#which means that these'll probably be a bit rough around the edges
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"Shit, you're bleeding?" + Berlermo
“Shit, you’re bleeding.”
Andrés laughed. He fucking laughed. It sounded all wrong though – strained and hollow, almost delirious. But that was probably to be expected of someone who’d just been fucking shot in the abdomen.
Martín gritted his teeth.
His hands were shaking where they pressed against Andrés’s wound. The blood kept spilling through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, more and more and always fucking more, and Martín wasn’t sure what he wanted more: to rub his cheek against Andrés’s chest and beg him not to die, or to grab the bag of jewels and walk out the hotel room. To turn his back on their partnership. On Andrés.
The job had been supposed to be easy. Ten minutes, in and out. Martín had joked about it, of course he had. A quickie, he’d said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Because Andrés was fucking hot, and Martín was only a man.
But Andrés had shaken his head, his expression pinched.
“You don’t understand,” he’d said, and maybe Martín would have paid more attention to him – to the tense set of his shoulders, to the sternness of his tone, to his warning – if he hadn’t been so damn distracted by the way Andrés’d pushed the olive of his martini between his lips, slowly, sinfully.
“It’s a test,” Andrés’d told him, making Martín frown.
“A test for what?”
But Andrés hadn’t replied. He’d merely smiled at him, all tall, dark and mysterious, and Martín’d rolled his eyes and signaled the bartender for another drink, eager to move on.
He hadn’t understood. Not until now.
The test, he realized, was to see if they’d make a good team, if Martín was as good as he’d claimed.
If he’d keep his cool, even if one of them was bleeding out.
Martín pulled a breath of air through his teeth. It spread through his lungs, filling him with a sense of purpose.
“Come on,” he said, dragging Andrés’s blazer off his shoulders. “Let’s get you cleaned up and bandaged. You’re bleeding all over the upholstery.”
Andrés laughed that damned laugh again, like nails on a chalkboard.
Martín blocked it out.
Instead, he focused on the task at hand: undressing Andrés. Dabbing up the blood with hotel towels, the white stained red. Cleaning the bullet wound. Wrapping the bandage around Andrés’s torso, again and again and again, until his mind was numb. Until he no longer felt that surge of fear, an iron fist around his throat, his heart, his soul.
He didn’t pay any attention to Andrés’s ragged breathing, to the flush of his skin. He barely noticed the way Andrés smelled – a heady combination of sweat and adrenaline, like danger, like life.
And his heart certainly didn’t stop when Andrés reached up to brush his knuckles against Martín’s cheek and down to his mouth. The gesture would be sweet – almost reverent – if it weren’t for the smears of blood he was leaving on Martín’s face, marking him.
Martín’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips, subconsciously. He could taste Andrés’s blood, warm and wet and bittersweet. A part of Andrés that now lingered on Martín’s lips, each of you drink from it, for this is my blood.
It was fucked-up.
He swallowed. Hard.
“Andrés,” he said. His voice rasped. “That’s been inside your heart.”
Andrés smiled up at him. In the dim lights, his teeth looked sharp and dangerous.
“Oh, Martín. I think I’m going to keep you.”
#berlermo#berlin x palermo#la casa de papel#thank you Marie!#you're a darling#marirable#ask#I'm just going to yeet this out#the point is not to agonize over them too much#I want to go from 'first ideas / rough draft' to 'hitting post'#which means that these'll probably be a bit rough around the edges#but that's the point Karen#tw: blood#tw: mild blasphemy#ficlets
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