Chapter Text
Berrote was as graceful as a bull in a china shop.
He stormed into Andrés’s office like a raging thing, faux Hugo Boss loafers dragging across the floor, features twisted into an angry snarl. And, of course, there was that infuriating accent as he brushed Ariadna off:
“Don’t fucking bother, I’ll let myself in,” he yelled at her over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go and skin some toddlers so your boss’ll have a nutritious lunch?”
He barely finished his sentence before slamming the door shut – with such force that the paintings on the wall trembled. His message was loud and clear: everyone had better stay out. At least if they valued their life.
Andrés sighed.
“Berrote,” he acknowledged. He pointedly didn’t get up from his seat behind the desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He rolled the ‘r’ in a mockery of Berrote’s blatant butchery of the Spanish language, but it seemed that Berrote was too far gone to even notice. He scowled, and Andrés watched as his pupils darted across the desk in search for—
Berrote lunged forward and grabbed a tube of transparent oil – the same brand Van Gogh had used for Wheatfield with Crows; Andrés had it imported from Milan.
Andrés furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to protest, but Berrote glared at him with all the ire of a purebred bulldog, and Andrés clicked his tongue instead – as though that had been his intention all along.
“Those fucking bastards at the Cooperative Studies Board rejected my proposal,” Berrote snapped. He ripped the lid off the tube, hard enough to send it skittering across the floor. “They’re homophobic assholes – every single one of them.”
“Isn’t my brother on the board’s committee?”
“I said what I said.”
“Fair enough.”
Berrote snorted, and upended the oil onto his palm. Then he rubbed it between his fingers as Andrés watched – not mesmerized, but certainly not uninterested either.
“Don’t they fucking know that I’m a genius? They should be begging me to work for them!” He went on, eyes blazing. “I swear they’re as illiterate as you – if they had fucking bothered to take a look at my notes, they’d have known that it’s a masterpiece. A work of art!”
With an annoyed grunt, Berrote reached for the zip of his pants and yanked it open before dragging the fabric down his thighs.
Andrés’s heart gave a violent jolt.
He hadn’t quite gotten used to this yet. To seeing Berrote’s desire. For him.
It had only been a few weeks since they’d taken up their little… arrangement. Andrés wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. One moment, they’d been fighting and the next they’d been—
Well. Fucking, he supposed.
There was nothing gentle about it, nothing soft or romantic. They weren’t making love, they weren’t sleeping with each other. More often than not they weren’t even looking at each other. Neither during, nor after.
It was strictly perfunctory. A way to blow off steam. Nothing more, nothing less.
They’d find themselves at one of Sergio’s dreadfully boring faculty functions: black tie, stale hors d'oeuvre, and idle smalltalk that made him want to off himself with a hunting rifle. Berrote would sidle up to him – the chagrin on his face mirroring Andrés’s – and casually offer to give him a blowjob in one of the broom closets.
A temporary escape from the tediums of academic life, something to make their evening worthwhile.
Similarly, Andrés would seek Berrote out whenever he had a short break in-between classes. Berrote’s office wasn’t roomy enough for anything more than a rushed quickie though, and Andrés’s body would be smattered with bruises afterwards – black and blue from bumping into the desk, the chair, against the wall…
But alas, such was the price of their little affair.
Neither of them wanted to fuel any rumours – there were already more than enough of them anyway. Andrés wouldn’t be able to stand the mockery that’d be thrown at him if word got around he was fucking Berrote. Oh, the shame! He’d have to quit his job and leave the university, possibly even flee the country—
Berrote’s rant cut through Andrés’s thoughts:
"Now I’ll have to find someone else to fund my fucking project. Do you know how few organisations will support mechanical automation?! I’m not even going to – ah, fuck!”
He hissed, and Andrés realized that Berrote had been touching himself. Spreading himself open – right there, bent over Andrés’s desk like a naughty schoolboy eager for a spanking.
Andrés let out a slow, ragged breath.
From where he was sitting behind his desk, he had a perfect view of Berrote’s flushed face.
And of his straining cock.
It was poking out from between the bottom hems of his shirt, completely unselfconscious.
“—they are actually fucking considering Rodríguez’s proposal on automatic irrigation control systems – gnn – like that guy isn’t a fucking idiot,” Berrote went on, clearly on a roll. “I saw the fucking blueprints he did for his last project. An underground sprinkler system, what a fucking joke!”
He growled, and threw Andrés an expectant look, raised eyebrow and all. Was he hoping for some kind of reaction here? Did he want Andrés to agree with him? To comfort him? To—
“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Come here, guapo.”
Ah. So that was it.
Andrés scoffed.
“Romantic, aren’t you?”
“Do you want me to fucking serenade you? Fuck off!” Berrote huffed; the sound cut into a drawn-out groan as he worked his fingers deep inside of him.
Andrés’s own fingers twitched in response.
He quickly disguised the movement by reaching for the tube of oil, now laying discarded on his desk. It dribbled onto his fingers and down his sleeve when he picked it up, making a right mess. Wonderful.
Berrote was still bloviating when Andrés got up and rounded the desk to stand behind him. Andrés slowly unbuckled his belt, not missing the way Berrote’s head canted to the side. As though he were fighting the urge to turn around. To look at Andrés.
“Are you going to fuck me already?”
It wasn’t so much impatience that laced his words but a raw desperation, a deep hunger.
But it wasn’t just in his voice that betrayed him. His whole body was begging for it. Andrés could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the strained muscles in his neck. Berrote was high-strung with tension, a bundle of tightly-coiled nerves.
It made Andrés want to go extra slow.
He wasn’t a paid gigolo, after all. If Berrote thought he could just barge into his office and demand to be fucked, Andrés would set him straight.
Without any hurry, Andrés opened his pants and pulled out his cock. Despite his earlier remarks, he didn’t need a drawn-out seduction to get himself in the mood.
Not with these enticing visuals, anyway.
He stared down at Berrote’s puckered hole, red and ripe. And so inviting. The way it glistened with oil, promising an easy passage.
Andrés’s cock twitched.
He gave himself a few strokes, making sure to spread the oil all over his length. Then he took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and aligned his cock with Berrote’s tight little hole. When he pushed inside, Berrote finally shut his fucking mouth.
Berrote’s body slumped forward, nearly sprawling over the desk as Andrés fully sheathed himself, until his hips were flush against Berrote’s ass.
Beneath him, Berrote went still. Boneless. It was a complete transformation from the rankled spitfire he’d been just moments ago. Almost as though this was an outlet for him, a catharsis.
It made Andrés feel powerful. Fire coursed through his veins, setting his nerve endings aflame. To be the one to grant Berrote relief, to calm him down and take control of him—
No.
He didn’t want to think about what that might mean.
Andrés withdrew until only the flushed head of his cock was engulfed inside Berrote’s tight heat. Then he snapped his hips, forcing himself back inside. Hard.
Berrote groaned.
“Faster!” He gasped out. “Quick and dirty, come on.”
“Shut up.”
Still, Andrés complied and set a punishing pace. Each thrust pushed Berrote forward; Andrés could see his knuckles, white and straining as they clutched the edge of the desk. He was holding on for dear life while Andrés pummeled him with no abandon.
Andrés’s own hands were holding onto Berrote’s hips, keeping him firmly in place. His shirt had ridden up, allowing Andrés’s fingers to sink into his naked flesh strong enough to bruise.
Not that Berrote seemed to mind.
He kept moaning, loud and enthusiastic, clearly too far gone to care about anyone potentially passing by the office and overhearing. Andrés hoped that Ariadna had heeded Berrote’s warning and gone out, or else he’d have some awkward explaining to do.
But oh, how he got off on drawing these sounds out of Berrote. The bastard may act cold and indifferent toward him, but this – this was the truth. His body wasn’t lying.
He wanted Andrés.
Wanted him so much that it wrecked him.
Berrote was pushing back against him, impaling himself on Andrés’s cock like he couldn’t get enough. His body was asking for more, more, more, and Andrés wanted to be the one to give it to him. He wanted to give him everything.
For a brief moment – a weak moment – Andrés wondered what it would be like. To fuck Berrote in a bed. To have him sit astride his lap, hands cradling Andrés’s face as he sank down onto his cock. Mouth falling open as he sucked in a shuddering gasp, his body adjusting to the intrusion of Andrés’s cock deep inside of him.
Andrés wondered, too, what Berrote would look like when pleasure overcame him. Would he bite his tongue to keep from screaming out? Would he push forward and attempt to hide his face in the crook of Andrés’s neck?
Or would he look at Andrés, open and honest and vulnerable, and smile?
It was this wild fancy that pushed him over the edge.
Andrés groaned something that may or may not have been Berrote’s name – a strangled, hoarse Martín – as he spilled deep inside of him.
“Fuck, yes! Fill me up!” Berrote begged, and if Andrés hadn’t already been coming hard, hearing those obscene demands would have surely done it. Berrote’s ass clenched around him, milking every last drop of come out of his throbbing cock.
It felt fucking amazing. Heavenly, brilliant, breathtaking.
It took all of Andrés’s strength not to slump forward, satisfied and spent. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath and slowly pulled out. He tucked his softening cock back into his pants, then smoothed down the front of his shirt to make himself presentable.
A few moments passed before Berrote realized that this was it. That he wouldn’t be granted relief.
He whirled around, eyes flashing, lips drawn into an angry snarl. The effect would have been more impressive if his pants weren’t bunched around his thighs, cock poking into the air. The tip was smeared with precome; clearly, it wouldn’t have taken a lot of effort to finish him off.
“You fucking bastard,” Berrote spat out. “You’re not gonna make me come? I’m not your fucking sex doll, how fucking dare you—”
Andrés kissed him.
He didn’t know why he did it. It certainly wasn’t a part of their arrangement. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t do anything that could possibly be considered romantic.
But Berrote had looked strangely alluring just then: cheeks smattered with red, his chest rising and falling rapidly with barely-contained rage.
And Andrés had to admit that it felt nice enough. Berrote’s lips were surprisingly soft beneath his, gentle and giving. He was especially fond of the little gasp Berrote made. Like he hadn’t seen it coming.
Like he didn’t hate it.
When Andrés drew back, Berrote was staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. His brow was slightly creased, as though he was trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Andrés looked away.
“I’ll talk to my brother,” he said. He grabbed his jacket, slipped it on. “Maybe I’ll get him to reconsider and… take a look at your proposal.”
Berrote responded with another gasp-like sound, a cross between acquiescence and gratitude. Or maybe it was simpler than that: confusion, astonishment. Hope.
Either way, Andrés didn’t want to stick around to find out. Somehow, he got the feeling that he had violated the unspoken terms of their arrangement.
That he’d crossed a line with that kiss.
Andrés didn’t bother to look at Berrote as he turned to leave, too afraid of what he’d find.