Chapter Text
“Good evening, Martín,” Andrés greets him, so brightly that Martín stumbles over the monastery doorstep in surprise. It's past 4 am, so Martín didn't actually expect to find him still awake, but it's not like he minds.
“Hey,” he says in response, warm and enthusiastic. He laughs as Andrés moves to steady him, both hands solid on his upper arms. “I might be a bit drunk,” he announces.
“I can tell,” Andrés offers, amused. He looks good and he smells good, and Martín wants to keep him close, forever. He's so lucky that he can come home to this man, in the small hours of the morning. “Santiago?” he guesses.
“Well, it wasn't your brother,” Martín offers. Yes, tequila had flown pretty fucking freely, and as the man of the hour, Martín had never even had to see the bill. It was lovely, to be celebrated like this. He's not used to it; he's not used to any of this.
Andrés grins, bending over to untie Martín's shoelaces. He's… a perfect man. It must be the alcohol, but for just a moment, Martín thinks that he might be on the verge of tears.
“No,” Andrés agrees, “He texted me three hours ago, to say he's in his own bed, and not to invite him drinking with you again. Presume you had a good time, though?”
“Mmh,” Martín hums, clinging to Andrés's shirt as soon as he's upright again. The evening was nice, but… It would have been nicer, had Andrés been there, too. He'd cancelled at the last minute, and made Martín go enjoy the evening with their friends and his brother, all alone. “Thank you. How's your headache?”
Andrés chuckles, not bothering to pry Martín off himself. “I didn't do anything. And it's all gone – thank you for asking.”
“Didn't do anything–? Other than organising the whole thing,” Martín points out. At Andrés's vaguely surprised look, he adds, “Jakov told me.”
And really, he hadn't needed to be told; the entire evening had Andrés's fingerprints all over it. It was all very fancy and a little over the top, and just when Martín was on the verge of getting sick of it all, Santiago had announced – the same way Andrés would have, just to see Martín light up – that their next destination was a dive bar.
And all the tequila. Hence, his current state.
“Well,” Andrés shrugs dismissively, “I wanted you to have a good time. And also – you should drink some water.”
Martín doesn't get the chance to agree or protest, before Andrés is already pressing a full glass to his lips, coaxing them open and making sure not to spill any, patiently making Martín swallow it all.
Not to brag, but Martín is great at swallowing things. Even when it's water. Even though it tastes weird, after everything else he's drunk tonight. His mouth feels a bit powdery, even.
Then Andrés is setting the glass to the side, removing Martín's clothes one by one, undressing him like he dressed him, around eight hours ago, kissing his neck, kissing his face, pressing against him.
It's– it's all very nice, of course it is, but–
“Ah, Andrés–” Martín warns him, “I might be– too drunk for–”
“Shh,” Andrés says, already working his belt buckle open with so much impatience that it seems more Martín's style than his. “Don't worry about it.”
“It's the, alcohol,” Martín explains, because he'd be hard already, if he were even slightly sober. He'd be tearing Andrés's clothes off, if only he could trust his balance. Shit, he wouldn't have gotten so drunk, if he knew he could get laid tonight. He's usually always ready to fuck – this time is just unfortunate happenstance.
“I said, don't worry about it,” Andrés says, his tone low and pleasant, and altogether worrying.
He drags Martín to their bedroom, and lays him down on the bed.
The movement causes the whole world to lurch dangerously; spinning; falling; warping; dimming around the edges.
Martín groans; he has to close his eyes against it, squeezing them shut. He takes a few deep breaths in an effort to centre himself.
But he knows his alcohol, and this isn't it. He's been drunk all night, and this is something else.
“I– there's something wrong with me,” he says slowly, having to force the words out, because his mouth is starting to feel like cotton.
“Hm?” Andrés hums, sounding wholly unconcerned, as he reorganises the pillows underneath his head.
“I think,” Martín says, his heartbeat erratic in his ears, and he wonders if it's even his own, “I might’ve been… drugged.” How the fuck did that happen? He can't remember having ever set down his drink – he downed most of them, anyway, so there wasn't even much time for them getting spiked.
“You were,” Andrés agrees, easily, “Not at the bar, mind. I wouldn't let anyone else do that to you. I would kill anyone who tried, surely you know that.”
The words take several seconds to organise themselves into a functional thought. “You– the water,” Martín groans, once he gets there.
“Now, there's a thought,” Andrés drawls, sounding proud that Martín could figure it out, caressing his cheek with his fingers, nuzzling the side of his neck. “Yes, the water. Don't worry; it'll clear in an hour, maybe two. I've tested it. I'll take care of you.”
“But, why?” Martín asks, bewildered enough to manage that much without slurring. “You didn't– need to. I'm already– what?”
“I don't think you're sober enough for the explanation,” Andrés points out, as he pulls down Martín's final article of clothing – his underwear. “We'll talk in the morning.”
Martín is still not hard, but he might be getting there. Why has he just learned that his fiancé has drugged him, and why does he feel so fucking turned on by that?
“Tell me anyway,” he says, or at least tries to say.
Andrés understands him, anyway, and hums thoughtfully, basking in the anticipation of the moment. “Remember, two weeks ago? When we talked about things we wanted to try, in bed?”
“I– sure?”
“You said, and I quote, of course you can do that – I'd let you fucking drug me if you wanted to.”
His own words, on Andrés's tongue, always sound so strange.
“Christ. I didn't mean–” Martín says, trying to even out his jackrabbiting heart, now that he knows he's probably not going to die tonight, “Didn't mean for you to– take that literally.”
He remembers the conversation, because it had been had in a nice restaurant, and Andrés had been completely unbothered by the discordance between the setting and the subject. And Martín remembers himself saying that, too, but it had been hyperbole. He talks like that a lot, says things that–
–he means, certainly. But still. It wasn't a suggestion. Only Andrés would ever hear him say something like that, and take it as a great idea, to be made reality at their earliest convenience.
“Ah,” Andrés hums, still unconcerned, “But I did. I haven't been able to put it out of my mind, since then. No one's ever trusted me, like you do, and they've been right to do so. Do you think I could have drugged Tatiana and fucked her? She would've filed for divorce within hours, and we wouldn't blame her. But you…”
He stares at Martín, his gaze darkening with every detail he takes in.
“I can drug you, and you'll take it. You'll accept it. You'll be pleasured by it, even. And you're not going to call off the wedding because of it.” He runs his fingers down Martín's chest, slowly trailing down towards his dick. “I haven't stopped thinking about how attractive that is. I organised a whole bachelor party for you, just so you'd be well and properly drunk and out of it, so I could do this.”
“You could've just asked,” Martín says, even though he loves every word that Andrés is saying, loves having done something so right for him, without a thought. Loves having been the correct kind of depraved.
Not to mention, the way Andrés talks, the weight of his desire, makes Martín feel more attractive than he's ever felt, in his entire life.
“That's the whole point,” Andrés says, sweetly, running his hands down Martín's sides. “I could've asked – but I don't need to.”
Martín shivers, but it's weak, his body refusing to even commit properly to an instinct.
“What are we– what,” he tries, helplessly. He's trying to understand what Andrés wants from him, because of course he wants to give him whatever it is. “Do you want to–”
Andrés laughs, caressing his cheek. “I'm afraid you really are a bit too far gone for me to fuck you.”
There's meaning, behind his words. But Martín is drunk, and he's drugged, too, so he doesn't currently speak this language. He just stares up at his lover with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
That's why Andrés spells it out for him. “I'm going to get you hard,” he says, “And then I'll ride your cock. You're just going to lie there, pretty fucking helplessly, and you're going to take it. Objections?”
A moan of some kind comes out of Martín's mouth. It's not a no, obviously, but he wants to clarify, anyway. “No– no objections,” he says, “Please.”
Andrés gives a pleased hum at that. “You're wonderful, Martín. You're my only equal. And you still let me do this to you. That's… everything, to me.”
With that, he starts undressing himself, slowly. He's dressed in very nice clothes, and Martín understands, now, that Andrés really has been waiting for him; those aren't clothes, it's an outfit. Something he chose specifically for the occasion – to drug and fuck his lover – and is now folding away carefully, showily, as Martín watches him with nervous desire.
Andrés strips down to his boxers (fucking tease), and starts fulfilling his threat, his promise; takes Martín's dick in his hand and coaxes him into getting hard with the warmth of his touch and the heat of his words.
There must be something in Andrés's little drug cocktail to stimulate him, because there's no way he could physically get hard right now – and yet he does.
And Martín, who had been so convinced that he couldn't do this, allows his eyes to slide closed again, focuses on his partner, until Andrés has him where he wants him.
He doesn't move, doesn't speak even though usually he'd have a dozen innuendos to make; he just lays there, like Andrés wanted, and allows this to happen.
Andrés finally removes his own underwear, and his cock is so hard and eager, Martín wants to ask if he's sure he doesn't want to put it in his ass – but he knows that Andrés has all the control of this situation, so he doesn't try and insist.
But when Andrés applies lube on his dick and moves above him, ready to take him in, Martín has to say something. Because surely Andrés can't do it like that.
“Are you not going to–” Martín tries, and trails off. Won't you need to prep yourself??? is what he means to say, but he can't complete the thought, because Andrés is about to ride him, and that steals all of his focus, threatening even his common sense.
“No,” Andrés announces, with a proud grin. “I gave Jakov strict instructions, you know. I told him I want you back at 4 am, give or take ten minutes. Because that allowed me to be all ready for you. For this.”
With that, he fucking— he sinks down on Martín's dick, just like that.
Martín moans in surprise, with Andrés taking him in so easily, so needily. They don't often fuck like this, so the ease of it really is quite impressive.
He's slick and open for Martín, and all Martín can think of is Andrés in their kitchen, past three in the morning, mixing his drug cocktail and fingering himself, eager to do this. Knowing that Martín would be home soon, staring out the window for the headlights of a taxi. Knowing that Martín wouldn't, not in a million years, expect this.
Fully aware of the novelty of his plan, of how incredibly abusive it would be, for anyone else. Of how hot his fiancé will find it.
Some combination of the feeling of Andrés around him and his own thoughts swirling in his head cause Martín to blush, and it's so stupid, because what the fuck–
Andrés sighs, when he's fully seated on Martín. His breathing is deep but erratic, like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Martín can understand that feeling.
“Heard you're getting married soon,” Andrés says, his amusement slightly undercut by his breathless cadence, “Congratulations. Consider this a present for the groom-to-be, from the groom-to-be."
“I– fuck, Andrés–” Martín says, completely unable to give him any proper response, overwhelmed by the suddenness of all of this. Just thirty minutes ago, he had been ridiculously happy with just the thought of crawling into bed next to his sleeping lover, of kissing him on the forehead and sighing into his hair.
But now, he's drugged out of his mind, and his dick is buried impossibly deep inside said lover’s body. He has to close his eyes again, because it all feels like heavy-duty vertigo. “What the fuck–”
“I told you already,” Andrés says, his tone quiet and dangerous, the single most attractive way for him to be. “I have been thinking about this for weeks. But I couldn't tell you, since I would've hated to… spoil the surprise.”
He didn't want to give Martín a warning, because that would've ruined this fantasy. He didn't want to offer Martín the chance to agree to this.
“This is so fucked up,” Martín groans, “And– feels so good.”
He feels– well, he feels drugged and sluggish, and can't actually feel most of his body; even his dick feels a little dull. But the few parts of his brain that are still operating are so turned on that it's a little painful.
Andrés seems to expect him to have come to terms with all this – he hasn't, he won't, how could he ever? – because he moves, slowly up and then down, and Martín chances opening his eyes, even though he might begin to feel nauseous again.
It's worth it, to witness the way Andrés gazes upon him, with reverent amusement. The way his dick stands proud and hard and wet – that's how much Andrés wants this.
He's… incredibly attractive. He's the kind of man Martín might have once dreamed of fucking, only in his most lustful fantasies – if only he had the imagination for this.
“Hi,” Andrés says with a grin, having observed being observed. He always preens, when he knows he's being appreciated, like a creature basking in the rays of the sun. “How do you feel?”
“Unlike a human being,” Martín mutters vaguely, because he doesn't know how or who he is, right now. His skin burns and scorches him, with the dull fire of frostbite.
“Good,” Andrés says, “Because you are a god, to me. The only one I believe in. And tonight, I've chosen to worship you like this.”
Martín shivers. He tries to move his hands to Andrés's waist, but they refuse to cooperate. The best he can do is to dig his fingers weakly into the bedsheets.
“I can't move my arms,” he says, his voice rising slightly with a mounting fear, “Is that meant to–”
“Pretty fucking helpless, like I said,” Andrés offers blithely, “Yes, that's meant to happen.”
Martín stares up at Andrés, because it's the only thing he can do.
He's been tied up before, and handcuffed, too. But that was different; first of all, he got to agree to it, had the option to decline.
Secondly: even when he was tied up, his body still felt like his own. While he couldn't do much, he could still move within those constraints, could jerk his hips and adjust himself. Could safe word himself out of the situation, if he felt the need.
Now? Now he can't do shit. His body is numb all over, and his limbs refuse to move. His consciousness keeps dipping, and his mind feels slow.
The drugs he took, like a trusting idiot, will remain in his system until they've run their course. There's no way out of this, even if he tells Andrés to get off his dick.
“Does that scare you?” Andrés asks him, his tone low but genuinely curious. “Do you loathe it? A powerful man, brought down on your knees.”
Is it meant to frighten him? Is he meant to look at Andrés, the man he's about to tie the knot with, the man who did this to him, and fear him?
Probably.
“It is scary,” Martín admits, forcing unfamiliar words onto his tongue. He meets his lover’s eyes, unwilling to cower under his own feelings. “But you don't scare me. You're right; you can have me like this, and I'll still be yours tomorrow, just the same.”
“Not the same,” Andrés insists, visibly pleased as he trails his fingertips demonstratively down Martín's chest, “More.”
Martín grins at him, in agreement. “I can agree to that,” he concedes, because he wants to melt into this man, completely, longs to become a shapeless monster, unable to exist any other way. “Now, am I fucking you,” he pauses, because the words are so foreign, but they're true, because this is how Andrés has decided it would be, tonight. “Or what?”
“You're not doing anything, Martín,” Andrés corrects, grinning in return, “Can't even lift your hips, can you?”
And he's probably right. Martín doesn't even try, because he thinks the experience might be a little mortifying. He could fuck well, he really could, he's actually great in bed, even if he's not exactly used to men bouncing on his dick – but he needs control of his body, in order to do that.
“Thought so,” Andrés offers, victorious.
Martín watches him, as he moves, using Martín's dick to try and find his prostate. It's not easy, like this, nor is Andrés very practiced at having a cock inside him.
And Martín can't do anything for him.
He tries his best, anyway.
“I think– up, a little,” he says.
It takes Andrés a moment to figure out which way is Martín's up, but he shifts his hips and presses Martín's cock inside him, finally at the angle he needs.
It draws a moan from him – a filthy sound, and rare from his lips. Martín has never heard anything quite so attractive in his life.
“Wonderful,” Andrés sighs, and Martín watches the way his body contorts in pleasure. He has always been so effortlessly graceful, and apparently it's no different when he's riding Martín's cock.
It's unfair, really. A man like him shouldn't be able to become this.
“You're so fucking beautiful,” Martín breathes.
Andrés laughs. “I take it you don't feel too abused, then.”
“No,” Martín says, “I mean, I do – but it's hot as fuck. Wish I could touch you, though. I feel like a terrible lay,” he observes, and laughs, a little warbled, like a bird with broken wings, That's what he is; a sorry creature battered in a head-on collision with a windshield. “Can't do shit for you. Can't even fuck you like you deserve.”
“Mm, no. You're very good, just like this,” Andrés hums, “Mine to use as I see fit. A tool for my pleasure, just lying there.”
There's something so endlessly sensual about Andrés using him like this; taking advantage of his dick. After all those years of his sexuality keeping them from ever truly coming together, he's now forcibly taking his orgasm from Martín's manhood, and not despite it.
Martín moans into it, since his tongue seems to be the only muscle that's still good for anything.
“You'll give me whatever I want, unconditionally,” Andrés continues, “That's what our union will be like, too. Unconditional.”
He leans over Martín, to meet his eyes with the weight of his words. “You want anything in this world,” he continues, “And I'll make it yours. All I ask for in return is your devotion. Undying, eternal.”
“It's yours,” Martín agrees, unhesitating, having already given Andrés all he is, as well as things he didn't think he could ever become.
“Always has been,” Andrés declares, like it means everything, but also nothing much at all. “Now, I'm going to use you to make myself come,” he announces, his sharp eyes drinking in Martín's body, as he lets Martín's dick slide in and out of his ass.
“Please,” Martín whines, a little pathetic, a lot far gone already, he struggles to do anything right but he needs this so badly. “Can I– please, Andrés, fuck, Andrés, Andrés–”
“What do you want, Martín?” Andrés prompts, his gaze dark. He doesn't need to ask – he just wants to hear it.
“I want to come,” Martín breathes, quietly. He's panting, sweaty, ruined and broken, and he adds the part that Andrés most wants to hear, the part that's the most foreign and therefore the most difficult to say: “I want to come inside you.”
Andrés grins, like a man who holds all the cards to their shared ruin. “And you will,” he promises.
He grabs Martín's sides for purchase, and rides him like no one ever has before. And maybe it would be better, if Martín's hips would listen to him, allowing him to thrust up and meet him halfway– but it's already so fucking good, he can't imagine wanting to change a thing.
When Martín's close to bursting, and his voice makes it known with a needless amount of garbled noises, Andrés takes his own dick in his hand. Normally, Martín would wish it were his hand bringing his lover to completion, but right now he doesn't have the ability to wish for anything but this.
Andrés sets a pace so punishing that Martín starts to make pathetic, keening little whimpers. He's not used to any of the pieces of this; the feeling of helplessness; how it's all spiralled so completely out of his control; having his dick inside Andrés; being used and feeling so good about it.
He cries out, when he comes, and it's loud, possibly the loudest he's ever been. His body is completely useless, save for his cock, which is spurting heavily in his partner’s ass.
Andrés strokes himself until he comes all over Martín, too, with a beautiful expression of ecstasy settling over his features, as he groans a low adaptation of Martín's name – because it's still Martín, inside him, even if he can't do shit right now. It's still them, in this moment.
Martín feels the way Andrés's body tightens around him, just as demanding as the rest of him, wanting everything and wanting it right the fuck now.
“God,” Martín groans, weakly, overcome by all of this. His helpless phantom limbs long to wrap around his lover, but they can't, so he just stares up at him instead. He feels like a mortal gazing up at his Messiah, and for all he cares, that's what he is.
Andrés grins down at Martín, bending over him. He runs his fingers through Martín's hair, and presses a kiss on his lips.
Martín wants to kiss him, too, but he's had all the wind knocked out of him, it's too much, he can't…
“You did well,” Andrés says, meaning you took that well, “Still feel dizzy?”
“Yeah,” Martín admits. Now that the adrenaline and his orgasm are both subsiding, he feels that again.
“Good,” Andrés announces, happily. He's so fucking energetic; whereas Martín's been brought to ruin, Andrés has been reborn. “I wouldn't want you to come to your senses too early. Much less fun, that way. I want this to hit you all at once, in the morning.”
Andrés gets off his dick, with Martín's cum dripping out of him. He grins at that, meeting Martín's eyes, the gesture saying look at that, look at this, I am your lover, I made you come inside me, I did that, we did this, and Martín would shiver if he could, but apparently that's also beyond him, now.
Andrés wipes the cum off him, both of theirs, because – shit, Martín really can't do anything, anymore. Even his fingers, the same capable fingers that usually pick locks and work their way through buttons, have completely ceased to obey him.
It really would be frightening, if it weren't Andrés’s handiwork. And maybe if he weren't so exhausted.
Oh, and if he hadn't just had one of the best orgasms of his life. That little detail did also help in dissuading his fears.
“Can you turn to your side?” Andrés asks him, once he's done with that.
“No,” Martín says shortly, because he can barely even speak, now that he's coming down from the ecstasy that was keeping him tethered to this moment.
Andrés hums, and rearranges his body so that he's on his side, one knee bent and everything, probably so that he won't choke during the night. “This good?” he checks.
“Mmh,” Martín agrees, and Andrés makes himself comfortable, too. He turns off the lights and pulls the covers over Martín.
“I'll watch over you for an hour,” he says, “After that, you should be fine, but you'll wake me up if you feel any kind of weird. Yes?”
“Mm,” Martín agrees again, his consciousness already slipping.
“You were wonderful, Martín,” he hears, and then there's nothing else.
Until there is.
“Hey, good morning,” Andrés offers, amused and fond. His arms tighten their grasp around Martín, for a moment, and then loosen, again.
It takes a while for Martín to register what he is, and who he is, and what has happened to him, in the last day. For a merciful moment, it's all hazy and refuses to make any sense. Martín picks up the pieces slowly.
There was a lot of alcohol.
Andrés decided to skip their bachelor party.
He was waiting for Martín, when he got home.
He gave Martín a glass of—
When it hits him – all at once, just like Andrés wanted – he's so thrown that his entire body convulses weirdly, and he groans.
“Ah,” Andrés observes, calmly. “Guess I don't need to ask if you remember. I wasn't sure if the tequila might have tampered with your memories again.”
Martín's skin burns with it all; arousal, wonder, and a vague sense of embarrassment, like Andrés has seen him for who he really is – and hasn't shied away from it. If anything, Andrés has witnessed him like a car crash, and he rushed straight to the wreckage, just to explore it at his own leisure.
“I do remember,” Martín mutters, averting his gaze from Andrés, needing a moment to get over himself.
Andrés presses a kiss to his temple, a gentle gesture that makes demands of his attention nonetheless. He's apparently… back to himself, so to say. Or maybe it's Martín, the one who's back to himself.
Or, maybe… Maybe it was always them. Maybe this is no different from what transpired between them, some hours ago.
“How are you?” Andrés prompts. There's a certain sharpness to his tone, despite everything. Like maybe there's a part of him, small, concealed, that still thinks that Martín might change his mind.
“I, uh,” Martín croaks, weirdly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, for lack of anything better to say. “Good?” he says, finally.
“How was your bachelor party?” Andrés continues his questioning, “Did you enjoy yourself?” His tone teeters between hopeful and amused.
Martín shivers. Most of the party has actually been completely wiped from his brain, replaced by thoughts of only Andrés. Drugging him and taking his dick like that. Attractive as fuck.
How is it possible that Martín gets to marry this man? It's like he won the cosmic lottery, and still isn't sure if his ticket was stolen goods, not meant for his hands after all. That doesn't mean he won't cling to it for dear life, though.
(Then again. He's not running away screaming, after last night. Maybe that means the ticket is his.)
“I… did,” he answers the question. “That was… hot,” he adds, trying to put it into words, and failing to.
“Good,” Andrés hums, his posture relaxing a little, “It would've certainly ruined my day, if you…”
He trails off.
“Called off the wedding?” Martín offers, with a laugh, because the idea is that ridiculous. “It's two weeks away. We'd lose all the deposits. Not to mention…”
He moves to kiss Andrés's neck, the way he would have if he could have, last night. He splays one hand on Andrés's chest, for purchase. It's almost weird, how clear his mind is, now, and how easily his muscles obey him. “It was… amazing, really,” he breathes on Andrés's skin, trying not to let himself get carried away in reminiscing. He wants to lick the sensitive skin here, wants to bite, wants to press kisses everywhere until he has Andrés’s cock inside him.
Nope, he's definitely getting carried away already.
Andrés smiles, rubbing the back of Martín's neck. “Yeah?”
“Mm,” Martín hums, slow and comfortable. He moves to straddle Andrés, just because he can, now, and because he wants Andrés to read his pleasure from the weight of his dick. “Rewired my brain. Turns out I've never needed anything quite like I needed that. I want more bachelor parties, if they're all like that.”
Andrés snorts. “Well, you've been to plenty of mine – they were decidedly nothing like that.” Before Martín can get to thinking back to those parties, Andrés continues, his voice dipping, “But I'm sure we can celebrate your new status as a married man, soon enough.”
Martín shivers. He never once thought he'd ever get married, not even after he started dating a man who'd done so no less than five times already.
Until one night Andrés wined and dined him, with slow intent, in Buenos Aires of all places, and every cell in his body said yes before he even heard the question.
“Let's,” Martín says, carefree in his agreement, “And feel free to, I don't know. Fuck me any way you want, in whatever state. I want you to have blanket permission for that kind of thing. Permission to… not get my permission, that is. I trust you. And I'd love it if you'd…” Martín licks his lips, about to voice desires he's never shared with anyone, has never even come close to sharing with anyone, hasn't formerly even admitted to himself.
Because he wants to be made to submit to a powerful man, though one that also loves him beyond comprehension. He wants to be taken ardently and loved violently, and that is a difficult balance to strike.
“Go on,” Andrés says, eager to hear it, because he's a perfect fucking man, handcrafted by the devil himself.
Martín swallows. He allows himself a few more seconds to exist in this world where he hasn't yet said– “Slip me a sleeping pill,” he starts, “And have me come to with your dick already buried in my ass.” He meets Andrés's eyes, and finishes his proposal in a low voice: “Fuck me awake.”
Andrés's breath stutters at the idea, and Martín can tell how much he likes the sound of it, just from his breathing.
It's so good, to have a lover with matching desires. Martín can't even remember how he ever used to sleep with other men. They must've been so disappointing; unable to match the darkness within him. Couldn't force his hand in just the right way.
(He would've married Andrés, even if he was shit in bed. He would've married Andrés, even if he was the worst lay of Martín's entire life. But still – this is wonderful.)
“Sleeping pill,” Andrés echoes, trying out the words, like he's never heard them before but suddenly finds them irresistible. He pulls Martín down by the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “Any day?” he checks.
“Any fucking day,” Martín confirms.
Andrés hums in a reverent kind of approval. “Forget you ever said that, then. I don't want you to expect it.”
Martín laughs, even as he shivers at the implicit promise in those words. “Consider it done. Breakfast?”
“I can make it,” Andrés announces, “Since you had to go through all that. Drugged against your will, on the night of your bachelor party.” He stretches, slowly, showily, and gets up from bed, half-hard. “How terrible.”
Martín licks his lips, watching him, already looking forward to the next time they'll be doing that – and to the languid fuck they'll have, after breakfast.
“Yeah,” he echoes stupidly, “Terrible.”