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The photo was huge and glossy. There was barely any light in the room, Fletcher’s office lit by a small lamp rather than cold fluorescents - but the light was enough to cause a glare to come off of the photo. Neiman knew who it was, Fletcher had told him the first time he’d come into his office. Sean Casey. Fletcher’s golden boy. The first trumpet at Lincoln Center. Sean Casey.
Sean is well dressed in a suit and tie, with a trumpet on his lips. His face is taut, and Andrew can tell the amount of effort he is putting into his craft. He was the same way with the drums. His eyes tightly closed, as if he’s trying to focus on nothing but the trumpet in his hands and the music coming out of it.
It takes on a bit of a different meeting now, with his face pushed into Fletcher’s desk and his pants at his ankles. He’s looking up into the photo of Sean and he envies him. He made it.
The door is locked in Fletcher’s office, and Neiman wonders if Sean was ever spread out like this on Fletcher’s desk. He clenches his jaw so much he feels like his teeth are going to crack. He wonders if he looks as stressed as Sean did when that photo was taken.
“Christ, you need to stop tensing up.” Fletcher says behind him, two fingers already shoved inside of Andrew as he clenched around him. It’s an order, but Andrew was never good at following those. He tries, and even though he can’t see Fletcher - he can tell the annoyance by how tight he still is with the way his hand becomes more and more rough. He was losing patience.
Fletcher’s fingers slide out with a wet noise, and Andrew braces himself against the desk for the stretch he knows is coming. He wasn’t ready, he wasn’t stretched enough, but he would take it without complaint. He had to.
Fletcher pushes in with his hips at a steady pace, like a steamroller slowly crushing a toothpaste tube. He pushes into Andrew, and he feels like he’s going to burst at the seams but he has no option other than to tense against the hardwood of Fletcher’s desk.
Fletcher groans behind him, and Andrew wonders how he even feels any pleasure from how unbelievably tight Andrew is around him. It’s like a chokehold. A noose, locking them both together. The sort of thing that neither should be doing, but they’re forcing the pieces to fit like the wrong pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Neiman is soft, and he’s been soft for a good portion of this. There’s hardly any pleasure in it, just pain from how wide Fletcher is tearing him open. It felt nice when he was in his dorm, lazily pushing a finger or two inside of himself with his hand around his dick. But this? This was more like a knife being shoved into his gut.
“Christ, you better not fucking have anything, faggot.” Fletcher says, and Neiman wonders if it’s because of the fact he can feel himself tearing in two and there is undoubtedly blood leaking around Fletcher’s cock.
Andrew makes a low whine in the back of his throat despite his attempts to keep quiet. He once again looks back up at the portrait of Sean Casey as he fears tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Do not fucking cry. He can’t show weakness. Fletcher would treat it like a shark reacting to a flailing swimmer. There was blood in the water, and Fletcher was circling.
The movement of Fletcher’s hips is jerky when he finally moves, and uncoordinated. Not what he would assume for a man who looked like he had so much control over everything that his heart would beat in whatever rhythm he commanded of it. Fletcher grabs at his hair from behind him, and yanks on it so hard Andrew wonders if he’s going to start pulling out clumps.
Neiman’s hips are pinned to the hard wood of the desk, and he just knows he’s going to go home with bruises in perfect lines where he’s forced against the edge again and again when Fletcher fucks him. He doesn’t really know what he expected in reality, but in his dreams he was hard and wanting below Fletcher. Neiman couldn’t get hard even if he tried right now, and as a 19 year old - that is pretty damning.
Neiman wonders if this is a punishment. If Fletcher was purposefully making this hurt so bad that he’d have trouble sitting in his chair for the rest of the week. There was a hint of desperation as well, and Neiman’s head tried to angle itself back to look at Fletcher. His jaw grew slack as he noticed exactly where his face was - where his eyes were focused on. He’s focused with a near reverence on the goddamn portrait of Sean, and Andrew feels an overwhelming sense of rage in his bones. It bubbles up in him like a pot of water left on a stove - and he clenches his fists to slam a hand on the desk in front of him.
“Fucker!” Neiman yells, unable to hold himself back as jealousy overcame him.
Fletcher’s eyes darted down, and for a split second they were softer than normal before the edge takes over again. His face hardens, and he pushes Neiman’s head down into the desk with such force that it takes his breath away.
“Keep your mouth fucking shut. There’s still classes going on, whore.” Fletcher hisses behind him, his body moving to cover Neiman and fuck into him with every bit of force that he has. Any hint of a rhythm disappeared.
The fingers Fletcher had shoved into his ass pushed into Neiman’s mouth, and he tastes the copper tang of his own blood. Neiman bites, hard, until he feels more metallic warmth spread across his taste buds. Their blood intermingled in his mouth, and Neiman hoped that somehow some of his blood found it’s way into Fletcher’s veins. That Fletcher would become as much of him as he was of Neiman.
He bet Sean Casey never felt this way.
When Fletcher finally came, his mouth fell open into a groan, quickly muffling it into Neiman’s shoulder. Neiman felt a sort of feeling that he had never felt before. He was glad that it was over, and so there was relief that came from that. However, there was the distinct feeling of feeling owned, a feeling of jealousy, and still anger.
Neiman dick was still soft, but he knew he would be jerking it to this memory for ages, shoving fingers much too small inside of himself just to feel the burn. Fletcher had gotten off once, but Neiman would be living in the shadow of this for the foreseeable future.
Still breathing hard, Neiman looked up at the portrait of Sean Casey hanging over them.