#writhe

So when Pecco gets up to leave, Marc follows. Catches up to him in the hallway outside and corners him against the wall.

"Pecco." Marc keeps his voice level, even. He's not looking for a fight.

But Pecco still flinches like he's expecting one. "Marc," he replies, still looking down at his boots.

"You were distracted today." It's not a question.

"Yes," Pecco says, brow furrowing. "Marc, I am sorry—"

"Tomorrow, you will not be." Pecco's gaze snaps to Marc, wide-eyed. "This distraction, whatever it is— you will have dealt with it by then. Yes?"

"It is— it is not so simple," Pecco says, urgently. "If I could make it go away, trust me, I would, but it's not something I can just…"

His voice trails off as Marc keeps staring at him pointedly. Because it doesn't matter. Pecco should know better, than to bring this— whatever it is— onto the track.

"But I will do my best," Pecco says. "This— this will not happen again."

"Good," Marc says, goes to clap Pecco on the shoulder—

And freezes, because— there is something moving, under Pecco's leathers, some writhing, snakelike shape tracing its way up his torso. Pecco's eyes go wide; he must know that Marc has seen it, because he grabs Marc's arm before he can recoil.

"What—" Marc says, but Pecco cuts him off.

"I can explain," he whispers, casts a furtive look back towards the garage. "Just— not here. Please."

And Marc doesn't get a chance to respond, because Pecco is already going, his grip on Marc's arm leaving no room for hesitation or argument. He walks quickly, ignores the questioning gazes in the paddock as they beeline for his motorhome.

Inside, Pecco closes the door hard behind them, locks and double-checks it, then starts fumbling with the zippers of his suit. Marc stands and watches him, arms crossed, as he paces back and forth, back and forth in the kitchen.

"Do you want… help? With that?" Marc asks after a few long moments, because Pecco looks terrible— pale and shaky, like he's a few moments away from a panic attack or something. "Maybe you should sit?"

"No, no," Pecco says, turned away from Marc as he works his arms out of his leathers, shucks them to his waist. Marc sees— something, a flash of red— then Pecco turns around to lean against one of the counters.

It doesn't compute, at first. The long, tapered limb— pale red and slightly glossy, two neat rows of circular shapes like suction cups trailing up towards the tip— it looks completely separate from Pecco, like he has decided to cut it off of some poor marine animal and tuck it into his leathers for some reason. But then Pecco shifts, tugs at the waistband of his leggings just slightly to show a flash of skin where it meets his body, and it clicks.

It's— it's attached to him. Exactly where his dick should be.

"What," Marc says, "Pecco, what the fuck is that?"

"I don't know," he says. "I have been googling, but it's just porn, mostly…"

Marc gives a weak half-laugh at that, because it does look like it's been plucked from some weird corner of the internet. It's big, almost as long as Pecco's torso, tapered from the width of a finger to— Christ, near the base it must be almost as thick as his arm.

"And it is. It's just— part of you," Marc continues, and Pecco nods. "How is this even happening?"

Pecco shrugs slightly. "Wish I knew. We had the pre-event on Thursday and it was just there when I woke up Friday morning."

Jesus. Marc shudders, thinking what it must be like on the bike— the vibrations, having something moving in his leathers while he's trying to ride— no wonder Pecco has been shit all weekend.

"So you just raced like that?" Marc asks. "Pecco, are you insane?"

"Look," Pecco says, sharply, "Not all of us can afford to play games every race. This weekend, it is yours to lose— but I still have to try, at least."

"I wouldn't have lost today if you hadn't chosen to race," Marc says.

"And I am sorry for that," Pecco says. "I am," he repeats as Marc raises an eyebrow, doubtful. "Just— look me in the eye and tell me you would not have done the same."

Marc considers it for a moment— Pecco is thirty-one points behind him in the championship. Not insurmountable, not remotely so, but still enough to be a weight, a pressure. Marc would risk it— he concedes— were their roles reversed.

But he can't tell Pecco that, of course not, so he just crosses his arms. Stares back as Pecco looks at him expectantly. The moment hangs awkwardly between them— Pecco is first to blink, to look away.

"So what happens now?" Marc asks. "Surely you will not try again tomorrow."

Pecco sighs. "I go to the medical center, I guess. I don't know how much they will be able to do for me, but I cannot continue like this, clearly—"

Something brushes Marc's hand— cool, slimy wet, winding over his fingers and up his wrist.

"Fuck," he shouts, recoiling. "Get it away, Jesus—"

"Shit, shit, sorry," Pecco says, scrambles to grab the tentacle, hold it closer to his body.

Marc looks at it, flexing, straining in Pecco's grip, then down at his hand— at the faint trail of circular marks, coated in something sticky-slick and shiny.

"Pecco," Marc says, pinches the bridge of his nose with his clean hand. "Why is your fucking… thing trying to touch me?"

"I don't know," Pecco says. "I don't control it, not really. It just… does things."

Marc shudders at the thought. He looks back down at his hand again, notes a faint sense of tingling— maybe he hurt something in the crash, he thinks, could be nerve damage, maybe he needs to call his surgeon later.

The fucking— slime, secretions, whatever substance his hand is coated in now, forms a thin film between his fingers as he flexes them, testing. Transparent, faintly reddish-pink, like the time Alex had too much cherry candy on Easter when he was seven and threw it all up. It's disgusting; he can't stop looking at it, how it catches the light. He goes to wipe it off on his leathers—

But instead— following some strange, blind impulse— he brings his hand to his mouth, and licks. Swallows.

It's Pecco's turn to gape at him in surprise. There is a long moment of silence, then he audibly splutters.

"Okay, what the fuck?" he says. "Why would you fucking lick it?"

He— he doesn't know, he realizes, feels like he's snapped out of some momentary trance. That was… he should not have done that.

"I don't know, I…" His voice trails off as his tongue starts to tingle. He scrapes it along the roof of his mouth, tries to soothe the feeling but it only makes it worse. It doesn't even taste half bad is the thing— salty-sweet, slightly sour.

And that's fucking weird— this whole thing is fucking weird, he is losing focus. He should be going back to his own motorhome, should be looking at his data. Shouldn't be worrying about Pecco's dick problems. Definitely shouldn't be thinking about how it tastes.

It's fine. He will leave, and he will race tomorrow, and he and Pecco can both pretend like none of this ever happened.

"I think I should be going, now," Marc says, "should let you get over to the med center." Pecco nods, mercifully doesn't pry, so he turns—

And does not get more than a step before the world swims in his vision, knees buckling beneath him. He barely manages to catch himself on the counter.

"Marc? Are you okay?" Pecco says. Only one of him, so it's not the diplopia— not Marc's eyes rebelling, though the rest of his body is. His legs are weak, wavering underneath him; he feels warm, suddenly, leathers too tight, constricting— he needs air.

He takes another step towards the door, another abortive attempt to leave— and nearly falls, this time, except Pecco rushes forward and catches him.

"Okay, clearly not, let's just— just sit for a second, here," Pecco says, guiding him over to the couch. Marc flops down onto it, clumsily, starts fumbling at the clasp to his suit with fingers that are refusing to work properly. Pecco helps him— fingers moving over his, the contact making him shiver— gets the first bit undone and steps away as Marc paws at the zipper until it's all the way down.

And that helps, some, but not enough— there is still something crawling under his skin, itching beneath the layers of leather and spandex; there is something slanted-red and hazy coming over him. Something almost like hunger, clouding his vision, boiling in his gut.

"Marc, talk to me— what is happening, what's wrong?" Pecco asks, concerned.

"Just— too hot, I need out…" Marc manages to say, tongue feeling thick, clumsy in his mouth. He claws at the shoulders of his leathers, ineffectually— his arm isn't working right, oh god—

But Pecco, blessedly, knows what he needs, helps him work his arms out of the suit. The touch is maddening, presses the prickling fabric into his skin; heat arcs into his core and down, to pool liquid at the base of him where he is rapidly hardening against the leather. He peels the damn shirt off— with Pecco's help— as soon as his arms are free, tosses it to the side.

The air of the room is cool on his bare skin for a moment— but it doesn't last, as the furnace that is his body cranks up another notch to almost-burning. He makes a pained noise, pants open-mouthed as Pecco presses a hand to his forehead, cups the back of his head with the other to hold him steady as another wave of dizziness sweeps through him.

Then Marc feels it again. The slick touch of the tentacle tracing a line up his abs— cold, like balm to the flush of his skin. The undulating motion of the suckers, like kisses. He moans as one finds his nipple— a burst of pleasure, knife-sharp— puts his hand to it, to press it closer or peel it off, he doesn't know. Feels Pecco shudder as he does.

"Marc," Pecco says, urgently; when Marc looks up he looks panicked, eyes wide and brow furrowed. "You are burning up. I— I am going to call the medics, this is…"

Marc shakes his head— if Pecco gets the medics, they will tell him he can't race, and he needs to; he can win, tomorrow, as long as he gets on track. He can take this. He's taken worse.

"I'm fine," he manages to slur out, "just need— just need to ride it out."

"No, this is too much— you can't stand, you can barely speak," Pecco says.

Marc shakes his head again— he will be fine, he just needs to think, needs to find a release valve to the sweltering, aching thing building within him. He brushes his fingers over the tentacle again, feels the cool touch of it where he is hot, too hot, almost feverish. Something clicks in his addled brain— he needs more, it will help him, he should…

Without thinking he pitches forward, the clack of his knee sliders on the floor barely registering as the world seems to spin around him again. He catches himself on the line of Pecco's thigh, manages to press his cheek to the tentacle and sighs at the relief of it. Marc feels it pulse against him, the length of it wrapping around the back of his head and along his jaw.

The thin tip prods at the seam of his lips, and Marc parts them on instinct, lets it slip in and over his tongue. It is cold like ice against the heat of his mouth, sweet-sour like lemonade on a summer day; Marc swallows gratefully. Lets it press further in as Pecco gasps above him, tightens a hand in Marc's hair—

Then something catches, sticks at the back of his mouth— some self-preservation instinct kicks in, conjures the sensation of suckers on the lining of his throat, of struggling for air— Marc retches, as Pecco cries out, "Marc, stop," and pulls him off and away.

When Marc looks up again— after he has managed to calm the bile rising in his throat— Pecco is kneeling in front of him, staring at him like a man on a precipice.

"Marc," he says, "I need to call the medics. You are not yourself, this isn't—"

And Marc loses the rest of the words, doubles over as the dizziness takes him, worse this time. "Pecco, please," he cries out as the heat within him multiplies again, sears through him top to bottom; he inches his knees further apart, lets his legs fall open in a silent plea.

"Look at me," Pecco says, cups Marc's face in his hands, tips his head up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, shiny deep— pretty, some part of Marc thinks, hazy, unfocused.

"I can't give you that," Pecco continues. "What you are asking for, I— I can't. Not when I am like this. This isn't you— you don't actually want this."

Marc shakes his head at that, because he does want it, needs it so badly it hurts. He reaches for Pecco, clumsy, uncoordinated— anything to make him understand— his hand catches on Pecco's jaw, smears slick over the swell of his lower lip.

Pecco jerks away, tongue darting out on reflex— Marc watches the bob of his throat as he swallows.

"Ah, fuck," he says, softly. Marc freezes, because Pecco looks terrified in the long moment before his eyes slip shut—

Just long enough for gravity of what Marc has just done to hit him, the fog receding in a brief and awful moment of clarity.

"Pecco, I'm sorry," Marc breathes— but then Pecco's mouth is on his, the red haze rolling back in, and they are falling, backwards. Pecco curls his hand around the back of Marc's head before they hit the floor.

It is a tangle, at first— struggling to separate themselves from each other long enough to get their leathers the rest of the way off. By the time Marc is laid bare on the tiles, he is almost insensate with it, can barely think, can barely see. The world reduced to the sensation of heat, the brief flashes in between. He blinks, and Pecco is finally shucking his leggings the rest of the way off; blinks again, and he is settling between Marc's spread legs.

Pecco winds his hands around the back of Marc's thighs, tugs his hips up to meet his own— finally, Marc thinks— presses the base of the tentacle, the slick join where it meets his body, to Marc's hole. He pauses for a moment, looks down as the tentacle winds its way up Marc's stomach again; Marc looks up at him, notes with a brief pang of guilt that Pecco's eyes have gone empty, clouded-over. Not so pretty anymore.

But then Pecco folds himself over Marc to kiss him, fervently, and everything else washes away in the wave of want that follows. Because Pecco— somehow, even now— insists on playing the gentleman, on kissing Marc slow and gentle in a way that is almost nice, except Marc needs more. His hands scrabble for purchase on Pecco's back, over the tense muscle there; he feels it flex as Pecco grinds his hips down.

That drags the tentacle over the whole aching mess between Marc's legs, filthy and slick. The suckers catch the whole way down his cock, on the rim of his hole— like mouths, licking at him, drawing little gasps that Marc muffles against Pecco's lips. Then— on the upstroke, just as the skin starts to tingle— Marc feels it twist between them, wrapping around his cock, engulfing him—

Then it is everywhere, the rhythmic pull-and-release, the smooth pulses in waves all up and down his cock— it's exactly what he wants. It's way too much. He keens, loud and plainitive, digs his nails into the meat of Pecco's shoulder.

And Marc is so, so close. When the tentacle shifts around him and one of the suckers finds the head of his cock, teases mercilessly at his slit, it should be enough. When the tip of the tentacle reaches up to tease at his nipple, it should be enough. He can feel it, the white electric, burns for the release on the other side as he tenses—

And stays there, and stays there, as every nerve in his body protests it. It is agony.

"Pecco—" Marc sobs— because he can't take this, he can't— "Pecco, please…"

Pecco kisses over his jaw, pulls away and reaches up to thumb at the tear tracks on Marc's cheek. Looks down at him with that same empty look. "Okay," he murmurs, "okay, just—"

Then Pecco pulls away entirely, peels the tentacle off of Marc as he sits up on his haunches. Marc cries harder— the touch hurt, yes, but it is worse to be bereft of it— then he feels something wriggling in the slick mess around his hole. Pecco takes one of Marc's hands in his, intertwines their fingers; he leans down to muffle a low, guttural moan around Marc's collarbone as Marc feels it start to push in.

He is already so slick, so ready for it that it goes in easily, quickly— Marc gasps at the stretch of it, sinks into the sweet, heady rush of relief it brings. Cold, finally, where he has been furnace-hot, overheating. Full where he has been so empty, slick and soft and teasing where he is all tense lines and edges.

Marc musters the last of his coordination to hook his ankles behind Pecco's ass, to press him deeper inside, further than any tongue, any cock could reach. Needs it all the way up to his core.

And in the end, Marc has been so tightly wound that it takes very little to release him, to set him to rights. Just a twist of the tentacle inside him, a sucker settling over his prostate and pulsing— once, twice— and Marc's vision whites out as he comes.

Sensation returns to him slowly as the haze recedes. The prickle of sweat between his back and the floor, the chill as it dries on his skin. The stretch at the base of him, the soreness beginning to set in. The hot puffs of breath against his shoulder. The hand in his, shifting.

Marc jolts back to awareness as something brushes his prostate, still oversensitive. Pecco is still above him, eyes screwed shut— from pleasure, maybe, but there are tear tracks over the flush of his cheeks. Marc reaches up to cup his jaw, brushes one away; Pecco leans into the touch with a small, desperate noise.

Something isn't quite right, Marc thinks, there is something wrong. It isn't until he slides his hand down to Pecco's shoulder, feels the tension there, the slight tremor, that it clicks. Because Pecco is very still, otherwise— but Marc can still feel motion inside of him, a throbbing, sinuous pulse.

So he pushes himself up slightly, glances down, and stares, because he can see it. The slight bulge to his stomach, the ghost of ripples under his skin. It takes him a moment to connect what he sees to what he feels— to realize, with a dawning sense of horror, that the tentacle has somehow turned around inside of him, doubled up and coiled around itself. Marc can feel the strain of it, asking too much of his muscles too quickly, reshaping him around itself. Alien.

He is— he is going to be sick. This shouldn't be happening. Shouldn't be something his body can just do.

Then Pecco makes a pained sound above him, drops his head down to Marc's chest, and moves— doesn't thrust, really, just cants his hips back— and it pushes the tentacle just a hair deeper. It surges through him like a wave, the whole undulating length of it coiling and re-coiling, suckers tugging the whole way inside of him.

And Pecco hasn't even bottomed out, Marc realizes, there is still a hand's breadth between their hips. Which means Pecco can do it again, and he does— Marc arches away, sobs through it. He is getting hard again, somehow— he thought he was done.

He thought he was done, but Pecco keeps stuttering his hips, a millimeter in, a millimeter out, and Marc feels it all the way up to his stomach, every time. He writhes under Pecco— to get more, at first, and then it crosses the knife-edge over into too much— into the animal instinct to get away. Hands scrabbling uselessly at the floor, over Pecco's arms, his back. It doesn't help. The tentacle holds him fast, the heat building at the base of him again; all him, this time, completely natural and yet so completely wrong.

And yet— and yet— it builds. And builds, the thin tip of the tentacle hooking into Marc's prostate on each stroke, until he is crying out, begging— for it to stop, to keep going, he doesn't know.

Until it breaks— burns through him, white-hot, electric, as Marc comes again, sobbing through it.

There is an answering cry from Pecco, above him— muffled into his chest, a brush of teeth— something body-warm spilling inside of him. It is almost nice, for a moment, in the afterglow— then it hurts, the stretch, as it continues.

Enough— Marc thinks, in a blind panic— no more. He can't fucking take it, he will break—

On instinct, he gets his knee between him and Pecco and kicks, sends Pecco reeling backwards as the tentacle leaves him with a wet noise. Marc scrambles back, not quite fast enough— the rest of the come ends up in the tacky mess on his stomach, on the floor between them.

They sit there for a long moment, both of them panting. Pecco looks dazed, at first, blinks as he comes down from the high— slowly replaced with fear as the awareness bleeds back in. Marc knows he must look the same, half-crazed, a complete mess. Pecco's eyes find his for a moment, with a look that is so utterly stricken that Marc can't bear it, casts his eyes downward and away.

Almost idly, he trails his fingers over his stomach, tries to wipe away the come and slick that had gathered there. Pecco's come— if he can even really call it that— isn't quite like his own; it's thicker, almost gelatinous, congeals in his hand as he scoops it up. Sticks to him as he turns his hand over to smear it on his discarded shirt, which strikes him as odd, at first, but then his brain catches up, makes the connection to the lingering sense of fullness he feels. It— that means it won't come out of him. Not on its own.

And Marc is actually going to be sick, this time; he clambers from the floor, ignores Pecco calling after him as he runs for the bathroom.

When Pecco finds him he is still dry heaving, bent double over the toilet. He hears him set something down on the counter— the clink of glass against stone— then he kneels beside Marc. Cards his fingers through the fall of Marc's hair, holds it back from his face. Murmurs something in Italian that Marc can't quite parse as he leans into the touch.

Once Marc has stopped shaking— having managed to convince his body that throwing up won't actually do anything— he glances over at Pecco. Has to look away again almost immediately, because Pecco looks— devastated is really the only word for it, face blotchy and wet, eyes haunted. Marc can't stand it, turns his head and rests it on the cold porcelain.

Pecco makes a soft, sad noise. Marc feels him slowly, tentatively slide his hand down to rest between his shoulder blades; feels Pecco lean his head onto his shoulder, his curls brushing at Marc's neck. Feels him tremble against him.

"Marc," Pecco says, eventually. Marc closes his eyes at the gravelly, scraped-raw sound of his voice. "Marc, if— if I have hurt you…"

He sounds so utterly gutted— the guilt seeps in, sits hollow in his gut. Because Marc knows what Pecco is asking, knows that this is just as much his fault, if not more. Knows that Pecco will take the blame on his own shoulders if he says nothing.

But what can he say, because he is hurt— tingly and sticky and oversensitive, sore in every joint from lying on the floor, from the crash, which now feels forever ago. His hole is still open, spasming, aches all the way up inside of him. That isn't good, he thinks, runs his hand over the slight bloated swell of his stomach— on the bike tomorrow, it will be—