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Bureau of Mutants, Superhumans, & Costumed Vigilantes


November 22nd, 2003

Teh Eeviiilll Returns!!11! @ 09:49 pm

Current Mood: mischievous mischievous
Current Music: Desperado--"Six Blade Knife"
Tags:

The evil continues!!!!! Not content with producing the first bit of OUaTiM anthropomorphic smut, my brain has forced me to write this one as well. The sad thing is, it may be the closest I’ve ever come to writing actual explicit sex. No, seriously. I actually blushed while writing this. It’s, um, rather more graphic than the last one. Darker, too.



Mere minutes ago they were one, his hands gripping her, guiding her, holding her as she bucked and shuddered, but now, now he relinquishes her, leaves her lying dirty and spent atop the bedspread and goes to the little hotel bathroom to wash his face and hands. To wash off the smell of her, as if she is something foul, something dirty, something he needs to be cleansed of.

He will be back later, she knows; he has tried to abandon her before, but always he returns. He needs her. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

“Yo, El, you might want to clean and reload that, you know. Semper paratus, remember? The Boy Scouts taught me that much, even if the fuckers did kick me out after a week.” A weight settles onto the bed beside her.

“I will do it later.” And just like that, she is dismissed. The Mariachi loves his guitar, not her. It is the guitar that he caresses, holds close, lavishes his attention upon. She is merely something to be used and then discarded until he needs her again.

“Nevermind, I’ll do it. I’m faster than you anyway. But you owe me, fuckmook, okay?”

She does not hear the Mariachi’s reply, because now a different pair of hands has taken hold of her. They are slightly smaller than his hands, smoother, without scars or the calluses the guitar’s strings have left like ten little love bites on his fingertips. They are not the Mariachi’s hands, but neither are they unfamiliar.

Sensitive fingertips explore every inch of her, invading her, opening her, caressing her inside and out. Already warm from firing, she heats further in his hands, letting him touch her, stroke her, explore her most secret cavities. If she could speak now, she would have been moaning in pleasure. This is what she wants; to be handled, to be filled, to be cared for. In these hands, she knows, she could kick, could explode, could fire as she never has before, not even for the Mariachi.

This second set of hands understands her, appreciates her, wants her, in a way that the Mariachi does only rarely. These hands know her potential, and she can tell, by the almost reverent way they tease and stroke her back together while she luxuriates in the afterglow of being cleaned and reloaded, that he, the owner of the hands, wants to help her reach it. To aim her, to shoot with her, to kill with her. To leave her children scattered in the bodies of men and women while they create pain and death together.

She gives herself over to the sensations, soaking them in along with the gun oil, and fantasizes for a moment about riding one of those slim hips, nestling against those ribs, held close against the heat of his body. She has never really liked being inside the guitar case. It’s crowded in there, and the guitar is always so smug.

It is wrong to be enjoying this so much when she belongs to the Mariachi, but she can’t help herself. They have something special, she and this second gunfighter. She knows it, has known it ever since that night when he and the Mariachi got distracted while cleaning the weapons and fell asleep with the guitar case still open. She will never forget the way he reached for her and held her in the night, the way it felt when her lips touched his temple, his forehead, his mouth. The Mariachi has never kissed her like that, never done anything that intimate, and the forbidden thrill of it was incredible. He released her much too soon, but she understood why; it wouldn’t do for the Mariachi to wake and find them together like that. He would have been jealous, angry with them for cheating on him (or maybe not, after all, he is letting them have this moment right now).

When the hands finally finish their work and restore her, sated and content, to the guitar case, she is nearly purring, and, though she knows she should, she doesn’t feel guilty at all. The Mariachi might need her, but he cares for the guitar, not for her. The other gunfighter is the one who loves her best.


*hangs head in shame* I’m going to Hell.
 
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Comments

 
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From:penm
Date:November 22nd, 2003 10:02 pm (UTC)
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Oh to be that gun...

*purrs appreciatively*

(You are completely mad and I love it. This fic rocks eats my brain.)
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From:elspethdixon
Date:November 22nd, 2003 10:21 pm (UTC)
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Thank you *bows* It ate my brain too. I was standing at the counter of a fish and chips shop, ordering curry chips, when it sprang fully formed into my head.

I think the girl at the register thinks I'm a nut now, thanks to the way I suddenly started sniggering at nothing.
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From:penm
Date:November 22nd, 2003 10:22 pm (UTC)
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I think the girl at the register thinks I'm a nut now, thanks to the way I suddenly started sniggering at nothing.

That happens to me often.
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From:evyg
Date:November 22nd, 2003 10:44 pm (UTC)
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it's getting fucking crowded. ::scoots over::
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From:bwinter
Date:November 22nd, 2003 11:17 pm (UTC)
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Sands/Gun OTP!!!!!~~111!

Seriously, I now have a perfect image of what Gun would look like if she was human, and this is a character I might just use sometime... thank you for writing this!
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From:elspethdixon
Date:November 23rd, 2003 01:01 pm (UTC)
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*laughs* Sands/Gun, theirloveissoautomatic (well, actually, it's not; she's not that kind of gun).
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From:monkeypuzzle
Date:November 25th, 2003 03:36 am (UTC)
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Oh. My...

That was so wonderfully wrong.

To aim her, to shoot with her, to kill with her. To leave her children scattered in the bodies of men and women while they create pain and death together.

And daaaamn sexy.

::laughing and fanning self:: You ain't the only one going to Hell.
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From:kate_swynford
Date:April 2nd, 2004 06:19 am (UTC)
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Astonishingly beautiful, bitterly ironic, poetically subtle. I loved the imagery of this love triangle (quadrangle? - if you count the guitar).

Both El and Sands are so in character and so believable.

Favourite line: She will never forget the way he reached for her and held her in the night, the way it felt when her lips touched his temple, his forehead, his mouth. Wow. Just wow. Erotic and deadly. Things that happen in the dead of the night.
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From:elspethdixon
Date:April 3rd, 2004 07:13 pm (UTC)
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Thanks! I think this drabble still holds the record for the smuttiest thing I've ever written (I suck at smut, and not in the good sense).

For more anthropomorphic smut, go check out the list .
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From:elspethdixon
Date:April 3rd, 2004 07:22 pm (UTC)
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That is, this list.
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From:splintergirl
Date:May 1st, 2005 03:54 am (UTC)

Yum!

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It is wrong to be enjoying this so much when she belongs to the Mariachi, but she can’t help herself.

Just like me and this story -- it's so wrong, but I can't help myself! Honestly, it's terrific. See you in hell!

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