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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Gunkink.
Pairing: Sands/El
Disclaimer: Belongs elsewhere than myself.
Notes: For fey_puck in return for giving me a link to Gackt mp3 archive. Music feeds the fic.
Summary: Sands attempts to get inside El's mind, but instead, accomplishes the reverse.
***
Know what's his, know him.
But El doesn't trust Sands near the guitar. Doesn't even let him near the case, as if his mere presence might shatter it.
Which may well be true. But no matter. Like everything else these days, the mariachi is a divided man.
Sands picks up the gun and traces a slow finger down its barrel. Beveled edges, mostly, but still--razor. Ouch. Bit him deep, all right. He turns the coolness over in his palm so the spilled droplets smear across his skin there and keeps feeling the curves. Smooth one way, lethal the other. Spare and efficient and eternal.
Hot breath suddenly casts down into his face, startling his grip loose from the gun. He backs into the wall, pushing off the balls of his feet--sitting, see--and encloses himself in the invisible acid heat rolling off El's arms. Silk ice, image black against the blackness, touches itself to his lips. El outlines them with the pistol, then with a thumb as a slight gasp escapes.
And the gun drops to his lap, nudging button out of hole and zipper down. Laying steel in his flesh and smoke in his head, suffocating and reviving. Death stroking out death, and Christ--
--over. Footsteps carry the gun away from his loose-strung limbs. Words come back.
"Know my gun, know yourself."
***