#marc is trying to gauge how they're going to be going forward in the worst way possible

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

19 and 23 for rosquez :D

rosquez: 19 (spanking) + 23 (size difference)

There’s an unblinking intensity to Marc’s gaze that tells Valentino he should be in appeasement mode right now or start getting ready for trench warfare.

“You’ve got such a cute dick,” he drawls, his Italian the most Marche it’s ever sounded.

Valentino bristles. Takes his hand off both of their cocks and manages to not shake at the loss of contact, considering he’s on top of Marc, rutting against him, and he would know. It only serves to make Marc laugh, his braying, honking laugh.

He shakes his head, and there’s something unkind in his smile—if he sees you bleeding, he bites harder still. “Don’t be like that. I just called it cute.”

“What the fuck,” Valentino says, flatly.

Marc leans up to nuzzle against the side of his face, straining off the bed to reach him. Mostly against his own will, Valentino lets him, Marc’s broad, petulant lips dropping down slyly to kiss the column of his throat.

He’s distracted, then, when Marc takes them both in his dry, leather-rough palm and starts tugging. A shiver rips through him, and there’s this high-pitched, leaden thing pouring out of his mouth.

“But it is a pity,” Marc mutters. Appeasement mode, Valentino tells himself, but his thoughts fizzle out, and he jerks against Marc’s cock, rubbing them together, the slide sand-papery and humiliating. “A pity you won’t get to use it.”

When Valentino tries to sway away, a scowl knocking its way out, Marc chases him. Puts his other hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. The room narrows down, annoyingly, to Marc��Marc like a noose on his nape, Marc stringing him along by his dick, Marc’s thighs keeping him unbalanced and spread out, Marc’s fucking obscene cock bumping against his stomach.

His lungs burn, ache. Valentino’s head spins like he’s hitting every bump on the asphalt after a highside.

“You shouldn’t worry, though, it’s still very nice to look at.”

Valentino hisses, digs his nails into Marc’s shoulders mean and deep. It’s his own accent, lilting mockingly at him. And his own—

His own words.

He remembers it, in jerky, out of focus flashes. Laguna Seca, the prickling, hot humiliation sitting at the bottom of his throat that he swallowed past to joke about the new model. The fucking restroom of a dingy bar in Montrey after, Marc pressed against a grimy wall, wide-eyed, dizzy like he’d been slapped when Valentino finally ripped his clothes off and got a look at his cock.

He’d pushed him down, he thinks. Made him give a blowjob and jerk himself off if he wanted to come.

“You aren’t afraid of cock anymore,” Marc huffs. There’s meanness in how he grabs Valentino’s hand and presses it against his waxed balls.

Valentino chokes on his own tongue. He can’t find the words to translate the cottony, churning thing in his stomach—doesn’t want to. It wasn’t like that with Uccio or Sete or Collin. They weren’t—

Younger than him. Bigger than him. Maybe better than him.

He thinks he was sort of incredibly stupid, over a decade ago.

“Christ,” Valentino spits out. "Are you done trying to pick up a fight?"

Wrong question. Marc’s eyes glisten, and his smile is a dull, serrated razor blade pressed right against his throat. Valentino is hard, leaking, twitching in those small, mortifying jolts for just a little bit more. “You should suck me off.”

He sounds serious; Marc has always been great at returning the insult. Valentino—embarrassingly, with a whine caught in his molars, through a haze of molten heat—goes down on his knees.