'Nother Newbie
Um, hi! I've been lurking around here for, oh, quite a while now, enjoying all the fics adn stuff. I got bit by the Sel (Sands/El) muse a little while back and decided to post. I'm very much new at this, so if I've goofed anywhere please let me know. And if anybody has any hints or tips, I'd like to hear 'em too.
Every Beginning has an End (deathfic)
Title: Every Beginning Has An End
Pairings: Sands/El, established
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn the luck.
Rating: Uh, PG?
Summery: Cornered by cartels and CIA, with El fatally wounded, Sands ends their legend.
Warnings: Ah-wooga! Ah-wooga! Deathfic ahead!
They were fucked. Forwards, backwards and sideways.
The cartel they had gone after had been better prepared than either of them had thought and now they were pinned in a small room. With no windows. Fuckall.
And, Christ on a crutch, now the ammo was running low. Shit.
Expressing his discontent with the present situation, in as loud a voice as he manage so both The *and* the bastards shooting at them could hear, Sands emptied his gun in the aforementioned bastards' direction. And felt slightly better when he heard two thuds and several screams.
And then felt his stomach hit his feet when he heard a choked off yell of pain and a thud from next to him. Oh, JesusfuckingGod, The was hit. And it was bad.
Wet sounding, choked gasps led him straight to The. Just as he reached him, the shooting started up again; this time in a different direction. Sands took the opportunity to check out The, squashing the thought on just *who* the Bastards were shooting at. The had been hit in the chest, and going by the sounds, a lung as well. Just fucking *peachy*.
As was the call of his name and The's, followed by the 'You are under arrest blah blahblah' every law officer was forced to memorize and say to every cat-fucking lowlife they arrested.
Saint Jude bless, the CIA had found them.
Shifting The so he was sitting partway up and *not* drowning in his own blood, Sands checked just how bad the ammo situation had gotten. Which, as it turned out, was even worse than the situation *they* were in. Twelve bullets between the both of them. His ears were ringing and his seeing-eye mariachi was down.
The Mouth was yelling something about medical help. Right. Fix them up just peachy-keen, better than good. Then get tossed into some eight by eight cage. With or without Bubba the mad-dog rapist.
Not happening.
A quick search and the bag they'd brought with them was in hand. Answering Mouth bought them some time as he settled against The. A breathless question from the mariachi brought a laugh to Sands' lips. He laid a kiss on his partner's, his best and only partner in all senses of the word, forehead. And snapped his neck as quick as he knew how.
The's body spasmed, then relaxed. Holding the limp corpse tight, Sands set the timer of the explosives in the bag. They weren't going to be taken and he had no intention of leaving anything for the Cunts In Action to put on display.
He could hear footsteps moving their way. Sands cursed at the timer, trying to remember what he had set it to. He had a maraichi to find in whatever hell they wound up in and can we fucking get *on* with it already?!
The explosion took out two city blocks.
The Telling of Tales
Title: The Telling of Tales
Pairings: Sands and El
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Rating: G
Summary: Lives lost, the Mariachi and his blind partner haunt those they hunted. Whisper of Spanish and a flat American accent, the faint sound of a guitar, chiming chain and the tap of a cane. Cordite and hot metal.
Tales are told of the death of El Mariachi and El Hombre Sin Ojos. The hunting of a drug cartel, the betrayal and their death in an explosion of fire and light, taking their enemies with them.
Tales are also told, that the two are not gone. They haunt those they once hunted. People speak of hearing the sound of two voices; one dark velvet, the other speaking with a flat, American accent. Sometimes they warn, the voices. Of dire consequences should what is happening continue.
Others speak of hearing only the chime of small chains and of something tapping, like the cane a blind man would carry. And the feeling that they are not alone.
Still others speak of walking into locked rooms to find the cartel men inside dead, shot to death, with no bullets in their wounds. But with the smell of cordite and leather still lingering.
They linger, El Mariachi and his blind American. Protecting Mexico from those that would destroy Her from within.
And sometimes, they are seen. Seated in the back of a bar, walking down a darkly-lit road. Children have told their stories. Of being lost or hurt and men in black helping them. Many have heard the sound of a guitar playing, coming from some quiet, shadowed place. Of singing, sometimes.
El Mariachi and El Hombre Sin Ojos are dead. But they still here.
Every Beginning has an End (deathfic)
Title: Every Beginning Has An End
Pairings: Sands/El, established
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn the luck.
Rating: Uh, PG?
Summery: Cornered by cartels and CIA, with El fatally wounded, Sands ends their legend.
Warnings: Ah-wooga! Ah-wooga! Deathfic ahead!
They were fucked. Forwards, backwards and sideways.
The cartel they had gone after had been better prepared than either of them had thought and now they were pinned in a small room. With no windows. Fuckall.
And, Christ on a crutch, now the ammo was running low. Shit.
Expressing his discontent with the present situation, in as loud a voice as he manage so both The *and* the bastards shooting at them could hear, Sands emptied his gun in the aforementioned bastards' direction. And felt slightly better when he heard two thuds and several screams.
And then felt his stomach hit his feet when he heard a choked off yell of pain and a thud from next to him. Oh, JesusfuckingGod, The was hit. And it was bad.
Wet sounding, choked gasps led him straight to The. Just as he reached him, the shooting started up again; this time in a different direction. Sands took the opportunity to check out The, squashing the thought on just *who* the Bastards were shooting at. The had been hit in the chest, and going by the sounds, a lung as well. Just fucking *peachy*.
As was the call of his name and The's, followed by the 'You are under arrest blah blahblah' every law officer was forced to memorize and say to every cat-fucking lowlife they arrested.
Saint Jude bless, the CIA had found them.
Shifting The so he was sitting partway up and *not* drowning in his own blood, Sands checked just how bad the ammo situation had gotten. Which, as it turned out, was even worse than the situation *they* were in. Twelve bullets between the both of them. His ears were ringing and his seeing-eye mariachi was down.
The Mouth was yelling something about medical help. Right. Fix them up just peachy-keen, better than good. Then get tossed into some eight by eight cage. With or without Bubba the mad-dog rapist.
Not happening.
A quick search and the bag they'd brought with them was in hand. Answering Mouth bought them some time as he settled against The. A breathless question from the mariachi brought a laugh to Sands' lips. He laid a kiss on his partner's, his best and only partner in all senses of the word, forehead. And snapped his neck as quick as he knew how.
The's body spasmed, then relaxed. Holding the limp corpse tight, Sands set the timer of the explosives in the bag. They weren't going to be taken and he had no intention of leaving anything for the Cunts In Action to put on display.
He could hear footsteps moving their way. Sands cursed at the timer, trying to remember what he had set it to. He had a maraichi to find in whatever hell they wound up in and can we fucking get *on* with it already?!
The explosion took out two city blocks.
The Telling of Tales
Title: The Telling of Tales
Pairings: Sands and El
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Rating: G
Summary: Lives lost, the Mariachi and his blind partner haunt those they hunted. Whisper of Spanish and a flat American accent, the faint sound of a guitar, chiming chain and the tap of a cane. Cordite and hot metal.
Tales are told of the death of El Mariachi and El Hombre Sin Ojos. The hunting of a drug cartel, the betrayal and their death in an explosion of fire and light, taking their enemies with them.
Tales are also told, that the two are not gone. They haunt those they once hunted. People speak of hearing the sound of two voices; one dark velvet, the other speaking with a flat, American accent. Sometimes they warn, the voices. Of dire consequences should what is happening continue.
Others speak of hearing only the chime of small chains and of something tapping, like the cane a blind man would carry. And the feeling that they are not alone.
Still others speak of walking into locked rooms to find the cartel men inside dead, shot to death, with no bullets in their wounds. But with the smell of cordite and leather still lingering.
They linger, El Mariachi and his blind American. Protecting Mexico from those that would destroy Her from within.
And sometimes, they are seen. Seated in the back of a bar, walking down a darkly-lit road. Children have told their stories. Of being lost or hurt and men in black helping them. Many have heard the sound of a guitar playing, coming from some quiet, shadowed place. Of singing, sometimes.
El Mariachi and El Hombre Sin Ojos are dead. But they still here.