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It Makes Sense — 2 (out of 2) (prev)

The wedding was set for July 20th, and the sun was high in the sky, casting a warm, golden light over the venue. Pecco and Domizia’s wedding was nothing short of enchanting. The venue was adorned with elegant decorations: white and blush flowers intertwined with shimmering lights, delicate linens draped over tables, and candles flickering softly in the summer breeze. Guests mingled and laughed, their glasses clinking in toasts of celebration, as the couple's love was honoured and admired.

Yet, amidst the vibrant festivity and the joyful faces of friends and family, Pecco felt a familiar knot in his chest. The sensation was heavy, a constant thrum of unease that had been growing ever since he had proposed to Domizia nearly four years ago. It was as if the elaborate celebration unfolding around him was a beautiful facade, masking an internal conflict that refused to be silenced. Every laugh, every smile, every congratulatory remark seemed to amplify the tension inside him, pulling him further from the contentment he was supposed to feel on this momentous day.

The ceremony had been flawless, with Domizia walking down the aisle in a stunning gown that took Pecco's breath away, her grace and beauty overwhelming. Yet, as he stood there exchanging vows, his mind wandered, reflecting on the years of preparation, the promises made, and the profound decision he was about to seal with a ring. The happiness of the occasion clashed with the turbulent thoughts swirling in his mind, making the day feel both perfect and painfully complicated.

Later, after the ceremony, Pecco found himself slipping away from the crowded reception, seeking solace in a quiet corner of the venue. The lively sounds of the celebration — the clinking of glasses, the hum of cheerful conversations, and the strains of romantic music — seemed to blur into the background. As he walked through the opulently decorated rooms and hallways, he felt as though he were moving through a dreamscape, the joy and laughter around him gradually fading into a distant echo.

Finally, he reached a secluded spot, a serene alcove nestled away from the main event. Here, the noise of the festivities was a faint murmur, replaced by a gentle stillness. Pecco leaned against a cool, stone wall, the texture rough against his back. The stone's solidity provided a momentary sense of grounding amidst the whirlwind of emotions churning inside him. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

This was the moment he had anticipated — a brief escape from the overwhelming spectacle of the day. The perfect event, with its elaborate decorations and orchestrated joy, now felt like an artificial veneer over the deeper, more troubling reality he faced. He had spent countless hours envisioning this day, imagining how it would unfold, but the reality of what he had committed to was sinking in, heavy and inescapable. In this quiet corner, away from prying eyes and the pretense of celebration, he allowed himself a rare moment of introspection. This was his chance to confront the internal conflict that had been building ever since he first proposed to Domizia, a conflict that seemed to loom larger with every passing second.

Just then, the door opened and Marco stepped through, his figure emerging abruptly from the blinding light of the reception into the darker, more isolated space of the garden. He wasn’t supposed to be here. His presence felt like a disturbance, a crack in the fragile, carefully constructed facade of Pecco’s day. Months of unresolved tension and silence stretched taut between them, making the moment feel heavy, suffocating even, in a way Pecco hadn’t expected or prepared for.

Marco’s eyes immediately found Pecco’s, and for a tense, suspended moment, neither moved nor spoke. The world around them dimmed, leaving only the bitter taste of their shared history between them. Marco’s arrival was an intrusion on the glittering celebration inside — a harsh, uninvited reminder of something Pecco had buried deep, though never quite deep enough. The silence between them grew oppressive, filled with things neither wanted to say but couldn’t ignore, a bridge of resentment and regret that tied their past to this uneasy present.

In the hushed quiet of the garden, the wedding seemed distant, irrelevant. The weight of their unresolved issues overshadowed everything. Pecco could feel the pressure building in his chest, knowing this confrontation could unravel everything he was desperately trying to hold together, not just for himself, but for Domizia too.

Finally, Marco broke the silence, his voice low, carrying an edge Pecco recognized all too well. “You look like you need some air.”

Pecco nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I guess.”

They stepped further into the garden, the cool air offering no real relief from the tension knotting in Pecco’s stomach. Marco followed close behind, no longer the confident figure Pecco once knew, but something more calculating, darker. They stopped beneath the large oak tree, its branches casting jagged shadows over the ground, the dappled light only highlighting the unease between them.

Marco's voice broke the silence again, this time harsher, more direct. “So, how are you, really?”

Pecco let out a harsh breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s all wrong. I’m trying to pretend everything’s fine, but it’s not. Nothing is right.”

Marco studied him, his gaze hard, not searching for understanding but pushing for something else. “Because of us?”

Pecco froze at the bluntness of the question. He hesitated, but there was no point in lying. “No- Yes. I just- I thought I could move past it, but it’s still there. Always there.”

Marco took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but it was laced with something dangerous, something manipulative. “I never wanted to be just a phase, Pecco. We could’ve had something real. But you’re still running from it, aren’t you?”

Pecco’s throat tightened, his emotions churning between anger and a sick sense of longing. “I don’t know what to do. I’m starting something new, something better, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m leaving part of myself behind, but maybe that’s what I should do. I can't- I can't just go back and say no and stop the wedding, I'm a married man, Bez.”

Marco's eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with a mix of bitterness and temptation. “Maybe you should’ve listened to yourself instead of playing it safe. You’re just lying to yourself, Pecco. Domizia isn’t what you want. She never was.”

The truth in his words cut deeper than Pecco wanted to admit. Domizia wasn’t what he truly wanted, and hearing it aloud made it impossible to ignore. But it was too late, wasn’t it? The air between them felt electric, charged with all the wrong reasons, a dangerous pull that neither of them could resist.

Without thinking, driven by anger, confusion, and a twisted sense of inevitability, Pecco closed the distance between them. His hands grabbed Marco’s face roughly, not with tenderness, never with tenderness, but with desperation. Their eyes locked for a brief moment before Pecco crushed their lips together in a kiss that was far from gentle. It was frantic, fueled by unresolved desire and frustration, a collision of need and resentment.

Marco responded instantly, pulling Pecco closer, his hands gripping him with an intensity that bordered on possessive. The kiss was raw, almost violent in its urgency, as if they were trying to reclaim something they’d lost or destroy it altogether. There was no tenderness here, only a desperate need to feel something, anything, even if it hurt.

Pecco’s fingers tangled roughly in Marco’s hair, pulling him closer, and Marco answered with equal force, their bodies pressing together in a way that felt less like a reunion and more like a battle. Every touch, every caress, was a challenge, a test of who could push harder, hold on longer, and neither of them was willing to back down.

The kiss became a way to drown out everything else — the wedding, Domizia, the future. All that mattered was the now, the raw, unfiltered chaos of their connection. Pecco’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind spinning as they kissed with a desperation that felt like it was tearing them apart even as it brought them closer.

But it wasn’t healing anything. It was just a momentary escape, a brief detour into something darker, something that couldn’t last. And Pecco knew, deep down, that once the moment ended, all that would be left was the wreckage they had created together, and the inevitable fallout waiting ahead.

“I’m sorry,” Pecco whispered, pulling away from Marco.

“You're always sorry, amore.” Marco took a few steps forward, backing Pecco into the wall and then there was a hand hooking under his chin, forcing his face up. “The problem is you’re never sorry enough to actually make any changes.”

He tried. God as his witness, he swore he tried. The expectations of him just always seemed to change, they constantly moved the goal posts and he couldn’t keep up. He swore they didn’t seem to do this with anyone but him. They’d already decided he was a failure, a coward, and they were determined to make that a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“I know. I’ll do better. I will.” He knew that he couldn’t. He would never be better, and they’d never accept he was even trying to be better. But if saying it would placate Marco, it was worth lying his ass off about.

Marco didn’t reply, just pulled away with an annoyed sigh. Thankfully Pecco was well versed at this point in distracting Marco from his anger. He knew exactly what would turn this situation around.

He pushed off the wall, allowing himself to kneel on the pavement before Marco. His hands reached to Marco's hips, loosely clinging to his belt.

“Let me make it up to you,” Pecco purred, carefully tugging on Marco's trousers.

Marco huffed, reaching down to slap Pecco's hand away. Initially, Pecco assumed his advances were being rejected, until Marco hissed at him “hands behind your back.”

Pecco gave a relieved sigh, putting his hands behind his back like he was told. As he did so, Marco reached for his belt, undoing it and moving the fabric of his trousers down just enough for his cock to spring free. He was already half hard, clearly Pecco had began to get him fired up. Typical.

“Open your mouth,” Marco ordered, reaching one hand to stroke his cock slightly, trying to coax it to further harden. Pecco did as he was told, letting his mouth hang open, ready and waiting for what Marco intended to give him. Pecco tutted. “Of course you're still so good at doing what you're told, whore.”

Before Pecco could do or say anything in retaliation, Marco surged forward, lining his cock up with his open mouth and thrusting in. With one swift motion, Marco's cock hit the back of his throat, causing Pecco to gag.

There was very little ceremony and certainly no foreplay. Marco grabbed the back of Pecco's head, using his neatly styled curls as an anchor. The thrusts were fast and rough, barely giving Pecco a chance to prepare for the onslaught. He gagged a few more times, needing to get used to having a cock in his mouth after four years without it.

Marco didn’t pause, and Pecco was okay with that. He could handle it, actually he rather enjoyed it. Being dominated, being subservient and submissive. It excited him in ways it probably shouldn’t. The fact his own cock was stirring in his pants was a testament to that.

“Fuck. At least there’s one thing you’re good at,” Marco growled, throwing his head back and shoving himself in as far as he could.

Something about that made Pecco happy. It wasn’t exactly praise, but it was the closest to it he’d gotten from Marco in a long time. He purred around his cock, pushing the flat of his tongue against the length as Marco continued to thrust in and out. The loud groan told Pecco his efforts were appreciated. With Marco setting the pace so thoroughly, it was the only way he could really contribute.

He wasn’t sure how long they were there for, time seemed to mean nothing when he could feel his knees start to ache from where they rubbed against the stone floor. His jaw painfully locked in place as Marco used his mouth. The taste of precum smearing across his tongue with every thrust. Pecco desperately kept his hands clasped together, nails digging into the opposite hand in an attempt to stop himself from reaching down for his own cock. He hadn’t been given permission yet, and he knew Marco would be more than displeased if he disobeyed now.

Suddenly, Marco pulled Pecco forwards, until his nose was touching Marco's pelvis. Hands kept him still in place, as his mouth was filled with cum. The salty taste hit his tongue and the back of his throat immediately. Marco rocked his hips back and forth a couple of more times, before finally pulling out with a wet pop. Pecco closed his eyes and swallowed, hearing the unmistakable sound of fabric.

When Pecco reopened his eyes, Marco was turned away, fiddling with his clothing, replacing his cock in his pants. Pecco gave a happy sigh, and whispered “Ti amo.”

Marco stilled, going completely rigid for a few seconds. He then continued to put himself back into place, completely ignoring what Pecco had just said. It wasn't always like this, but that was okay. Marco didn’t have to say it back, Pecco could vocalise it for the both of them.

“I need to go talk to Vale, give some lame ass excuse as to why we'll be gone a while longer,” Marco snarled, finally turning back to Pecco and pointing at his face. “You will go to the grooms room and wait for me to return. I am not done with you. If I find out you have left at any point, you will regret it.”

Pecco took the hand in front of him, pulling it to his mouth as he kissed Marco's knuckles. “I’ll wait for you.”

Marco gave a cruel laugh, the sort where it was clear that Pecco was exactly where the other man wanted him. He patted Pecco's face a couple of times, the man leaning into it, begging for more, before straightening himself out, and striding towards the door.

With a slam of the door, Marco was back inside, and Pecco was left still kneeling on the floor, waiting a second before rushing to where he'd been told to wait.

He smiled to himself, letting himself lean back against the back of the sofa. He held his hands to his chest, as if his feelings were so large they were about to burst out, and this was the only way to keep them contained.

But… there were no feelings.

There were no butterflies, no heart palpitations, no feelings of breathlessness. All he felt was a deep sinking emptiness. Like his chest was completely void, his entire soul having been carved out of his body. His hand curled up into a fist, taking a deep breath to try and ground himself.

This was fine. Everything was fine. This was just how he felt after every encounter they had, he was used to it by now. He’d wanted it this way. Sure, Marco wouldn’t say those three simple words back to him anymore, but that was just what Marco was like. He couldn’t say them, he couldn’t show affection because if anyone found out it would be seen as a weakness. Right? People change in four years. It's possible he just doesn't like physical touch anymore. That would explain everything.

Yet Pecco could not deny that he craved it. He craved Marco telling him he loved him. He craved soft touches and lazy mornings. Just the two of them holding each other close. Maybe if he was lucky, when Domizia was away, he’d get what he wanted.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the hollowness and the tears that rolled down his cheeks, and imagined a future where he and Marco did not have to hide anymore, one where he manned up and proposed to Marco. One where he didn't just promise his life to a lie.

“Do you, Francesco Bagnaia take Domizia Castagnini to be your lawfully wedded wife.”

No. That's what he should've said. That was the one word he needed to utter to be free. He swallowed it.

But what could he say? He couldn’t voice displeasure at the idea, that would just earn him even more trouble. He's the one that proposed. Even if he only asked for Domizia's hand in marriage out of fear, it was now his life and he'd have to suck it up.

And really, he should be thankful that Marco had kept quiet all these years. As in love as he was with Marco, sometimes the way the man made every action he took towards Pecco into some weird power play made Pecco's skin crawl. So, at the very least, for now Marco didn’t have that kind of control over his life.

New Years Eve, 2020. He spent the first 45 minutes of the last hour of the year in some disgusting motel room by the bar every one of his friends had gathered at.

“Fucking take it, you slut!”

Pecco hissed as the man thrust inside him with speed and power. The man was holding Pecco's wrists above his head with one hand, the other being used to occasionally grope and slap various parts of Pecco's body. The problem was this man was obviously still holding back somewhat, and Pecco did not want that. He wanted to be absolutely ruined by this man. He needed it. One last time. If he couldn't have Marco he needed someone to be at least half as cruel as him.

He didn’t know the man’s name. He never knew the names of anyone he slept with, besides Marco, and he was just fine with that. In turn, they never knew his name either, in this setting he was exclusively known as either slut, or whore, or bitch. He made sure to find men who just wanted one night of rough no-holds-barred sex. One night where they could be as degrading as they wanted to be, because that’s exactly what Francesco Bagnaia desired. He was tough enough to take anything they could throw at him.

Which is why it was annoying to him that this man was clearly holding back.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Pecco taunted, rolling his hips in time to the man’s thrust. When he saw the way the man’s face warped into displeasure, he knew he was about to get the reaction he wanted. “I can barely feel anything.”

The man responded by slamming the palm on his hand against Pecco's face, hard enough to make Pecco's head snap to one side. Marco hit harder.

Pecco laughed, “that’s more like it.”

“Fuck, you’re disgusting,” the man groaned, grabbing Pecco's chin and forcing him to look at him again. “You really just want to be used as an object, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Pecco replied with a dreamy sigh, a lewd moan escaping his lips as the man's cock hit his prostate. God he was so close, he just needed a little more.

The man pressed Pecco's wrists harder against the mattress, free hand roaming Pecco's body, now with renewed purpose. Feeling at Pecco's pecs, the touch was far more demanding, hard enough that it could possibly leave marks or bruises. Plucking at Pecco's nipples and stretching them far longer than he should have. Running his nails down his sides, hard enough that Pecco could feel blood bead from where the skin split. Occasionally returning to Pecco's face to slap him again.

This is what he needed. This is what he deserved.

All it took was one more hard thrust and Pecco was coming. He arched his back off the bed and groaned. The man didn’t stop though, just kept thrusting and chasing his own pleasure. It was only when he gave a loud groan that Pecco knew he’d also reached orgasm. There was no feeling of being filled, the condom made sure of that. He would forever be thankful to Vale for pulling him aside as a teenager and teaching him of the dangers sex could present. No one else would have done so.

The man jerked his hips back and forth a couple more times, Pecco could feel him growing soft inside him. Eventually, he released Pecco's wrists, pulling out and away.

Pecco lowered his arms to cover his face, making a satisfied noise. It had taken some provoking, but he’d gotten what he wanted in the end. He smiled to himself, panting and really soaking in the afterglow. The pleasure was still there, deep in his stomach, even as various parts of him began to ache from the rough treatment. That just amplified the bliss for him.

He was brought out of his stupor when he heard the sound of fabric rustling. He brought his arms down and shifted onto his side, watching as the man collected his clothes off the floor and began to put them back on. Pecco pouted slightly.

“Not going to stay for a second round?” Pecco questioned, resting his head on his hand and giving the most smolderingly lustful look he could give at that moment.

The man gave a tut and replied with “fucking hell, a bit insatiable, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.” And he had. By many of the men he’d spent a night with. Thankfully a lot of them were as sexually hungry as he was, and were more than willing to go all night until Pecco just couldn’t physically handle any more.

“I have work in the morning,” the man explained, and Pecco couldn’t help but feel it was a weak excuse. Who goes out to a bar on a night they have to go to work? “So… Yeah.”

“Right. That's… fine.” He tried not to sound disappointed. He was, but he didn’t want it to show. It’d been a while since he found someone up for an all nighter, and he’d hoped this would be one. But hey. When exactly did Pecco ever get what he wanted? “Thanks for the night.”

“Uh. Yeah, you too.” The man finished putting his clothes on, doing an awkward half bow and half wave as he turned to leave out the door. Pecco watched him go, no point in chasing after someone who didn’t want to be there, especially someone Pecco had no intent on ever seeing again after that night.

But now, he was left alone in his room with only his thoughts for company.

And quite frankly, they tended to be fucking awful company.

His breathing hitched and his eyes began to sting. When he blinked to clear his eyes, he felt tears rolling down his face. This was so pathetic. He was a grown man crying over the fact that he was alone.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he muttered to himself, placing his palm against his forehead. “So stupid.”

He closed his eyes, chanting the words so stupid to himself like a fucked up lullaby, waiting for sleep to claim him so that maybe in the morning he wouldn’t feel like such a piece of shit.

Suddenly Marco was behind him, pulling him out of his thoughts as he began holding his waist and resting his mouth near his ear, huffing softly before licking the lobe and nibbling. Every time his teeth scrape against skin, his mind flourishes like a flower finding the sun.

Pecco would look nice strung up with cords or ribbon or wire.

Body jittering as he struggles to breathe.

Skin would split and the sharp smell of iron would spill out, intermingling with the sticky perfume of cum and spit. He's pretty when he cries, so damn pretty — tears spilling over flushed cheeks, pouty lips quivering and glistening while he gasps for mercy, gasps for kindness, and then Marco will sink his fingers into his hips and fucks him so hard all he can do is scream and sob—

Pecco blinks, returning to himself as he hears the younger man speak up. "Missed me?"

Pecco's gone quiet, subdued in a way that makes his blood rush to his cock. "Yeah."

"I missed you," He repeats hoarsely, shifting so he was in Marco's lap in a manner he's come to understand as 'fuck me.'"Can we—I want—"

He has this problem where words seem to escape him whenever he's horny. Not that he needs any, honestly. Marco can tell exactly what he wants without needing a single word. He can always tell.

Still. It would help. Just a little. Or maybe he just wants to hear Pecco ask for it. It could go either way.

"Use your words," Marco says quietly, turning his head to suck on Pecco's neck. Pecco shivers, arms looping around his shoulders and yanking him closer, panting into his ear and clutching tightly.

"Bez, c'mon," He rasps, humping his leg, already so worked up even though all Marco's done is suck his neck. He grinds his clothed cock against Marco's thigh as hard as he can, to the point where starbursts of pain scatter across the nerve endings of his lower body because Pecco has always liked it best when it burned, just a little. He gasps, muscles straining as he works. "Please."

Marco's gaze is coolly appraising. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say Marco had forgotten how to speak, all higher thinking taking a backseat. It makes Pecco shudder to be seen like that. Taken apart, skin and blood and gore strewn across the table. An animal on display.

And then, a gentle hand slides down, past the hem of his pants and into his underwear, squeezing his cock. Squeezes and squeezes till Pecco's yelping and whimpering like a trembling, bleeding little thing. And still, he doesn't pull away — legs shaking, eyes watering, cock throbbing, and he doesn't pull away. Stupid, foolish boy.

"Is this what you want?" Marco asks, a little softer. When he strokes, Pecco almost crumples, folding onto himself and pressing his forehead against Marco's nape.

There's an almost soundless cry of relief. He sounds like a wounded animal. Marco presses closer, wrapping his free arm around Pecco waist and nosing his jaw.

"Bez," Pecco says, like a curse, like a prayer, like it's the only thing he knows and it might as well be, "Marco, Marco, Ma—" His hips buck up into the tightness of Marco's fist. No need for lube. Pecco leaks enough to make the glide easier. Wet as a girl, dripping everywhere.

"Cum for me," Marco whispers in Pecco's ear, rubbing his erection against Pecco's ass and exhaling sharply. "And I'll fuck you. You want that? You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," Pecco moans, tossing his head back when Marco thumbs the slit. "Sì, sì, yes, Marco, please, please—" He digs his nails into Marco's arms, wailing as he cums, his release painting Marco's hand in a pretty, pearly white. He slumps and keens, babbling incoherently into Marco's shoulder, pawing weakly at him. "Please, fuck me. Please. It hurts. I can't, I can't, please—"

Inhale.

Exhale.

And then he's picking Pecco up, gripping the back of the sofa and forcing his back into an arch before bending over and pressing his hand against Pecco's neck, growling, biting back a groan when Pecco struggles fruitlessly beneath him, crying and squirming. There's an odd thoughtfulness within this mindless, instinctual brutality.

He ruts against his ass, purring, burying his face in his neck. He drags his hand lower, below his waist, and shoves down Pecco's dress pants and underwear so it's hooked in between his ankles, watching dispassionately as his skin jumps, muscle twitching.

Pecco looks over his shoulder, dark pupils swallowing the usual warm brown. There's a shine in those eyes, along with the glistening of tears. A bratty sort of light, daring Marco to do his worst.

Ah, his hands twitch, already knowing the right placement. The right angle.

His cock is thick and heavy and drools a decent amount. He inspects Pecco's hole, thumbing the rim. It’s slick, a bit loose. Pecco fingerfucked himself earlier.

Good.

He slams inside with no warning and doesn't stop till he bottoms out, filling him to the brim. It's tight and a little dry but Marco merely spits on his fluttering hole, rocking in deeper, as though he wants to carve out a space in Pecco's insides, made solely for him.

Pecco's legs tremble and kick out, catching in his restrained clothes, wriggling to find an escape, but there's none, and he only ends up sliding down to the floor, caught on the sofa.

Pecco shrieks, the noise tearing through his throat and reverberating off the walls. His hole spasms, attempting to reject the foreign object, but Marco forces himself inside, deeper, till there's no space between them, till Marco is balls-deep in Pecco's guts, panting into his nape.

"Always so fuckin' tight," He hisses out through his teeth, looking down to spread Pecco's cheeks, watching his hole clench around the length of Marco's cock.

"Hurts," Pecco cries, tears and spit and sweat, and then he's clawing at the sofa, fingers curling and nails scraping as Marco thrusts into him, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. "I can't, I can't, I can't—"

"You can," Marco breathes, pulling out and pushing in, grunting with the effort, and Pecco sobs, body jerking like a puppet on strings, unable to do anything but lie there and take it. Marco coos at him then, hands sliding up Pecco's shirt and tugging on his nipples, rolling and pinching, forcing him up so that Pecco's head rests on his shoulder, mouth wide open and eyes rolled into the back of his head, whining. "Pretty baby, pretty puppy—"

"All you want is my cock, eh?" Marco whispers in his ear, so achingly venomous that it's hard to believe he has even a shred of humanity in him. "Just a hole for me to fuck? For me to breed? Is that what you want, amore? Hm?" He sneaks a hand to Pecco's cock, tugging on it firmly, reveling in the sounds Pecco makes, pathetic and high and distraught. "Answer me."

He smacks a hand against Pecco's ass. Once, twice, until he's choking, until his words are a stammered mess, unable to tell fantasy and reality apart. His eyes are glassy and wide, lips spit-slicked and tongue lolling out. He struggles to reply, sounds only barely discernable.

Marco slams his head onto the back of the sofa and continues fucking like a machine, uncaring for the way Pecco shakes and squeals, his stomach swollen and abdomen bulging from the outline of Marco's dick. They both know what he's doing and that makes it worse because they’re both letting it happen. "Or is this good enough? You think you deserve this much attention?"

His nails dig into the skin of Pecco's thigh and pulls, leaving behind scratches that'll probably scab over in a few days or so — until they're torn again by another violent fuckfest when the older man inevitably comes crawling back because fucking Domi doesn't get him off this much. "You think you're fucking special? Huh, puppy?"

"M'sorry," Pecco manages to slur, seeking warmth while the rest of his world catches fire. "Sorry, sorry, 'm sorr— ungh—"

"You wanna be stuffed, huh?" Marco's grip on the base of Pecco's neck tightens, to the point where he can't breathe, and whatever coherency he had left flies straight out the window and into the well. "Bet I could put a few pups in here. You'd be a good mama, right? Then every time I miss you, I'd knock you up, stuff your hole full of my cum and you wouldn't be able to get away. How about that? You'd like that wouldn't you, slut?"

Pecco wheezes, cum dribbling out of his spent cock, coating Marco's hand and the material under him. There's an embarrassing, hysterical tinge to his tone, a shrill screech in the background.

He howls, shuddering. "Yes, yes, please, wanna be full— m'sorry, sorry, m'so empty, wanna be full, wanna be a m-mama, please, please—"

Oh? Well, that's new. And interesting. And so fucking hot that Marco nearly cums. But they can't have that, no, no. Pecco doesn't deserve it just yet. He's gotta have his brains fucked out first.

"Don't worry," He slows his pace so his words are clear and precise, even and calm, punctuating each word with a thrust, "I'll fix it. I’ll help you."

Pecco's noises dissolve into garbled sounds and quiet whines. It's cute when he gets like this. Incapable of speech, babbling, and warbling.

Marco wishes he had a camera. Would film this so he could replay it every fucking day and feel it all over again. Take pictures and frame them on the goddamn walls because Pecco may be a goddamn nightmare but he's so perfect that it hurts.

"You'd make a good mama, yeah?" Marco sighs, watching his cock sink into Pecco's ass, languid and easy. His orgasm's close, just barely out of reach. Pecco seems to feel it too, if the way he clenches down eagerly means anything. Such a sweet little thing. Marco needs to stop him before he goes and spoils it all. "Yeah, so fuckin' pretty, you'd be all mine then. Domizia wouldn't want anything to do with you if she knew how much you love being bitched and bred by me."

"Please," He croaks.

And maybe it's the way his hole flutters. Maybe it's the quiet plea. Maybe it's the way Pecco just exists for him. Whatever it is sends Marco over the edge, groaning a guttural sound, pressing his cock deep inside, hips twitching as he cums. Pecco shouts and weeps and claws at whatever's in reach, blissed out at the feeling of being filled and warm for what feels like the first time in forever.

Marco only indulges him once, petting his sweaty hair as he pulls out. Cum drips out of Pecco's hole, gaping and swollen. Marco thinks he looks best like this. Helpless. Legs spread. Full.

After that, he pulls Pecco over his lap, tapping his fingers against his quivering back to gain his attention. Pecco lifts his head and eyes Marco's fingers, licking his bitten, bloody lips. There's drool running down the side of his mouth and the only indication that he's alive are the short pants leaving his lungs, small and mouselike.

He reaches out, begging for Marco's fingers, swiping against his skin and watching, intrigued.

"Open up."

Pecco parts his mouth, allowing two fingers to be pressed onto his tongue, obedient and pliant. Marco smiles at him like one would smile at an infant. He wipes the excess spit and cum from his hole, smearing them around before inserting his now spit soaked fingers and making sure the rest of his cum stays in. He helps Marco onto his side, kissing his flushed cheek and the corner of his lips.

"Good boy," He murmurs, eyes shut as he breathes him in, fruity and sweet. He smells like ambrosia. Tastes like divinity. All you have to do is sink your teeth in deep enough to reach the center. Pecco turns his head so that his nose skates against his stubbly jaw, keening. This is the closest someone can be to a god. A filthy sort of holiness. "So fucking good."

Pecco hums happily in response, eyes closing. He's asleep the second Marco begins to run his fingers through his hair. The exhaustion begins to creep up on him too and he finds himself dead to the world soon after.

When he wakes, he's lying on the couch with his arm numb and Pecco curled up between his legs, cheek pressed to his chest. He grimaces at the sensation of pins and needles flittering up and down the length of his arm but doesn't move.

It feels oddly domestic. It makes him think of having children, and that's the kind of future that no longer works. He can't have a wife and a white-picket fence when he dreams of violence and sex and fucking Pecco till he breaks. He can't have any of it. He'll never understand how easy it is for Pecco to live a lie.

But when Pecco blinks dazedly and turns his face up, sleepy and smiling — when he greets Marco with a shy, "Hi," Marco almost wishes he could.

Instead, Marco forces a smile, ignoring the twist in his gut. "You’ve got ten minutes until the reception starts. Better get dressed."

Pecco blinks again, confusion clouding his expression for a moment before realization hits. He sits up quickly, disentangling himself from Marco, the warmth of his body abruptly gone as he rubs his eyes. "Shit. Ten minutes? I’ve got to—" He stumbles off the couch, glancing around the room for his change of clothes, panic flashing in his eyes. He throws on his shirt hastily, his movements frantic.

As he fumbles with the buttons, Pecco glances back at Marco, a question lingering in the air before he finally asks, "Are you… coming?"

Marco shakes his head, standing up and stretching out his stiff limbs. "No. I’m leaving now."

The words hang in the air, and Pecco freezes mid-button, his expression faltering. "You’re… leaving?"

Marco nods, avoiding Pecco’s gaze as he moves to the door, pulling on his jacket. "This isn’t my scene, Pecco. Never was." His tone is clipped, final, as if there’s nothing more to say.

Pecco watches him for a moment, uncertainty and hurt flashing across his face before he swallows it down. He nods slowly, turning his attention back to the buttons on his shirt, his movements slower, more deliberate now. "Right. I guess… I’ll see you around then."

Marco pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. He looks back at Pecco, still struggling with the last few buttons. For a moment, he considers staying, considers following Pecco back to the reception and pretending that any of this could ever be normal. But he knows better. They both do.

"Yeah," Marco says quietly. "See you around."

And with that, he walks out, leaving Pecco alone to face the lie he’s chosen to live.

Marco walks down the hallway, the sounds of the wedding reception muted behind him as the door closes. His footsteps echo in the empty corridor, each step taking him farther away from Pecco and the tangled mess they’ve made of everything. He doesn’t look back. He knows if he does, he might not be able to keep walking.

Outside, the night air hits him like a slap, cold and bracing. The sky is clear, stars scattered across the darkness, indifferent to the chaos that churns inside him. Marco lights a cigarette. He doesn't smoke, he's always thought it was stupid. He bought the pack as a joke at least a month ago. He never thought he'd resort to actually smoking one of thesr disgusting things. Either way, the sharp inhale grounded him momentarily. He stood there, letting the smoke fill his lungs, trying to focus on anything but the weight pressing down on his chest.

The wedding. The lie. The life Pecco is so desperate to live, even though Marco knows it’s all wrong. He flicks the cigarette away, watching as the tiny ember burns out in the gravel. He feels like that too — something small and burning out, insignificant against the bigger picture.

But it doesn’t stop the anger, the resentment that’s simmering beneath the surface. How can Pecco just… pretend? How can he lie to himself and to everyone else? Marco grits his teeth, shoving his hands into his pockets as he starts walking again, each step feeling heavier than the last.

In the distance, he can hear the faint sound of music drifting from the reception. Laughter, clinking glasses, the celebration of something Marco can’t even begin to comprehend. Pecco’s world, all wrapped up in neat little boxes, while Marco’s is chaos, fire, and everything that doesn’t fit.

He knows he should leave, disappear into the night and let Pecco deal with the mess he’s made. But a part of him — the part that’s still raw and aching — wants to turn around, wants to grab Pecco and make him see that this isn’t the life he should be living. That their fucked-up connection, as disgusting as it is, is more real than anything Pecco has with Domizia.

But he doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking, because he knows this isn’t a fight he can win. Pecco has already made his choice. Already said I do. And Marco… Marco is just a reminder of everything Pecco is trying to forget.

By the time Marco reaches his car, his hands are shaking. He pulls the keys from his pocket, cursing under his breath as they slip from his grip. He bends down to pick them up, taking a deep breath to steady himself before unlocking the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.

As he sits there, the quiet settling around him, Marco realizes something. It’s not just that Pecco is lying to himself. It’s that Marco wanted to believe the lie too. He wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could have something normal. That they could be something other than this toxic mess they’ve always been.

But that’s not who they are. And no matter how much Marco wants it to be different, it never will be.

With a sigh, Marco starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. He doesn’t look back as

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