Two fanfic100 entries
Apr. 21st, 2007 04:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
das_mervinTitle: Both
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Characters: Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands
Prompt: #84, He
Word Count: 770
Rating: R, for sexual content and foul language.
Summary: Brutality, blood, and subjugation. They are Sands. ONESHOT. SLASH.
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: Simple character study. Set pre-OUaTiM. Non-graphic slash. Style homage to Ernest Hemingway.
“Sheldon—”
A gasp. The meaty thud of a fist coming in contact with flesh.
“Goddammit, how many times have I told you not to call me that?”
“I’m sorry—”
“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 no reason.”
“Fine. Bastard.”
“That’s me, sweetcheeks.”
A grunt and a gasp; a harsh kiss that ends in a bloody lip.
“God, Jeff—”
“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.
“Jeff—”
“Silence, be quiet, shut up—whichever you prefer, so long as you do as you’re told.”
“What—oh, shit—”
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.
Title: Twice
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Characters: Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands
Prompt: #85, She
Word Count: 755
Rating: R, for sexual content and foul language.
Summary: Depravity, force, and perversion. They are Sands. A companion piece to “Both.” ONESHOT.
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: Companion piece to “Both.” Set pre-OUaTiM. Style homage to Ernest Hemingway.
“It’s about time.”
“I’m on time by my watch.”
“Then it’s slow.”
“Nah. You’re just fast.”
A swung hand. A caught wrist. A slow smirk.
“Slow down, sweets. Slow down. Wait until we’ve actually gotten to that part.”
“There won’t be any ‘that part’ if you keep saying shit like that to me.”
“Lying doesn’t suit you.”
“Oh, really? Then why are we still alive?”
“I don’t know why you’re still alive, but I’m still alive because lying does suit me.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s why you let me do this.”
Bruising kisses. A soft moan. Whispers of hands over clothed bodies.
“I can still hate you and want you at the same time.”
“What did I just say about lying?”
A muffled response. A hiked skirt. The hissing intake of breath. Teasing fingers.
“You’re…you’re not wasting time today.”
“Neither are you—what were you up to before I got here, or am I just that hot?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would—but you’re not going to tell me, so I’d best just get to it.”
Bodies collide. Hands slide under fabric. Palms grip and squeeze. Long fingers tease and brutalize.
“Bed—the bed, Jeff—”
“I don’t need it.”
“I want—ow, my arm, you’re twisting—!”
“Go with the flow, babe, and it won’t hurt.”
A loud thump as a body is pressed against the wall. Hands push back.
“Goddammit, you’re hurting me!”
“You know you like it—I can tell. Besides, even if you don’t like it, I like it.”
A skirt is pushed upwards. Panties glide uselessly to the floor.
“God, Jeff—let me turn, I want to see—”
“Shut up, Cindy.”
A short gasp. An arm twists higher. The sound of a belt being unbuckled, followed by a zipper being released.
“Jeff—”
“Do you want me to fuck you or not, Cindy?”
“Christ’s sake—”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Yes, Jeff!”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I want you to fuck me, I just wanted to turn around!”
“I like it when you sound so mad at me. Face the wall.”
A truncated response. Merciless thrusts. Brutal crushing against a wall. Fingers dig deep into flesh. Feminine groans, gasps, and moans.
“Stop—squeezing so—hard!”
“Shut the fuck up, Cindy.”
Painful groping. Fingers drive low, working towards release. Sharp biting. A hand tangled into hair, pressing a flushed cheek harder against a wall.
“Jeff, I’m gonna—!”
A short cry. Wet fingers trail across a flat stomach. A muted grunt. Motion slows.
“God…why couldn’t I have met you first, instead of him?”
“Because affairs are much more fun.”
“Not when your husband is a second in a drug outfit.”
“That makes it more exciting.”
“Can we sit now?”
“I’m comfortable.”
“I don’t give a shit about how you feel—I want to sit down!”
A low chuckle. Clothes are picked back up. The zipper slides back into place.
“You got a cigarette, Jeff?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you going to give me one or not?”
“I’m not. They’re bad for you.”
“Fucker.”
“You should know.”
The crackle of plastic. The flick of a lighter.
“Dammit, just give me one. This is the only time I can smoke.”
“Just accuse him. He’ll let you smoke if you blackmail him.”
“I don’t want to lose that trump card yet. Not until I find out what little homo he’s boning on the side.”
“If you haven’t found him now, what makes you think you will?”
“I don’t know. I just wanna catch ‘em together—turn them both in. Good payback for marrying me as a beard, that stupid shit.”
“Well, you hold it for too long, he’ll catch you at it first.”
“He won’t. He’s probably off with his boy-toy now. Too busy cocksucking to think about what I’m doing.”
“I say we go public at the meeting. Who knows how many he’s been with—I mean, the nineteen-year-old is just one. Just show the photos, he gets taken out, I get everything.”
“We get everything.”
“We are ‘I’ for convenience sake.”
“Fine, fine—anyway, you’d better go. I’ve got girlfriends coming.”
“That’s incentive to stay, not go.”
“Oh, get out.”
“Man—this has that nice prostitute feel to it. I like it.”
“Get the fuck out, you goddamn bastard!”
“Whatever you say. Just pick up the phone if that itch comes back. Oh, and here—have a quarter.”
A door slams, blocking both the sound of a scream and the heavy glass ashtray whizzing through the air.
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Characters: Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands
Prompt: #84, He
Word Count: 770
Rating: R, for sexual content and foul language.
Summary: Brutality, blood, and subjugation. They are Sands. ONESHOT. SLASH.
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: Simple character study. Set pre-OUaTiM. Non-graphic slash. Style homage to Ernest Hemingway.
“Sheldon—”
A gasp. The meaty thud of a fist coming in contact with flesh.
“Goddammit, how many times have I told you not to call me that?”
“I’m sorry—”
“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 no reason.”
“Fine. Bastard.”
“That’s me, sweetcheeks.”
A grunt and a gasp; a harsh kiss that ends in a bloody lip.
“God, Jeff—”
“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.
“Jeff—”
“Silence, be quiet, shut up—whichever you prefer, so long as you do as you’re told.”
“What—oh, shit—”
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.
Title: Twice
Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Characters: Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands
Prompt: #85, She
Word Count: 755
Rating: R, for sexual content and foul language.
Summary: Depravity, force, and perversion. They are Sands. A companion piece to “Both.” ONESHOT.
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: Companion piece to “Both.” Set pre-OUaTiM. Style homage to Ernest Hemingway.
“It’s about time.”
“I’m on time by my watch.”
“Then it’s slow.”
“Nah. You’re just fast.”
A swung hand. A caught wrist. A slow smirk.
“Slow down, sweets. Slow down. Wait until we’ve actually gotten to that part.”
“There won’t be any ‘that part’ if you keep saying shit like that to me.”
“Lying doesn’t suit you.”
“Oh, really? Then why are we still alive?”
“I don’t know why you’re still alive, but I’m still alive because lying does suit me.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s why you let me do this.”
Bruising kisses. A soft moan. Whispers of hands over clothed bodies.
“I can still hate you and want you at the same time.”
“What did I just say about lying?”
A muffled response. A hiked skirt. The hissing intake of breath. Teasing fingers.
“You’re…you’re not wasting time today.”
“Neither are you—what were you up to before I got here, or am I just that hot?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would—but you’re not going to tell me, so I’d best just get to it.”
Bodies collide. Hands slide under fabric. Palms grip and squeeze. Long fingers tease and brutalize.
“Bed—the bed, Jeff—”
“I don’t need it.”
“I want—ow, my arm, you’re twisting—!”
“Go with the flow, babe, and it won’t hurt.”
A loud thump as a body is pressed against the wall. Hands push back.
“Goddammit, you’re hurting me!”
“You know you like it—I can tell. Besides, even if you don’t like it, I like it.”
A skirt is pushed upwards. Panties glide uselessly to the floor.
“God, Jeff—let me turn, I want to see—”
“Shut up, Cindy.”
A short gasp. An arm twists higher. The sound of a belt being unbuckled, followed by a zipper being released.
“Jeff—”
“Do you want me to fuck you or not, Cindy?”
“Christ’s sake—”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Yes, Jeff!”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I want you to fuck me, I just wanted to turn around!”
“I like it when you sound so mad at me. Face the wall.”
A truncated response. Merciless thrusts. Brutal crushing against a wall. Fingers dig deep into flesh. Feminine groans, gasps, and moans.
“Stop—squeezing so—hard!”
“Shut the fuck up, Cindy.”
Painful groping. Fingers drive low, working towards release. Sharp biting. A hand tangled into hair, pressing a flushed cheek harder against a wall.
“Jeff, I’m gonna—!”
A short cry. Wet fingers trail across a flat stomach. A muted grunt. Motion slows.
“God…why couldn’t I have met you first, instead of him?”
“Because affairs are much more fun.”
“Not when your husband is a second in a drug outfit.”
“That makes it more exciting.”
“Can we sit now?”
“I’m comfortable.”
“I don’t give a shit about how you feel—I want to sit down!”
A low chuckle. Clothes are picked back up. The zipper slides back into place.
“You got a cigarette, Jeff?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you going to give me one or not?”
“I’m not. They’re bad for you.”
“Fucker.”
“You should know.”
The crackle of plastic. The flick of a lighter.
“Dammit, just give me one. This is the only time I can smoke.”
“Just accuse him. He’ll let you smoke if you blackmail him.”
“I don’t want to lose that trump card yet. Not until I find out what little homo he’s boning on the side.”
“If you haven’t found him now, what makes you think you will?”
“I don’t know. I just wanna catch ‘em together—turn them both in. Good payback for marrying me as a beard, that stupid shit.”
“Well, you hold it for too long, he’ll catch you at it first.”
“He won’t. He’s probably off with his boy-toy now. Too busy cocksucking to think about what I’m doing.”
“I say we go public at the meeting. Who knows how many he’s been with—I mean, the nineteen-year-old is just one. Just show the photos, he gets taken out, I get everything.”
“We get everything.”
“We are ‘I’ for convenience sake.”
“Fine, fine—anyway, you’d better go. I’ve got girlfriends coming.”
“That’s incentive to stay, not go.”
“Oh, get out.”
“Man—this has that nice prostitute feel to it. I like it.”
“Get the fuck out, you goddamn bastard!”
“Whatever you say. Just pick up the phone if that itch comes back. Oh, and here—have a quarter.”
A door slams, blocking both the sound of a scream and the heavy glass ashtray whizzing through the air.
