Author: Guede Mazaka
I. First Shot
They’re in a ghost bar. It’s Mexico so the floor is stone, easy to mop up and therefore Vincent’s got no way of telling what happened and how long ago to whoever used to use this bar. Right now it’s being used as a holding pen. In a way. Vincent has one hand chained to the green-splotched brass rail that rings the bar, and as of two minutes ago, Sands had been similarly restrained to a barstool on the other side of the room.
El’s out. Reconnaissance is most likely, but with him there never was a certainty. He celebrated anniversaries, too, and preferred to do those alone since they were from the life before, so Vincent still hadn’t learned their pattern. Maybe Sands knows, but like with El, it’s hard to tell when the man’s bluffing and when he actually has shit.
As of right now, Sands is free and dangling a loose pair of cuffs in Vincent’s face. This could be a problem.
In Sands’ other hand is a full bottle of tequila. His smile is a bright slice of good old artificial American white as he sets them down. “I am,” he says, pronouncing like a judge of eighty years and impeccable record, “Bored.”
And then he hops the counter to dig out two pistols, lime wedges and salt. Sands sets up a line of tequila shots and what appears to be a fully-loaded gun by Vincent’s elbow, well within reach. While Vincent melts when El just breathes near him, he still is not…fond of Sands. Saying he’d like to steal the man’s brains and shove them up Sands’ ass would be a lot more accurate. The feeling isn’t quite mutual, but nevertheless Sands has no reason to be inviting Vincent to blow a neat hole through his forehead.
Not that it would do any good, what with how they are. But it would still hurt. And it’d mess up Sands’ clothes. He is incredibly vain, considering that he has nothing but scar tissue in his eye sockets.
“Vinny, I am bored and I can feel my reflexes rusting in place just because jangle-fuck thinks we’ll cramp his style. So how about a little game?” The widening of Sands’ smile as he straddles the bar signals the approach of the hook. “We’ve got shots.” Fingers flicking at his tequila, then wrapping around his gun. “First one to finish gets to take a shot.”
It’s a lousy pun. Sands has a wicked sense of humor that could cut glaciers into decorative ice swans, but he usually employs it in laughing at how bad his jokes are. It’s one of the reasons that, whenever he has to leave them alone, El chains them up.
It’s got a catch, obviously, or else it wouldn’t be Sands.
“Okay.” Vincent scoots a lime slice through the salt, pops it into his mouth and holds it to the side while he tosses off a shot. Then he fires.
* * *
II. Second Shot
Sands ducked out of the way in time, but his foot got tangled in the metal rail and it takes a few minutes for him to get straight again. As he’s feeling generous, Vincent doesn’t move on to the next shot, but instead pries the lime peel from his teeth and drops it on the counter.
That earns him a disgusted face; Sands can’t see what he is doing—at least, Vincent thinks that’s how it works—but the man is smart enough to figure it out. “Vincent, honey, you do not fucking do shots like that. Don’t make me school your Midwestern pasty ass.”
“So where are you from?” Vincent scoffs. He fingers the next glass, holds it up to sniff the tequila. It’s top-notch stuff, not cut or watered in the least. “New England?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Purring from Sands is always a warning, and in this case it’s followed up by the distorted image of a black hole in the middle of Vincent’s tequila.
The glass shatters in Vincent’s hand as he kicks off the stool and drops down. His handcuff stops him with a jerk that’s hard enough to keep his arm tingling long after he’s righted himself. Now his sleeve is dripping and there are flecks of glass pricking blood from his fingers. He takes a moment to suck them out, scraping with his teeth where he has to, and to spit the bits over the bar.
Of course, playing with one of them restrained isn’t fair either. Not that either of them particularly care, so he doesn’t bother mentioning it.
* * *
III. Third Shot
“Aw, did I spill your drink?” Sands leans down, stretches full-length on the bar. His splayed fingers touch the edge of Vincent’s cuffed hand and he pulls it toward him to give the side a long hard lick. Then he sprinkles on salt, only to delicately lap it off.
His breath is warm on Vincent’s wetted skin and the way his jeans go snug over his ass is…pretty, but not nearly enough to distract Vincent. Neither is how Sands draws a wedge longways out of his mouth, scraping off the flesh with his top teeth, which are square white kittenish things. But then he says: “You should try that with El sometime. Seriously. Because he makes this great growling sound and then he fucks your throat like he fucking well wants to nest down there.”
Vincent only snaps out of it in time because the light catches on the rim of the shotglass and blinds his eye. He lunges anyway, guessing the distance, and smashes his mouth on glass and flesh, trapping the glass between them. There’s salt and citrus and slow burn in Sands’ mouth, so Vincent figures it’s kosher.
The pistol’s recoil slaps him in the belly, but it doesn’t bruise nearly as badly as Sands’ foot catching Vincent’s head as the other man dives over the bar.
* * *
IV. Fourth Shot
If Vincent had to put a label to Sands’ expression, he’d probably go with ‘pissed.’ It’d be his own bad pun, which is why he just grins and doesn’t comment as the other man claws back onto the bar.
Fingers come at him. But they’re slow enough for him to see them coming, which is why Vincent’s reflexes don’t make him jerk back. Sands’ hand wanders lightly over Vincent’s face, then shoves him away as Sands sets himself cross-legged on the counter. “Ah, a happy drunk! Makes a nice change from Fideo’s two-peso spirituality and El’s goddamn funks. How about another one?”
“You first.” Though Vincent is actually quietly salting a lime and getting ready to squeeze it into his mouth.
It doesn’t get there. The lime juice is just grazing his lip with its burn when something cold snicks around his wrist. Then everything spins and flips and suddenly Vincent is on his back, legs dangling painfully down one side and hands cuffed to either side of the bar. His gun clatters somewhere on the floor. He can see the slice spinning in the air where it’d squirted from his fingers, and he can also see Sands’ hand snatching it out of the air. A drop of it flies into his eye and squeezes it shut in vicious pain.
More of it gets dribbled onto his neck, right over his Adam’s apple. Then he’s eating hair as Sands noisily, messily, teasingly sucks it off of him. “Have you showered yet?” Vincent gasps.
He throws his one leg up onto the bar and gets himself lying straight, just as a hot gunbarrel rips through his shirtbuttons and sends his shirt flapping open. Sands sits up, tequila glass held high over Vincent’s torso, and presses the searing side of the gun to the scar on Vincent’s right side. He doesn’t pour till Vincent starts squirming. “Sugarbaby, I thought you liked it au naturel.”
Sands doesn’t lick off the alcohol. Not directly. What he does is rub the gun through the tequila, which is quickly evaporating in the heat and thus is chilling shivers from Vincent, then lift it to his mouth to give the barrel a long wet kiss.
Vincent is still down to one eye and so his perspective’s off, but Sands holds the gun so close to his face that it doesn’t really matter. He freezes.
Head-tilt, like Sands could actually consider the composition of their positions. Then Sands drags the gun-tip down the center of Vincent’s chest, down and slides it deep behind Vincent’s waistband so the still-warm metal just touches Vincent’s prick. Another second of contemplation while Vincent’s breathing goes heavy and his hands clench around the cuff-chains.
“Nah. He’d bitch at me.” Gun withdraws, and Sands rocks back on his heels to aim for Vincent’s heart. “Funny, you know. El has absolutely no fucking problem with explosives, yet he’s got a big old code of honor about torture—”
He’s interrupted by a bang.
* * *
V. Fifth Shot
“I thought I told you not to make trouble.” El’s got one hand smoothing through the sticky tequila residue on Vincent’s chest, petting and stroking till Vincent is arching against the cuffs, and with the other he’s pinching Sands’ jaw. But the ball of his thumb is rolling lovingly in the hollows beneath the jawbone, and certainly the way Sands is pressing up against him doesn’t say much about pain.
“You almost shot my finger off, you sneaky fuckass,” Sands whines, one second before he’s wrapped snakelike around El and eating out El’s mouth.
Vincent rolls his eyes as best he can, given that one is still recovering and that the other is fixated on El’s hand, which is casually stripping off his pants. “So much for your jingle-alert.”
Whatever Sands’ return insult was, it got too mashed in between his and El’s mouths to be comprehensible. But grabbing the remaining shotglasses and pouring them all out over Vincent makes the point pretty clear.
El sighs. And then he slaps down Sands’ hand so the bullet shoots sideways and buries itself in the far wall. “My gun. You’ve got your own.”
At this point, maybe the tequila does begin to get to Vincent. Because he has to laugh.
* * *
VI. Sixth Shot
Sands is temporarily out of the way—recuffed about a foot from Vincent’s head—and there are blunt fingers carefully fucking Vincent blind. Also a hand cradling his hip, cushioning it against his wild rocks and jerks, and a mouth chasing the drops of tequila and lime and scraping off the small clumps of salt. It roves over his chest, nurses his nipple till his breath is gone, and then climbs his throat as the weight of El’s body climbs his. Vincent’s head lolls back and the air swims before his eyes.
It snaps clear. His hiss, however, remains trapped between his mouth and Sands. For once the other man is tender, a marked contrast to the rough way El drives into them. Which is why, Vincent absently thinks. Light touches are all the harder to bear; it’s easier to adapt to a hard blow. But then, if all he got from these two was that, he would have long since gotten bored and gotten the better of them.
His hands yank at their chains till someone—probably both of them—pins them to the bar. El rises, pushes even deeper as he does, and Sands sinks in counterpoint to tickle Vincent’s ear with his serpent’s tongue. Drive him mad with the relentless teasing that’s distracting from the tension drawing tight all of his muscles, pulling him into an overdrawn wire that’s ready to snap loose, recoil back into—
--the cuffs click free—
--the doors slam open—
--heavy weight of a gun slams into his palm just as his climax whips apart his body. It goes from his prick up, so he has a second to pull the trigger before it overtakes all of him.
Sands makes a scolding noise with his tongue and teeth as he mouths the sweat along Vincent’s jaw. “Didn’t sound clean.”
“Off-center chest.” El’s weight lifts and suddenly Vincent is moaning with the withdrawal of heat from between his legs and then there’s the deliberate tread highlighted by a delicate tinkling. “I’ll take care of it.”
“But still, seems like Vince here hasn’t quite learned this lesson. Not slowing down, are we?” Sharp bite to Vincent’s earlobe.
He turns his head, catches Sands’ mouth and sinks teeth into the lower leg. Curses click against his teeth, but Sands is pressing into it and not moving back. “We’ve both still got half-clips,” Vincent says. “Enough for another demonstration.”
Sands grins, nothing but razors beneath the doting air. “Aw. He’s so eager. Well, bring on the next round, El.”