FIC: Laughter
Title: Laughter
Author: Stef (ignited)
Rating: R
Pairing: Sands/Ajedrez
Disclaimer: Not mine, for Sands belongs to Robert Rodriguez, Troublemaker Studios, and Mr. Depp
Dedication: For luthienelensar, who asked for it
Note: Drabble length, 200 words
Summary: "In his dreams, Ajedrez had a clear and infectious laugh that both disturbed and intoxicated him."
In his dreams, Ajedrez had a clear and infectious laugh that both disturbed and intoxicated him.
Sands did not like this Ajedrez. This girl was the one who watched his eyes plucked, who smiled and laughed, teased him after. "You fucking little monkey," and all that jazz.
He also did not like being referred to so callously after they had sex quite often previously. Double standard. That's how he is. No matter how many times he made calls after, the cigarettes and bites along his neck, nibbles on his earlobe.
She laughs now, at him, crosses her legs just so-a scrap of material barely covering beneath her skirt-right in front. Her hands grip the edges of a chair-fucking, scolding, yelling, slapping-and she pours her voice into a song. A song of anger, of laughter, mockery.
Take a good look. Because it's the last you'll see.
Literally and figuratively. That was the way things worked in Mexico, you see.
Sands moans, his fingers brush the bandages over sore eyeholes. He remains in twilight, hearing things. Trinkets jingle against clothing.
He can still hear her laughter. And for the smallest of moments, when he awakens, Sands is afraid.
END
Author: Stef (ignited)
Rating: R
Pairing: Sands/Ajedrez
Disclaimer: Not mine, for Sands belongs to Robert Rodriguez, Troublemaker Studios, and Mr. Depp
Dedication: For luthienelensar, who asked for it
Note: Drabble length, 200 words
Summary: "In his dreams, Ajedrez had a clear and infectious laugh that both disturbed and intoxicated him."
In his dreams, Ajedrez had a clear and infectious laugh that both disturbed and intoxicated him.
Sands did not like this Ajedrez. This girl was the one who watched his eyes plucked, who smiled and laughed, teased him after. "You fucking little monkey," and all that jazz.
He also did not like being referred to so callously after they had sex quite often previously. Double standard. That's how he is. No matter how many times he made calls after, the cigarettes and bites along his neck, nibbles on his earlobe.
She laughs now, at him, crosses her legs just so-a scrap of material barely covering beneath her skirt-right in front. Her hands grip the edges of a chair-fucking, scolding, yelling, slapping-and she pours her voice into a song. A song of anger, of laughter, mockery.
Take a good look. Because it's the last you'll see.
Literally and figuratively. That was the way things worked in Mexico, you see.
Sands moans, his fingers brush the bandages over sore eyeholes. He remains in twilight, hearing things. Trinkets jingle against clothing.
He can still hear her laughter. And for the smallest of moments, when he awakens, Sands is afraid.
END