Tangible Schizophrenia


Chemistry 4: Preliminary Observation

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Call it 'violently fluffy.'
Pairing: Sands/El/Lorenzo
Disclaimer: V. v. much not mine, however often I wish. Robert Rodriguez and Co. are extremely lucky people.
Feedback: Juices me right up.
Notes: Written as a gift to rokeon, in thanks for the awesome icons. So, this is much shorter, obviously. Same universe as "Crucible." Cane idea stolen from Daredevil, which was pretty good, actually. Reference to Desperado. //words// denote Spanish-speak.
Summary: So these three guys walk into a barů


It was slightly more upper-class than the usual streetcorner bar, that meaning a few of its patrons had collared shirts. But the general lack of sanitation didn't seem to bother the stranger who'd just entered at all. He walked through the swinging doors, not bothering to remove his jet-black sunglasses or to avoid stepping in the various smelly puddles of unidentified liquids that dotted the floor, and then paused just inside.

*Snickclick.* He flicked a wrist, and the thin, six-inch bar of metal in his left hand telescoped into a cane, which he used to quickly lead him to an empty barstool. Behind him, the barflies, who had started menacingly at the flash of white, relaxed and began to jeer at the man, voices just above a whisper. He sat himself down and rapped once on the bar.

Lifting his head lazily, the bartender swiped cracked, black-edged fingernails across his forehead and turned to the new customer, drawling, //Yeah?//

"I'll have a beer, sir," the man said casually, sprawling out on the stool, "and you'll take this, if you please." He slid a small slip of paper across the wood. Eyebrows up at the man's grating Americano accent, the bartender cautiously reached out and picked up the paper. He glanced over it, then looked it over more carefully a second time. "We gotta make a phone call," he finally said, gesturing to another man sitting nearby, who moved behind the bar and began dialing. "This'll take a minute." The bartender banged a yellowed mug under the tap and when it was full, pushed it across to the man. "Here's your beer."

"Thanks." The man didn't drink, though. A kind of silence fell in the bar, a silence of heavy breathing, shifting of weight on rickety stained furniture, uneasy slurping of warm beer. Only the man at the phone spoke, and then only a few words, before he, too, fell quiet.

Suddenly, the stranger shifted up to lean onto the bar. "Would you," he asked, voice innocent as a girl attending her first Communion, "like to hear a joke?" He didn't stop for a reply before going on, "A blind man and a Columbian walk into a bar. The blind man says, 'Bartender, gimme a beer.' But before the bartender can get the guy a drink, the Columbian waves him over. 'Listen,' he whispers to the bartender, 'this guy owes me money, so I'm gonna play a little trick on him. Hand me the mug.' The bartender starts to say no, but the Columbian slides a fifty over, and he thinks what the hell and gives the guy the mug. So the Columbian whips out his prick and pisses into the mug, then hands it back to the bartender. By then, the bartender's caught on, and he thinks it's pretty funny, so he walks back down and hands the mug to the blind guy. And you know what happened next?"

Just then, the barfly at the phone tapped the bartender on the shoulder, shaking his head when the other man turned around. The bartender nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned back to the stranger, only to find a huge black gun in his face, while a white cane suddenly slammed into the throat of the barfly standing beside the phone. "The blind guy leveled that shitsucking hellhole," the stranger snarled, and pulled the trigger.


Ten minutes later, the bar was a wasteland of dead bodies as continents and internal fluids as lakes. Sands sniffed delicately, brushing dirt off his pants as he began making his way out. Another hand joined in the cleaning, then swept around to cup his ass. "And where the fuck have you been?" Sands demanded, holstering his gun.

"I was here, watching," El answered, pulling Sands against him. He nipped briefly at the American's mouth before moving down. "Yeah, right," Sands retorted, stumbling back to brace himself against the bar. "So he was only on the phone for a few minutes, which means that somebody big's got to be around, if they can check authorization that quick-"

El had yanked down Sands' pants and was now circling the rising head of Sands' cock with a rough tongue. His big hands fondled the cheeks of Sands' ass, calloused fingers occasionally dipping deeper to rub against its puckered hole, already beginning to twitch. Licking enthusiastically, El moved further down the flushing cock, brushing over the strained skin with lips and sometimes teeth as he traced the little blue veins crisscrossing the flesh. "Holy Motherfucking Madonnas and their punkass sons," Sands gasped, one hand's nails gouging holes out of the wooden bar, while the other's scraped along El's scalp. "God, god, deeper, deeper," he whined piteously.

El shrugged and proceeded to wrap his throat around the American's cock in one fluid movement, swallowing rhythmically so he created a wet, hot vise that scalded Sands' nerves and squeezed everything out of his mind. Howling a mix of guttural noises and curses-both in Spanish and English-Sands came with a brutal snap of the hips. Placidly, El kept swallowing, not spilling a single drop of his lover's ejaculation.

//Jesus Christ// came a voice from the doorway. //You couldn't wait till we got somewhere clean?//

//You still have enchilada on your boots// El pointed out, rising off the floor and slipping an arm around Sands' waist; Sands promptly leant all his weight onto the other man. Lorenzo stuttered embarrassedly. //Hey-hey. At least that place had napkins.//

"Whatever, loose ass," Sands muttered, starting to move forward. "Let's get going, before you two shotgun the mayor again."


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