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scrollonso · 26 days

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You Don't Matter - Alex/Pecco

“I wanted to come in here and say sorry, Francesco,” Alex says, huffing out a breath that’s not quite a laugh.

Pecco turns away, and Alex watches the stiff shake of his head, the sharp clench of his jaw.

I don’t need to play mind games with you.

He was lying — or, at least, not being completely truthful — and Pecco knows it, too. To be fair, he did enter the Italians motorhome with the intention of rattling Pecco, just a little. To trap him with no other option but to finally face Alex after so obviously avoiding him since the crash. Wanting to tease him, ever so slightly, to try and bring his defenses down, even if just an inch. Call it leveling the playing field, or whatever.

Alex should’ve known that Pecco wouldn’t let him in that easily. If anything, the closeness between them only served to freeze Pecco further, rather than melt him down the way Alex had hoped.

He can see the wheels turning in Pecco's head, can see the walls building higher and higher, with how hard he’s trying to not let Alex regain the upper hand. It’s his serve, and he’s not going to let Alex break it without a fight. Not anymore. He knows that all Alex needs is one goddamn inch to wiggle himself back into the advantage.

Because, even after all these years have passed, Pecco still knows Alex. Whether he likes it or not.

Really, all they’ve ever done — since they were sixteen years old — is play games with each other. It’s just that somewhere, along the way, it stopped being fun.

“That makes no sense.”

“I wanted to say that I'm sorry I ruined our races. And I'm glad you're not hurt.”

And fuck, does he mean it.

Pecco's lips twitch into his cheeks, but not with a smile — no, he’s biting back a snarl. Fighting the urge to show his sharp teeth, a last defense to warn Alex that he’s about to have his heart ripped right out of his chest if he isn’t careful.

And Alex wants to just — push him to it. To bite. Pecco has always been all talk, and when it came down to the wire he’d just submit. Rolling over, retreating into safety. Never fighting back. Now, he’s so close, Alex can feel the air practically crackle with Pecco's barely-contained rage.

Part of him is almost proud. It’s nice to see you lit up about something.

Even if that something is hating me, he thinks.

And besides — he’s already spent his entire life hurting at Pecco's hands. Because of him. Because of the loss of him. May as well finish him off.

Alex was wrong, all those years ago. Pecco isn’t a snake, slithering around in the grass, hiding below Alex's feet and twisting around him before reaching out to bite. No — he’s more of a tiger. Still hiding in the grass, but stalking, strategizing — categorizing every weak point in his prey before striking. Before digging his razor sharp claws right into Alex's beating heart, his soft, unguarded stomach. Tearing him apart, all brutal strength and ice cold efficiency.

It’s what’s been missing from your racing.

He stares at the bob of Pecco's adam’s apple, glistening with sweat, as he swallows his anger down. And that, right there, is what Alex latches on to.

“Yeah," Pecco grits out, unable to hide the crack of his voice. He hums, around a mean, derisive leer.

Even after all the time they’ve spent apart, Alex is so pleased to find that he’s still an expert on reading Pecco. His tells haven’t changed. So he knows that he struck a nerve, has nicked Pecco's icy exterior. Just enough for Alex to see that he’s not the only one suffering here.

Maybe, Pecco is still just as affected by Alex as Alex is by Pecco. Despite the heat, he shivers at the thought.

“Well,” Pecco continues, voice steadier. He stands then, right in front of Alex, left hand gripping onto the band of Alex's sweatpants slung low on his hips. Alex's eyes trace down the strong lines of Pecco's body, lingering on the stretch of his pelvis for a beat too long. “I don’t miss playing with you. I’m too mature for it.”

Pecco starts towards the door, not hesitating to leave his own motorhome if it means getting away from the Spaniard, but Alex lurches to his feet before he can make his escape. One hand stays by his side. The other grasps Pecco's wrist tightly — to ensure that his skin doesn’t slip out of his hold — and yanks, pulling him back into the room while the heavy door slams shut again.

“No, you don’t get to leave, just like that. You don’t get to run away,” Alex snaps.

Pecco stares at him for one long second, nostrils flaring, jaw grinding in a furious back and forth, before he’s on him. Twisting out of Alex's hold, he shoves him up against the wall, using his right forearm to push hard along Alex's collarbones — wrist to elbow pressing just under the divot of his throat.

“That’s fucking rich, coming from you,” he sneers, letting out a mean laugh right in Alex's face.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Alex tries — albeit halfheartedly — to push back against Pecco's hold, but all it does is earn him another harsh shove.

Pecco is probably stronger than him, he always has been, he realizes with a start. Now that his body is sculpted by the most expensive trainers and nutritionists and physical therapists money can buy. He’s not even sure he could actually escape Pecco's hold if he tried.

It’s the closest they’ve physically been since they broke up nine years ago. He isn’t going to try.

His breaths come in and out in short bursts. The slight pressure on his neck limits his airflow, in addition to the heavy heat in the air that already makes it hard to breathe. All of it leaves him a bit dizzy — that, and the fact that all the blood in his body is rapidly rushing downwards. Suddenly he’s glad that his sweatpants are too big for his body, so they can hide the growing hardness of his dick.

All traces of humor are gone from Pecco's face, sardonic or not, leaving only sharp lines and dangerous anger.

“You fucking left first, Alex. You’re the one who ran away and never came back.”

“You’re the one who told me to go!” He yells, as well as he can, anyway, given the growing pressure below his throat. “You don’t get to put this all on me, Francesco. Just because you got off scot-free in the end doesn’t mean you get to blame me for everything. You’re at fault just as much as me. Probably more, actually, because you just couldn’t help yourself from blaming me for the fact you're a shit rider.”

Pecco shoves him back again, so hard that the back of his head slams against the wall. Presses up so close that his nose smashes into Alex's, so forcefully that he fears the cartilage is going to shatter.

“Oh yeah? That's why you purposely crashed into me? To get back at me?”

Pecco jerks away, and Alex has half a mind to think that he's going to hit him. He recoils as Pecco moves, only for him to turn around and take a rigid step away from Alex, leaving him still pressed against the wall.

The words sink in, then, and Alex lets out a humorless laugh. He wonders if Pecco realizes that he just showed his hand. Probably not — he was always reckless in his anger. When he finally exploded after bottling everything in for too long, letting the pressure build and build and build. Alex never had to wonder why Pecco was mad when they were kids, he knew that Pecco would let it slip eventually — all he had to do was wait him out or needle it out of him.

Seems he really hasn’t changed much at all.

“You know, Francesco,” he starts, aiming to sound detached, even though he’s barely hanging on to a single thread of control. “It might not seem like it, given your entire goddamn life, but if you can believe it, not everything is about you.”

Casually, he pushes himself off the wall. “And besides, you’re not mad that I fucked your race”

He gets one hand on his shoulder, with the other mindlessly toying with the Italians jeans. In one intense move he twists Pecco around to face him, hand swiftly cupping the younger mans crotch.

He can’t help the smirk that pulls at his lips at the reveal of Pecco's half-hard cock, the way it twitches when he catches sight of Alex's own proud erection, now undeniably visible even through the oversized sweats.

“No, you’re just mad that I didn’t fuck you too .” Pecco nearly flinches at his words, at the vitriolic way Alex spits them at him, and that’s how he knows he’s right. “It drove you crazy, remembering I'm not only good at fucking you over but also fucking you stupid. I know it did.”

A rough hand clasps around his throat — fingers and thumb spanning the sides, pressing against his bilateral pulse points. Not squeezing, just adding a firm, constant pressure as Pecco pulls him in close again. He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed at the choked moan that escapes his lips, or the way his eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

“You don’t fucking know anything.”

Alex's smirk sharpens, dangerous. Maybe he can show his sharp teeth, too.

“Don’t I?”

Next thing he knows, he’s nearly choking on Pecco's tongue. He doesn’t know who moved first — or maybe they simultaneously closed the gap between them, both possessed by the same magnetic force — but he moans again, a deep, guttural sound all the way from the depths of his soul.

The kiss is rough, all teeth and tongue, like they’re mutually trying to devour each other. Alex presses his tongue deep into Pecco's mouth, trying to chase the taste of him. It’s so familiar . Pecco still tastes the same as he did all those years ago. The realization nearly brings him to fucking tears.

Another moan gets caught in his throat, stuck underneath the grip that Pecco still has on his neck.

He wants Pecco to press harder. Wants it to bruise, so he can wear Pecco's fingerprints on his skin like a brand.

Alex's own hands can’t seem to settle. He rakes his fingers up Pecco's strong back, down his pecs that may as well be fucking tits , and across his taut abs, barely grazing the coarse hair that leads down to his groin, and back up again. Crazed with desire, hunger , to consume every inch of Pecco that he can get his hands on. His fingers finally settle in Pecco's hair, and he yearns for his old curls — just so he could really get a good handful and yank . Pecco still groans when he manages to pull at the short strands anyway, when he digs his nails into his scalp.

Pecco releases his hold on Alex's throat — much to his dismay — and starts tracing a long line down Alex's chest. He scrapes his nails hard across his skin, moving so slowly, making Alex feel every raw pink line that he leaves in his wake.

Alex whines when Pecco cruelly pinches at a nipple, hand snaked up his Gresini team shirt, while simultaneously biting hard at his bottom lip. He tries to tip his head back, needing to breathe, suddenly so overwhelmed — but Pecco keeps his teeth pressed into his lip, making it stretch painfully between them. Keeping Alex right where Pecco wants him. Eventually, he releases his bite, soothes the sting with his tongue.

Pecco's hand continues on its downward path, making his abs quiver in response.

His other hand twists into Alex's hair and pulls, thrusting his head back. Alex finally sucks in a deep breath, nearly heaving with the effort, but all the air is knocked right back out of him when Pecco wraps a calloused hand tightly around the base of his aching cock, while biting hard at the now-exposed sensitive line of his throat.

Pecco starts pumping his fist at a brutal pace, squeezing so tight that it’s almost painful while his mouth is busy biting and sucking and licking at his neck, his jaw, his collarbones. There’s no way he isn’t leaving marks. Alex whimpers at the thought. Imagines wearing Pecco's claim on his skin in front of anyone and everyone.

And god, they’ll all know . One look is all it will take to know, without a doubt, that Alex has been claimed by Pecco — mind, body, soul, everything .

Fuck, it’s almost too much.

Almost.

“I hate you,” Pecco pants into Alex's neck. He gives a particularly hard bite, punctuating his harsh words. Alex wouldn’t be surprised if he breaks the skin, bleeds him dry right here in his motorhome. “I hate you for going to Moto2. And I hate that you got with that whore after you left me. You were mine first, Alex.”

“Yeah ,” he moans. He was. He is.

He's quick to undo the Italians jeans, wrapping his own frantic hand around Pecco's cock, he nearly sees stars at the heavy weight of it against his palm. Matching Pecco's pace, he lets himself squeeze a little bit too hard to be mean back.

“I hate that you don’t give a fuck about anything,” Pecco continues. “That you’re wasting your fucking talent. And for what ? You were supposed to be great, but look at you now. All this time, and what do you have to show for it? Fucking nothing . I already won, Alex, and I really hate that you never cared enough to even play the fucking game .”

Pecco gives another sharp bite to his throat, over the long muscle that spans its entire length, and digs his thumbnail mercilessly into Alex's slit, drags it across the aching head of his cock. Alex keens — high and needy. Feels his cock drool with precum, even as his hips instinctively try to squirm away.

“Fuck you, Pecco,” he gasps, breathless. It comes out sounding so pathetic. So weak.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Not a question, just a fact. The sky is blue, grass is green, Alex Marquez wants to fuck, be fucked by — in any and every way — Francesco Bagnaia.

Needs it more than he needs air to breathe.

He reaches up to the hand Pecco still has clenched in his hair and pulls his fingers back, forcing him to release his grip. With the newfound ability to move his head again, he brings his lips back to Pecco's, kisses him deep and absolutely filthy . Desperate to convey how right Pecco is, how much he wants him. Has wanted him, for so long.

They continue to feverishly jerk each other off, grips teetering on the knife’s edge of too painful. The frenzied sound of skin-on-skin mingles with the wet smacking of their lips in the otherwise silent sauna.

It’s fucking obscene.

Pressure starts to build in Alex's gut, too fast too fast too fast . He’s not ready for this to be over, doesn’t want to come like this. He’s a glutton, he needs more . Needs to take everything Pecco will give him, if only for the fear that this is his only fucking chance.

I don’t matter?

Gathering a burst of strength, he shoves Pecco away, so hard that he stumbles a few steps backwards.

“What the fuck—”

Alex follows, pushing Pecco again, until the back of his knees hit the sofa behind him, and he just keeps going until Pecco has no option but to sit down. Head tilting back to keep Alex's eye as he towers over him.

He leans down, nearly closing the gap between them again, but leaves barely a millimeter between their lips. They pant into each other’s open mouths, sharing air in warm bursts. A bead of sweat drips off Alex's nose and lands on Pecco's cheek.

“You want me to play, Francesco?” He croons, right between his open lips. “Are you sure? Because you know I only play to win.”

“Yeah? That why you’re barely tenth?”

“Well,” he smiles, pushing a laugh into Pecco's mouth. “I guess I only go for the points that matter.”

I don’t matter?

Not even to the most obsessive MotoGP fan in the entire world.

I don’t matter?

It’s exciting to see you this way.

He stands back, takes a moment to appreciate the picture before him. And fuck, what a picture Pecco makes. Eyes glassy, cheeks and neck and chest flushed the prettiest pink beneath his glistening skin, his cock hard and nearly weeping between his thighs. And Pecco — he leans back, unabashedly kicks his jeans down and spreads his legs wide, he lets Alex look .

Fuck, how could Pecco ever think that he belonged to anyone but Alex?

He’s possessed, the need to take take take completely overcomes him. He needs to mark, to claim, to make sure that Pecco knows that he belongs to Alex just as much as he belongs to Pecco.

In a sudden move, one that Pecco clearly wasn’t anticipating — see, I’ve always had the upper hand — he grabs one of Pecco's thighs, twists his body so that he’s practically laying sideways on the sofa. He pulls the leg he’s still gripping and thrusts it up, pushing until he meets the resistance of Pecco's hamstrings, nearly folding his right side in half.

Pecco gasps when Alex places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of his thigh, just above the back crease of his knee. He tries to wrench his leg away, but Alex merely pushes Pecco further into the stretch. He smiles against Pecco's skin, feels the rippling tremor of his muscles below his lips. And then, he sinks his teeth in deep and sucks . Pecco groans, long and broken, as Alex relentlessly works to mar Pecco's sweet skin.

To anyone else, it’ll just look like a bruise. It’s in an inconspicuous place. Unassuming, normal for an athlete to have. No one will think twice about it.

But Pecco will know. Alex will know. Hell, maybe even Domizia will know. And tomorrow, when Alex gets a glimpse of his mark on Pecco's thigh, he’ll know he’s playing to win.

Because he does fucking matter.

“No matter what you think, Pecco,” he pants into Pecco's skin, too lazy to try to call the other by his full name, too lazy to try and pretend he doesn't care for him as he watches his handiwork turn an angry purple with a satisfied jolt in his stomach. Mine mine mine. “No matter how much you think you’re Domizia's, you know deep down that you belong to me. You’ve always belonged to me.”

He gives one last parting nip, which makes Pecco hiss out a short — hah — from the rawness of the already-forming bruise, and urges him to sit properly on the bench. Pecco splays his thighs out wide again, leaving just enough space for Alex to drop to his knees between them. Lightly, he runs his hands up the tops of Pecco's legs, feeling the rough scrape of his hair as he inches closer to his groin. He stops — just shy of where Pecco clearly wants him.— and drags his hands back down. Does it again, nails scraping this time.

“Alex,” Pecco whines.

He rests his cheek on Pecco's thigh, turns his head so he’s gazing up at him through his lashes.

“Sì, amore, what do you want? Tell me.”

The pet name slipped out unintentionally, likely a result of his brain short-circuiting from the heat and how fucking horny he is, but he can’t find it in himself to regret it. Not with the way Pecco's cock twitches in front of his face — nearly an invitation.

Pecco lets out an impatient huff when Alex starts languidly mouthing at his leg.

“God, you’re such a fucking dick.”

He hums, smiles against Pecco's skin. He tastes like salt, like sweat.

“That didn’t sound like an answer to my question.”

Pecco growls then, grabs Alex's face and holds it between his hands. It’s almost tender, the way his thumbs caress over his temples, across his cheeks. That is, until he hooks both thumbs into Alex's mouth, pressing hard and forcing his jaw wide open. Pecco scoots forward on the sofa, using his height advantage while Alex is still kneeling on the floor, and leans down until their noses press together, switching their earlier positions.

“I want you to show me. Show me how badly you want to be mine, Marquez.”

He spits then, right into Alex's pried-open mouth, right on his tongue. Fuck, he’s going to pass out. He didn’t think Pecco had it in him to be such a nasty freak .

He fucking loves it.

It’s exciting to see you this way.

Pecco releases his face with a gentle shove and leans back on the bench. Alex wastes no time, gathers his own spit, pooling it around Pecco's in his mouth, and drops it perfectly over the pink head of Pecco's cock. Watches as it drips down the shaft, utterly transfixed. He desperately wants to burn this image into his retinas, wants to see it every time he closes his eyes.

This is really happening . For so long, this only existed in the deepest recesses of his mind, only to be accessed in his weakest moments. When the loneliness — the longing — got so intense that he let himself slip up and imagine having Pecco this way. Twisting the knife further and further, deeper into his own stomach.

And if this is his only chance, he’s desperate to ensure that Pecco knows no one will ever make him feel better than Alex does.

Maybe then, if he makes it good enough, Pecco won’t try to leave him behind anymore.

You were mine first.

With a deep, steadying breath, he lowers his mouth around the base of Pecco's cock. Tantalizingly slow, he presses his tongue along the thick vein and licks a fat stripe up the entire length, tonguing hard at the frenulum. Pecco lets out an aborted moan, unable to stifle the sound completely.

Alex starts swirling his tongue around the head, dips it into the slit to finally get a taste of the precome collecting there. Laps at the salty sweet taste of him, while tilting his head up to catch his gaze. He’s pleased to see that Pecco's eyes are wide open, locked on Alex with a hungry glint shining in their depths.

With a final smirk — bottom lip catching against Pecco's cock — Alex gets to fucking work.

Still maintaining the delicious eye contact, in one swift move he takes Pecco's entire length in his mouth, pushing past his gag reflex. He feels Pecco curl up around him at the shock of it, scrabbling for some sort of purchase, eventually finding it with both hands gripping Alex's hair painfully.

He sets up a ruthless rhythm, bobbing his head up and down Pecco's cock while occasionally opening his throat and swallowing around him, desperate to feel him as deep as he can. He must look like a mess — he can feel tears clumping his lashes and spit spilling down his chin, so fucking sloppy and he doesn’t fucking care .

Pecco's hands keep a tight hold of Alex's hair, and Alex lets him take control of his movements. Lets Pecco take what he wants. He chokes out a punched-out groan when Pecco forces his head down to the base, as he thrusts his hips even further, nearly suffocating him on Pecco's cock.

“Yeah ,” Pecco grunts out. “This— this is what you’re made for. This right here,” he gives another harsh jolt of his hips, holds Alex in place as he gags, as he makes him take it .

“God, you’re so fucking desperate for it.” Alex hums in agreement, shivering in pleasure as Pecco moans from the vibrations. “Just wanna prove that you’re good at something , huh?”

Tears are streaming down his face, and Alex doesn’t think it’s only from the pressure of Pecco's cock fucking into his throat. He feels like he’s on the verge of a precipice — like he’s one step away from falling off a cliff so high he knows he won’t survive. Still, he presses forward. Because he is fucking desperate for it.

“That’s right, Alex,” Pecco continues, voice strained. “You’re only good when you’re playing for me . Everyone fucking knows it.”

Without warning, Pecco forces Alex's head up and off his cock. He sucks in a deep breath, letting out a pitiful whine at the loss. Vision blurring, he tries to focus on Pecco, staring as he starts to frantically pull at his length, wet and shiny with Alex's spit.

His body must realize what’s about to happen before his mind catches up, because he barely manages to shut his eyes before feeling hot ribbons of Pecco's come land all over his face, in his hair, down his neck and chest. Pecco keeps letting out these sweet, choked little noises — just the same as he did in his motorhome back in Moto3, when he’d jerk himself off after the thought Alex was asleep.

“God, just look at you.”

Alex cautiously opens his eyes — hyper-aware of the come matting his eyelashes and dripping off his eyelids — just in time to watch Pecco hold his softening cock in his fingers and drag the head against Alex's face. Rubbing his release into his skin, against his swollen lips. Possessive. Claiming.

Alex sticks out his tongue, gives a little kitten-lick to the head, where it rests against his lips, causing Pecco to hiss and retreat from oversensitivity.

He quickly replaces his cock with his thumb, collecting come from the corner of Alex's mouth and feeding it to him. He laves his tongue over the digit, savoring the taste of Pecco in his mouth. He continues to suck and nip at Pecco's thumb as he feverishly gets his hand on his own neglected cock, chasing his impending release. He’s nearly there already, just needs a few long tugs before he’s coming hard, spilling over his fist and the floor with a sob.

The heat must be getting to him, because he thinks he blacks out — the pleasure from his orgasm nearly blinding him. He loses awareness for a moment, lost in a floaty sensation, finding comfort in the smell, the feel of Pecco around him.

As he feels himself drift back, Pecco is lifting his body off the floor, hefting him into a seated position on the sofa. His eyes blink open, and he watches as Pecco reaches for the small towel that he quickly grabbed from the bathroom, and uses it to gently — so gently — wipe the remaining come off of Alex's face.

The intimacy of it is what finally cracks him open, right down the middle. He can’t keep up, can’t conflate the tenderness of Pecco's actions with the mean, unforgiving version of him that he’s been this whole time.

Embarrassingly, his eyes start to well up, and despite blinking to try to keep them at bay, one single tear manages to escape. His bottom lip starts to wobble, so he sucks them both into his mouth to hide it.

None of it escapes Pecco's notice, though. Once he finishes wiping the remaining come off his chest and his fist, he brings the towel back up to his cheek to collect the tear, face completely void of emotion.

He turns away, bends down to collect their forgotten clothes, and helps the Spaniard get dressed. As if nothing ever happened.

Panic rips through him, completely filling his gut with the heavy dread of fear. Pecco is going to ask him to leave, is going to go back to his wife and his dog and his fucking penthouse life, and he’s going to leave Alex here — alone, destroyed — again, forever .

He thought he’d be able to handle it. That even having Pecco once more would be enough, that he’d be able to live on the memory for the rest of his life. But fuck, he was wrong.

He can’t live without this, he doesn’t think he’ll survive without Pecco in his life. Not now, not again. Not when he finally got a taste of what he’s spent years yearning for. He can’t go back, will do anything to not go back.

I don’t matter?

His hand reaches back out, lands on Pecco's forearm, where it rests against the knot of the towel.

“Pecco—” he tries, desperately, but his voice is shot to hell, completely wrecked. “Please ,” he whispers, hoping he can read his mind. He could have, once upon a time. Maybe he still can.

Pecco finally drops the emotionless mask, lets a hint of resignation show on his face. He steps back into Alex's space, eyes flitting back and forth rapidly between Alex's own. He leans down, resting his hands on the sofa behind Alex, effectively caging him in. Slowly, resolutely, he presses his lips back to Alex's. It’s chaste, almost sweet. Alex whimpers into it, prompting Pecco to pull back after barely a second has passed.

“Shh, just— tomorrow, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow. I promise.”

Alex lets out a deep, shaky breath as Pecco stands him up, heading back for the door.

He opens the door for Alex who doesn’t turn back as the door swings shut behind him.

Head swimming, gut swirling, Pecco watches Alex go, eyes caught on the purple marks littering his neck.

Pressing fingers against his thigh, he feels the ache of tender marks littering his own skin, and actually lets himself believe his own promise of tomorrow. Tomorrow they would fix this. Tomorrow they would find a way.

#bone apple teeth #i guess #kats motogp blurbs!#alex marquez #pecco bagnaia #francesco bagnaia #pb1 #fb1 #pb63 #fb63 #am72 #rpf #sports rpf #smut #vr46 riders academy #vr46 academy #idk what to tag this

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