's hips from moving, from even getting that small relief. Moaning and swearing freely, El beat his head against the wall.

He looked down just in time to see Sands' fingers collecting soap suds, and then he felt Sands push them into his ass. //ohGod!//

Cruelly, the American removed his mouth. El stared dazedly at that scarred, eyeless, beautiful face, seeing Sands' lips move and not hearing the words until Sands once again took El into his mouth. "God has nothing to do with this."

"No," El gasped, tilting his head back, shoving his hips down. "Only we do."

And then, and then Sands flicked the very tips of his encased fingers, and did something with his tongue, and El came, sending thick white fluid into Sands' mouth where it leaked out and mingled with the lather.


That was most satisfying, Sands thought smugly as he removed his fingers, listening to the ragged-edge gasp of El's breathing. But…he tugged experimentally at the pants. Nothing. "Shit on a stick," he muttered to himself. "How the hell do these come off?"

"Like this," El answered, sounding much too recovered. And then Sands suddenly, inexplicably found himself on his back in the bathtub, while fingers stroked and played down one leg and chains clattered against the tile.

"Hey," he protested, but then El sank teeth into the leather by Sands' knee, and he lost the words.

"What I am doing," El explained anyway, "Is making you take it. Is making you want to take it."

"You fuck-" The pants were abruptly stripped off, provoking a screech as the wet leather peeled off bare skin. "Jesusfuck ow! El-"

And in keeping with his goddamn cockteasing ways, the mariachi squirmed up Sands' body and smashed their lips together, sucking out Sands' tongue and doing incredibly depraved things to it. Seeing the advantages to this, the American twined up around El, sweeping hands across El's back and ass as he rubbed his hard cock against El's. In the process, thumping the mariachi's head against the spigot.

"Fuck," El snapped into Sands' lips, awkwardly pulling the two men up into a kneeling position. Trying to avoid banging his knees on the tub walls, Sands uncrossed them from behind El's back and sprawled his legs on either side of the other man. He licked and nibbled down El's throat as the mariachi sucked at Sands' nipple, working his mouth from there up to Sands' shoulders, and then across the collarbone down to the other stiff little peak, flicking tongue and rasping teeth until Sands' chest was blooming with pink and bruise-blue rosettes. Scrabbling blindly behind him, El finally retrieved the soap and worked up another lather, then dropped it and worked the foamy fingers, one by one, into Sands' ass.

"Oh, Christ," Sands gasped, sagging forward onto the other man when the first finger penetrated. He could feel it, could probably draw the shape of its thrilling burn, and then El knowingly caressed the rough fingertip right there, and Sands cried out a moan. Smirking into the American's skin, El worked the spot tantalizingly for several minutes before adding the next finger, and then he repeated the torture while Sands screamed and writhed in his lap, pleading for the mariachi to hurry the fuck up.

"Are you going to take it?" El taunted mischievously.

In answer, Sands jerked out El's hand and then grabbed the mariachi's cock and thrust it into himself. "Fuck, yes, you motherfucking goat-bastard!" the American snarled ferociously. "Now, fuck me!"

"Always," El grinned, twisting sideways to prop Sands up against the wall. He nearly slipped on the wet porcelain, but adrenaline caught him and then El caught Sands in the vise of his hands, holding onto the other man's waist as he began to pound into Sands.

El's hands moved from waist to ribcage down to hips and then back to waist as he hung on to the twisting, coiling creature that groaned and shrieked and whimpered before him. Determinedly, he refused to let go, but instead drove in harder, deeper, pushing Sands up the wall until the two men could go no higher. And then they could do nothing but fall, still entangled in each other, into the spiral of grey and red and bright shadows that opened beneath them.


A long, long time later, when they'd cleaned and dried themselves and then hauled themselves onto the softness of their bed, El turned to Sands and whispered, "Where are you going now?"

"Hell, obviously. Always have, always will," Sands replied, rubbing his nose along the line of El's throat. "Where are you going?"

"I have already been to hell," the mariachi murmured, drawing small circles on the skin of Sands' arm. "I could guide you."

"Be fitting, I guess." Sands yawned, rolling closer to El. "Sure, then. Show me the sights, and all that."

"In the morning," El replied, closing his eyes and dreaming of devils with white wings and dark sunglasses.


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