Summary: Brutality, blood, and subjugation. They are Sands. ONESHOT. SLASH.
Rated: M, for sexual content and foul language.
Disclaimers: I do not own Once Upon a Time in Mexico, directed by Robert Rodriguez in association with Columbia Pictures and Dimension Films, nor any of the characters affiliated with it. Credit given to Ernest Hemingway. I only own the characters of James and Cindy Pauling, even though we never hear their names in this fic.
Author's Notes: This is a very simple character study. If you are looking for a deep plot and an extensive fic, this isn't what you're looking for, guaranteed. It's just a short character study of Agent Sands. It is technically slash, not too graphic, but still male/male sex—I am of the opinion that Sands is bisexual. I just get that vibe off of him—he flirts with every single person he meets. He seems to be a person who will use anything available to him as some kind of tool to dominate or even a weapon, and sexuality would not be out of the question. Just so long as he can somehow subjugate someone to his will, he is happy.
The style is homage to Hemingway, who wrote sex in almost the same fashion—all dialogue, absolutely no description. If you don't enjoy that style, I'm sorry—I just felt that writing explicit sex would take away from the study I'm attempting here.
A gasp, and the meaty thud of a fist coming in contact with flesh.
"Goddammit, how many times have I told you not to call me that?"
"Yeah, you are. I don't need you to constantly remind me that my parents have a lousy sense of humor and thought it would be just so fucking hilarious to name me Shelly. It's either Jeff or Sands, preferably the latter."
"Still no excuse to punch me, you asshole."
"I find it a perfectly reasonable excuse—and you'd best find it a good one, too, or you'll have set up this particular tryst for absolutely no reason."
"That's me, sweetcheeks."
A grunt and a gasp; a harsh kiss that ends in a bloody lip.
"Synonymous, I know."
A soft flump; a back lands on a bed. His hands are everywhere.
"You're going to rip the buttons off my shirt!"
"Then don't wear those kinds of shirts if you want to save buttons."
"Stop it, just let me take it off—"
Too late; four pops, four buttons fly off in four different directions.
"Goddammit, can't you wait—"
"Judging by that, you can't wait, either."
"Oh, fuck you."
"Fuck you, you mean."
A whisper of a shirt; thumps as shoes land on the floor. Hands trailing hot skin. Sweat. A sharp bite on the shoulder, powerful enough to draw blood.
"Silence, be quiet, shut up—whichever you prefer, so long as you do as you're told."
Moans. Stroking, teasing, a thin smirk, maliciously narrowed eyes.
"Dear God, how do you do that?"
"Practice makes perfect."
Rough, wet kisses. Fingernails scraping skin. A zipper, the meaningless jangle of keys.
"No, I don't—"
"No way, kiddo. Besides—you know you want this, you always do, you always beg me for more. I let you drive, you wouldn't know what to do."
"You're an asshole."
"No, that'd be you."
Fingers tangled in hair. Forceful thrusts. One voice moaning and growling. Silence from the other.
"Shit, hard—that hurts, you fucker!"
No response. Grunts of pain give way to groans of pleasure.
"Jeff—oh, fuck, Jeff!"
A low, keening wail. Near-silence from the other—a quiet, short gasp. A crushing grip. A low hum. A creak of bed springs. The flick of a cigarette lighter.
"Jesus, why do you smoke those things?"
"It's called addiction—you should know all about it."
"I am not addicted to you."
"Uh-huh. You're also 100 percent heterosexual, married to a lovely young woman who is also 100 percent sure you're 100 percent heterosexual and is totally faithful to your 100 percent heterosexual ass."
"Remind me again exactly why I sleep with you."
"As I said—you're addicted. This cigarette? I know it's doing shit to my lungs. But it contains nicotine. Just hearing the word makes me crave a cigarette. I'm addicted, you're addicted. It's really quite simple. At least I'm not in denial about it."
"Yeah, well, I think I would enjoy this a lot more if you could go at least one night without reminding me that you're aiding both me and my wife in adultery."
"I love to remind you—it's just to make sure you don't get any ideas about me being queer."
"I'm well aware of it, thank you—"
"It's also to remind you that your wife came onto me first, which gives you the moral high ground."
A sigh. A long silence. The soft hiss and crackle as the cigarette glows periodically in the darkness.
"Who do you like better, anyway?"
"Oh my Christ. You've got to be kidding me."
"It's just a question!"
"For fuck's sake, you sound like a jealous little girl. 'Who do I like better—' what the shit is that? You have no room to be jealous, considering you started letting me bone you before you found out I was mattress-hopping with her—"
"Look, just forget it, all right?! Jesus Christ…"
"I will gladly forget it. God—you always try to do your best to ruin the after-sex buzz. Can't you just be quiet? Why do you have to act like a woman? If I wanted a woman, I'd call your wife. Act like a man for a change—that's what I'm here for."
No response. The cigarette crunches as it is put out. Eventually, breathing slows and steadies—light snores begin. The mattress creaks. The soft whisper of clothes being slipped on over a thin frame. A door clicks open, casting a sliver of dull light into the room. The door snickers shut.
As for the OC, I have a little bit of back story scribbled down about him, along with a companion piece to this in the works—Sands with Pauling's wife, Cindy.
Thank you for reading, please tell me what was good and what was bad.