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The first night home, Andrés slept for fourteen hours straight. They ordered food, ate in relative silence - despite Martín’s insistence to talk about it, but he couldn’t. He fucked up. His actions almost got everyone killed and it was a miracle that he managed to pull himself together enough to get things back on track. He got outsmarted, overpowered by a woman.
It’s complicated.
He used to think that falling in love with his best friend, that finding out he’s - for all intents and purposes - bisexual; he thought that was the complicated part. It’s not. He finds people attractive, regardless of gender or genitals and other identifiers. Once he managed to get over that, he saw how easy it was. But what’s truly complicated is his relationship with women.
Because he loves women. His first love was a woman - a girl, they were both kids when he felt that flutter in his heart, the longing, the desire, the fear. His first kiss, his first sexual experiences - all women. His wives, his lovers - all but Martín - all were women. But the worst heartbreaks he’s ever had, the worst betrayals, the deepest disappointments; they’ve all been caused by women too.
He also blames his upbringing, and all societal expectations for this; he’s a product of his environment after all, with the good and the bad. (Because he knows it's bad)
He loves women, but— he also hates them. And sure, women can be anything they want to be these days, they’re every bit as clever and as capable as any man. But they’re also shrewd and cruel and fickle and Andrés is justifiably - he thinks - weary of them.
It’s complicated.
He doesn’t hate that it was a woman to outsmart him during the heist. It was his own fault for letting his guard down; he deserved it. But it’s all brought back in spades when Martín takes out the lingerie, all gaudy, shiny pink, and throws them at his feet.
He deserves it.
He hates it.
But if women aren’t lesser, why does he hate putting these on? The panties would look gorgeous on a woman but on him, they look wrong. The bra, that fucking thing - he mastered taking it off, one-handed, in the dark, drunk out of his mind, but putting it on? The clasps are an impossible puzzle, and sure, his shaky hands don’t help either but he should be able to do it, why is it so hard?
Worthless - He’s worthless - He’s shit, he doesn’t deserve all this - He doesn’t deserve the love, the care.
(Martín cares.)
Behind everything, he knows why Martín does it, and it’s not just the fact that he genuinely enjoys this. They’re fucked up, but in this, they’re fucked up together; it’s a give and take. And he knows, he feels that Martín loves him, even with all the vitriol he spits at him. It’s still love underneath all of it.
He doesn’t deserve it - The love, the trust - What he deserves, though—
Martín makes him dance, and he knows why he’s doing it. Before all of this, before they truly found each other, Andrés told him how he did this to a woman that had been pursuing him for a while. She had been the one to initiate contact, to flirt with him, to ask him to the dancefloor. She was the one to kiss him on the balcony of that restaurant, the one to take him home. She was willing to spread her legs for him, it had been clear since she introduced herself, all fluttery eyelids and blushy cheeks, and still Andrés made her prove it. Back at her mansion, he made her strip and dance for him, just to show him how much she wanted him.
He’s always been an unapologetic asshole; it makes sense that Martín would take a lesson from his book. So he dances, to no music but whatever rhythm he finds with his hips, feeling more naked than he would if he wasn’t wearing anything.
In this closed-off microcosm that’s their ‘scenes’, a few things are understood even without prior negotiation - that Andrés will work himself open before they even start, that he’ll get fucked, and that if he gets a kiss— it’s simply the harbinger of pain.
Martín approaches him, looking him up and down as if appraising him - he gets so close and Andrés’ arms go up, hiding his chest - an unconscious gesture of— modesty? Without warning, Martin’s fingers curl around the nape of his neck, almost painfully, reminding him that he has no say in this, that he’s got no control.
(of course he’s in control, he can always put an end to things; Martín will stop in a second and envelop him in his arms, full of love and worry and so much devotion)
The first time they kissed it was Martín to initiate it, bold and presumptuous and hopeful, but Andrés immediately took the lead, and they’ve been playing on equal footing ever since.
Whenever they aren’t like this, that is.
Now, Martín’s tongue slides between his lips, a kiss he wasn’t even expecting, the short preamble before he carelessly turns Andrés around, slamming him face-first onto the desk. There’s barely enough time for him to catch himself on his hands, only slightly cushioning his fall.
Good.
“Did you open yourself for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The seam of the panties digs into his asscheeks when Martín spreads him wide - he’s covered, he’s still covered, Martín can’t see his hole but the shame still burns inside him in pinpricks that blossom on his chest.
“Did that make you horny? Open your eyes. Did you touch yourself?”
God, when had he closed his eyes? He says no, because it’s not like that - it’s not masturbation, it’s convenience, and he does it mostly because Martín likes to just push in without much preamble, with just the prep he’s done. This is why Andrés has taken to doing just minimal prep; he doesn’t want to tear, but he still wants it to hurt. He needs it to hurt.
Martín would hate it if he knew.
But women don’t exactly need prep, they don’t need to be carefully and patiently opened up like he does whenever he fucks Martín. Sure, it’s better if they’re all warmed up, cunts wet and lips all swollen, but Andrés would be lying if he said he hadn’t gone in before all that - more than once. It’s only fair that he gets the same treatment.
He’s getting fucked - like a woman - and it feels wrong no matter how good it is. It took him so long to agree to bottom, and he hated to find out that he actually likes it - because it feels good, and you wouldn’t think that it would but it does; every thrust, no matter how deep or slow or grinding, every slide in and every slide out, it lights him up, it gets him even harder, makes him leak all over the desk where his dick is trapped, uncomfortably, under the hard wood. The pain is good though; it reminds him what it’s all about.
Funny how he never thinks of Martín like that when he’s the one getting fucked; he doesn’t see Martín as a woman when he bottoms. It never feels like he’s taking, like he is when he’s fucking women, it’s always rooted in something deeper, more meaningful— more equal.
What's surprising is that he doesn’t like to talk when they’re like this. Martín tried to get him to talk the first few times, he had to narrate his internal monologue once - the only time he’s safeworded, actually. Martín can have his body, all of it, he can do what he wants with it. It’s just the shell that needs this cleansing, but his mind is his own. As for his pain, his struggles— Andrés feels they're even dirtier than his body. They’re his own.
(Martín knows everything anyway)
So when Martín has him bent over that desk, when he fucks him like the worthless hole that he is, he doesn’t speak unless explicitly told to.
Martín though, he loves talking and he can’t stop spitting sharp words that cut and make him feel smaller, an insignificant thing, the object of Martín’s pleasure, and all of that—
He keens, pushing back, greedy to take Martín’s cock deeper, as if he’s hoping it would fill— something. Any of the places that he's empty.
“Imagine if they knew - imagine if they saw you like this; bent over, taking it up the ass and loving it. Or is this show just for me?”
“Yes.”
It’s only for Martín. All of this, he’s the only one who gets to see him like this, the only one who gets to talk to him like this, to stretch him thinner than he ever thought he could stand, to draw out all the messed-up and the ugly and the wrong—
But then Martín stops, pulls out, and he’s left empty.
“I’m bored,” Martín says, shuffling behind him. “I think I want to read for a while, move over.”
He has to get up, hurt and confused, and he still feels Martín’s cock inside him, a phantom feeling now that he’s empty. He’s been fucked, the sensation is more poignant now than when Martín was pumping into him, and the knowledge makes him want to become smaller, smaller, until he vanishes altogether. He’s just been bent over and fucked in the ass and he loved it.
Martín actually picks up a book after he takes a seat by the desk, reads quite a bit and Andrés feels— a little sick. A little deserted. Ignored. His cock is hard, precome is cooling down his length and on his stomach where it smudged. He still feels Martín in his ass, he’s trying to keep those fucking panties from sliding down and it’s all a rush, heady like strong alcohol on an empty stomach - Andrés feels like he’s swaying a little where he stands and he has to blink and suck in air through his closing throat to keep from sinking deeper into the feeling.
It’s a relief when Martín tells him to touch himself; even though it feels like a reward he hasn’t earned, something undeserved that Martín grants him, a gratuitous kindness, an undue treat.
He doesn’t go to the same place in his head that he usually goes to when he’s jerking himself off, it’s not images of writhing bodies, of soft breasts or warm holes, it’s— this. Them, right now, with Martín pointedly ignoring him while he’s got his fingers on the corner of the book, turning pages slowly and him, standing there with those panties stretched around his thighs and the bra that’s ridden up his flat, hairy chest. He won’t fix it, he knows better than to do that; Martín loves to see him disheveled, broken, a mess.
But Martín isn’t even glancing at him so he tries harder, gets his other hand to cup his balls, squeezing his eyes at the added pressure, the new dimension of pleasure that’s spreading and growing and definitely going somewhere, fast. It feels like a blow to his solar plexus to hear Martín tell him that he can’t come, but still doesn’t tell him to stop, so he settles on a looser grip, an uneven rhythm.
It should make him soft, it should make him angry that he can’t come, that Martín is still not looking at him - why isn’t he looking at him? It’s petty of him, it feels, to crave Martín’s attention and validation so much - and yet it only makes him harder to both want it and to not get it.
“Get on your knees, I want to come on your face.”
Fuck; yes.
He kneels and it’s difficult when the fabric digs into his skin but he manages - only to be told that he shouldn’t stop jerking himself off.
When Martín gets his cock out again, hard and twitching and wet, Andrés’ mouth waters. Yeah, he loves to suck cock - Martín’s, the only one he’s taken into his mouth, the only one he wants to - and it doesn’t even play into this whole thing. It’s not humiliating, just like eating pussy isn’t; it’s a fucking delight to have that much power over someone, to be allowed to be so close and to draw up pleasure so easily.
It’s not what Martín wants though, when he grabs the back of his head and brings him right at the root of his cock - and that, that’s the thing that starts to push those buttons again. He’s not even good enough to suck his cock, he’s just given the chance to lick his balls while Martín jerks himself off, like Andrés isn’t even worthy of doing that.
He’s so deep inside his mind, soaked in this listless, dirty feeling of being used like this because, somehow, what he’s doing now feels more degrading than being fucked.
“Aren’t you?” asks Martín, the end of a question that he hasn’t even heard, and drags him by the hair to catch his eye.
There’s only one answer to that, isn’t there? No matter the question. When they’re like this, it’s always yes.
It’s always yes and it will always be yes, because no matter what Martín wants, Andrés will do it. He’s looking at Martín’s cock, peeking a deep red behind his moving fist; he’s mesmerized by the motion, taking a moment to breathe, to fill his lungs.
The sharp slap takes him by surprise, he didn’t see it coming but he feels it in his bones, burning the skin of his cheek where it lands and the scalp where Martín’s fingers are still knotted, holding him fast. He’s momentarily stunned at the suddenness of it all, the way it cut through him like fucking lightning, by the pain that spread so fast he didn’t even notice when it turned to pleasure. He basks in the feeling it reaps behind, in the way it ripples through him.
But Martín is looking at him, he’s expecting something—
“Sir,” Andrés corrects himself, more on instinct rather than as a consequence of conscious thought. “Yes, sir.”
Because he was a worthless fuck and the mere fact that he was even allowed to address Martín at all was a privilege; he should be doing it right. He should have known better.
He’s grateful when Martín drags him back to get his tongue on his balls, grateful to touch as much as he’s offered.
He deserved the slap. He deserves much worse.
The fact that Martín gives him all of this - he indulges him like this, he fucks him when he needs to feel, he drags him as deep as he deserves to be dragged, only because it’s what helps him build himself back up, it’s—
He’s not worthy.
He’s not worthy to even worship Martín’s balls, like he tries to do now. He feels a growing fervor overtaking him, feels drool dripping down his chin when he moves his head as far as the tight grip in his hair will allow just to be able to get his tongue on more, more— as much as he can.
He’s struck by the picture they must make - and relishes in the fact that no one can see them like this.
There's the good-bad feeling, the one he’s feeling now, so sharply aware of his posture, knelt between Martín’s spread thighs, still trying to keep his hand moving on his own cock; and then there's the mortifying one of actually seeing himself like this. And he’s tried, he really tried to look at himself in the mirror when they were like this, but— It didn't work. It didn't make him wet and hard and needy like he is now, it made him feel dirty and wrong in all the ways he couldn't handle, in all the ways he couldn't cope with. Martín didn't pressure him to do it again, so now it was all in his mind. Only Martín could see him.
“Stop,” Martín says, and Andrés is surprised that he could even hear him. “I need your face.”
It only takes a moment for his brain to catch up with the words, with what they mean, with the fact that something is expected of him. The fingers curled in his hair finally release him and he moves back, shuffling to sit back, to receive all that Martín has to give him. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth- obedient, expectative - grateful. Martín’s fist flies around his cock, the squelchy sound faster now, and the warmest feeling of relief washes over him when he hears Martín’s strained voice.
“Take it.”
He does. Warm streaks of come land across his cheeks, the side of his face, and he relishes when he feels the taste of it on his tongue. He’s thankful, so fucking thankful, a little delirious with the feel that he brought Martín over the edge, and wires mix again until he doesn’t know if it’s love he feels burning in his heart, his loins, or shame at being marked like that.
But he’s made Martín come, he’s been good - he fulfilled his purpose.
A worthless fuckhole - Not even good enough to suck his cock - He’s a mess in all ways possible, a filthy, obscene mess
And yet he managed to make Martín come.
His cock is desensitized, numb with how long he’s been jerking himself off, yet it feels like he’s a few strokes away from coming.
(he won’t come, he doesn’t have permission, so he keeps stroking himself even if it feels almost painful now but it’s worth it and he can do it, he can do anything because Martín told him to and because Martín believes that he can do it, so he will)
He almost loses his footing when Martín pulls him closer and leans in, but manages to stay upright, keeping himself still in the safety of his hands. Martín’s eyes are burning with something vicious - for just a second, because then he moves and Andrés feels his hot, wet tongue licking all the way up his cheek.
Yet another way of being claimed, Andrés thinks, shuddering with the thrill that runs through him. Martín beatifically smiles down at him and pats his lips with his finger - he parts them without thinking, because that’s what’s expected of him - and his breath stops in his throat when the warm, slimy glob of spit and come lands on his tongue.
He swallows, and the salty-bitterness feels sweet with the small peck that Martín places on his lips.
"Fucking grade A slut," he says, with a few gentle slaps across his come-covered cheeks. ”Come.”
Suddenly it doesn’t matter that he’s almost numb, almost chafing. It’s not the immediate mechanical stimulation that’s building up; it’s all of it.
Martín urges him to open his eyes because this, too, is a part of it - Martín gets to see him like this, he’s got nowhere to hide - nothing to hide. Not his pleasure, not his shame; not even that moment that’s inherently designed to be lived selfishly, the moment of orgasm. Even that belongs to Martín, along with his body and all that ugliness that rots inside.
Because he is a slut for Martín, allowing himself to be degraded for his pleasure - which he’s achieved; his shame fed Martín’s climax, he’s served his purpose. Martín’s come still lights up his taste buds, his head is swimming and he’s taken by surprise when it all swells, a crescendo that keeps rising and building until he comes—
Right as Martín tells him not to ruin his lingerie, or he’ll have to lick it clean.
The last twitches of his cock are linked directly to that image, of him debasing himself even further, and even though it’s only in his head, it works— it all works.
He’s fulfilled his purpose. He got Martín off, and he— he’s expunged all the ugly, all the wrong that had been eating away at him.
It’s complicated.
They’ve been doing this enough times for them both to sense when a scene is over; they hardly need to talk. Still, right after Martín wipes the come off his face before it has a chance to turn into impossible glue, he turns and steals a quick kiss - a ‘real’ kiss, no matter how short or shallow. He knows the answer before he asks, but also knows that he has to ask. Checking in is important and this is their little ritual, the easing off from the weight of whatever they have been doing.
“Tell me you love me?”
Martín answers like he always does.
“So much. You were perfect. And so hot, oh my god. What would you think if I got you frilly underwear? And thigh-high stockings, with those strappy things that hold them up?”
“Garter belts?”
Martín, who’s only now discovering the beautiful world of women’s undergarments, hums in approval. There’s still a little thrill fizzing through Andrés at the thought that he’s teaching his lover - his male lover - about women’s lingerie by wearing them himself, and that just— it makes him feel naughty. That’s the word, a grown man, feeling naughty at the thought of wearing thigh-highs and garter belts that his boyfriend (okay - ‘partner’) bought him. So he smiles.
“I’d hate that.”
“Good. Tell me you love me?”
“So much.”
Because he does. It’s plain as day now - he loves Martín, he’s always loved Martín and he owes him so much. He’s the only one that he feels he can be vulnerable around, the only one he’d show his ugly underbelly to, safe in the knowledge that he won’t be judged but understood, that his cry for help will be heard and his outstretched hand will be held tight.
And right here - in this messy bed, in this soiled pink lingerie, sated and a bit sore - he feels safe, his emptiness filled, his wrongness righted; he’s right where he belongs. He’s back to who he is, with all the good things and all the bad things as well, safe in the knowledge that Martín knows all of that and still he loves him.