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Marco is floating in a bubble of too many Aperol Spritz and questionable choices when Jorge claps his hand on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a numb, buzzing impression – the ghost of potential pain, not really uncomfortable, just a little too real.
As he looks around to spot the nape of Alessandro’s familiar head, Marco quickly pastes a smile to his lips, one of those loose grins that sometimes make him look rather dumb, innocuous, like a friendly dog. Jorge squeezes him briefly, takes a seat on the leather couch next to him, sipping on a ridiculously colorful cocktail, vibing to the beat even if the music is nothing special – probably he’s rather drunk himself. At least Marco is in decent enough company; Alessandro’s head is nowhere in sight.
“Having fun?” Jorge says, his lips sticky against the shell of Marco’s ear. And maybe – maybe it’s just the alcohol in his system playing stupid tricks on him, but he gets a slight thrill from it, a shiver running down his spine, lancing through him like a sudden jolt of electricity. Which is rather unexpected, because he doesn’t…like Jorge, for one. He doesn’t dislike him either - at least not like he did when they were battling for the Moto2 title -, it’s just that they don’t really click together. They’ve never properly been friendly, so to say; Jorge has always been in his periphery most of the time, since their common interests revolve solely around the bikes. As for what Jorge does in his free time, Marco has only a vague memory of it, something he can’t actually recall even if he puts his best efforts into trying. He’s sure he can count Aleix Espargaro’s dick among the many interests Jorge has outside racing, but it’s not a thought he wants to indulge in, not when he’s had so much to drink already.
“Sure. You?”
Admittedly, he’s not the best liar even when he’s sober. When he’s drunk, Marco is downright shitty at it, his face betraying him in more ways than one. Jorge laughs, still too close to him, too warm against his shoulder, almost stifling.
It’s not like Marco isn’t enjoying the night out, of course, but it’s sort of dragging on, with nothing really funny happening and the same music you can hear at any club, mixed up by a mediocre dj who only knows three beats at best. Plus, Alessandro has left for the dance floor and he’s now gone M.I.A, how is he supposed to have fun like this?
He feels slightly left out, but he has to admit he hasn’t been that much fun himself either, too tired from the long day at the factory, too many hands to shake, too many names to remember, so many fucking expectations. He had hoped to unwind a little by hitting the club, but it’s not being of much help – especially not now that Jorge is so close, his arm casually thrown over his shoulder and a loose, slack grin making Marco’s stomach twitch and churn.
“You’re not,” Jorge says, voice warm with laughter, slightly huskier than usual. Marco huffs, at that, only half amused. It’s a pity that even someone who doesn’t know him can call out his bullshit so easily. Instead of answering his question, Jorge replies with another question, pushing his drink towards his lips and pulling a funny face. “Want a sip?”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he candidly admits. “It’s got a weird name. It’s…coconut water based, I think?”
Marco grimaces.
“Coconut water tastes like it’s been in someone else’s mouth,” he shakes his head. And – oh boy. Jorge laughs. Hard, open-mouthed, genuine. Marco’s face catches on fire the moment he pulls him in a sort of tight hug, a display of camaraderie for sure, but it feels like there’s something more to it, something sizzling, bubbling, trapped right under the surface. Jorge’s right arm around his shoulders. His left hand instinctively flying to Marco’s chest to pat him – Marco wonders if it’s possible to feel someone’s heartbeat under a hoodie, then he decides not to obsess too much over it. Overthinkers will overthink, yadda yadda.
Still.
He’s not imagining it, the subtle hum of static energy between them. He’s drunk, of course, but not drunk enough to hallucinate something that isn’t there.
“You’re so funny,” Jorge ends up saying, a little bit too indulgently not to get Marco’s mind running wild. Which is – weird, because he’s never minded Jorge more than a passing thought until now. Sure, he is handsome, in a compelling way, and he’s very much into men - everyone in the paddock knows the history between him and Aleix Espargaro - but he’s not quite his type and they’re not even friends, so…
Maybe it’s just the club, with its dim, red lights, and the rare, rebreathed air coming from the vents, the smell of too many bodies pressed around the dj booth, cloying perfume and fresh sweat – it’s the very scent of sex clinging to the walls. Clubs are made for it, after all. You get in, dance your way into someone’s good graces, and soon enough you’ve got someone sucking your dick, as easy as that. Perhaps it’s some sort of a Pavlovian reflex. Or perhaps it’s just Jorge’s hand trailing down to his thigh, squeezing a little, his soulful, green eyes doing numbers on Marco’s psyche, making him feel like he’s fraying at the edges.
“What…what are you doing?”
His words are slurred, slow. Thick and syrupy, they roll out of his tongue like honey trickling down the corners of his mouth. He gets dizzy on that sluggish feeling, like he’s floating in molasses, and Jorge’s hand is a sizzling hot weight pinning him down to the leather couch, entrapping him.
“Team bonding, no?” Jorge jokes, but his intentions aren’t definitely playful. His fingers drum an arrhythmic beat on the inner side of Marco’s thigh, burning through his jeans, leaving a fizzy impression on the skin underneath the fabric. It’s close enough to his crotch that Marco’s dick wakes up abruptly, all at once, twitching curiously in his boxers, almost beating a fucking moan out of him.
“Here?” He stammers, his eyes going wide and slightly panicky. Jorge bursts out laughing again, stroking his thumb across his cheek and flashing Marco one of those looks that should be declared illegal in forty states at least, too tender and flirty not to make all of his walls crumble for good. He’ll be ashamed of his own weakness tomorrow, but he leans into the touch, his eyelids fluttering, drawn to gentleness and care like a moth to flame.
(usually, moths die when they indulge, burned to a crisp)
“No, not here. I was thinking about the restrooms, but they’re shitty and the doors don’t lock. How about we head back to the hotel?”
It sounds like the worst fucking idea ever. On a scale from one to ten, Marco would classify it as a natural forty-five, a calamity, like a flood or an earthquake. Still, his resolve is in shambles, and Alessandro is nowhere to be seen. He could have been his Jiminy Cricket. The wise voice in the back of his conscience repeating how much of a shitty idea this is, and how it will backfire spectacularly once they'll get their asses on the bike, out on track. But there will be no backup, this time, he’s on his own, and his determination has taken a long vacation to the Caribbeans the moment Jorge curled his hand around his thigh, invitingly.
He audibly swallows the acrid aftertaste of alcohol in his mouth and nods, enraptured.
“Yeah. Fuck, yes.”
“You might want to tell your friend not to wait for you…” Jorge suggests with a wink. Marco’s knees go liquid. He fishes his phone from the front pocket of his jeans and types something to Alessandro. A generic excuse far more similar to a drunken keyboard smash. Jorge keeps his hands on him and, fuck, when did it get so hot in here? It almost feels like breathing underwater; his lungs contract and expand, but there’s too little oxygen flowing towards the brain, lightheadedness setting in, turning him into something pliable, disposable – an easy bauble to toy with. The perfect entertainment for one night only: quick to fade, leaves no trace, won’t brag about it with his friends. That’s probably what Jorge sees in him, provided this isn’t a long term strategy to mess with him. He should…pay more attention to that, apparently. Valentino has always said that it’s important to take that into account. Mind games and shit like that. After all, MotoGP is like a shark tank, either you’ve got good fangs or you succumb, plain and simple. And yet, Marco can’t read behind the staggering, shiny moss green of Jorge’s eyes. They’re too polished, like glass marbles. Aside from drunkenness and lewd promises, they don’t give off anything – Marco’s doubts bounce back, and when Jorge strokes his face again he’s simply too far gone to actually wonder whether he’s being played or not, he would say yes to anything if Jorge kept treating him like he’s the only thing that matters in the world.
It’s stupid, of course, but fondness, even if temporary or downright pretended, is something that Marco can’t really resist. Gentleness. Tenderness. Not as opposed to roughness, which he doesn’t mind either, but as a part of a whole kind of ritual that involves both the stick and the carrot – there you have it: his whole, undivided attention.
Jorge must have guessed him right on that matter, because he’s giving him exactly what he needs. A hand pressed into the small of his back as he guides him towards the exit, the driver already waiting for them when they emerge together from the blood red neon lights, tipsy, holding onto each other even if they don’t really need it.
Jorge’s body is strange, foreign. Tiny and lean, all hard muscle even under the protective layer of his bomber jacket. The night is cold and humid around them, but the hand Jorge shoves in Marco’s pocket with a slight giggle is warm enough, familiarly callous as it plays with his fingers, getting caught in the bulk of Marco’s vape as Jorge giggles some more.
“You vape? Naughty. What does Valentino,” he says, breathing around Vale’s name almost obscenely, sending another jolt right between Marco’s legs, “think about it?”
There’s something so carefree about the scene, Marco muses, something so terribly new and exciting, and it explodes right behind his temples in colorful fireworks. His fingers latch onto Jorge’s, the vape pushed to the side, sticky with spilled raspberry and mint e-juice.
“Nothing. He’s an occasional smoker,” he chuckles, and Jorge pretends to be shocked. In the backseats of a sleek black Mercedes van, the tension rises to the point of rupture, and long before their hotel comes into view Jorge is palming him through his jeans, the zipper half undone, Marco’s breath caught between his teeth.
“You share your room with your friend, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So mine it is.”
The run they make for the elevators once they’re in the golden-and-marble hall feels terribly like a walk of shame. Marco is very much aware of the bulge in his jeans, of Jorge’s syrupy breath on the nape of his neck, of the slight tremor in his legs, already made too weak by sheer need.
It feels surreal to be metaphorically - not for long, he guesses - on his knees for someone he didn’t even consider fuckable two hours ago. He could blame it on the alcohol of course, and he probably will tomorrow morning, but he knows he’s got no plausible excuses – perhaps it’s been too long since his last hookup, but even that is a weak alibi. Jorge simply pressed the right buttons, and Marco has never pretended to be such a tough nut to crack.
On the elevator, Jorge grabs him by the collar of his jacket - he’s surprisingly strong for being so small - and slams him against the wall, smiling smugly and then shoving his tongue down his throat, hungry like a goddamn wolf. Marco wants to yelp, but the velvety tongue exploring the insides of his mouth is relentless, it makes him choke on his own saliva, his hands fisting Jorge’s messy hair, tugging hard until the elevator dings, sliding doors opening on the fourth floor. Marco’s room is on the left, Jorge’s on the right, at the end of the carpeted hallway. They stumble through it and, honestly, it’s a miracle they manage to get inside still wearing their clothes – both of their jackets are undone already, Jorge’s hoodie crumpled around his hips. Marco must have stuck his hands under it instinctively, to graze at the skin beneath his palms, jamming his fingertips into a steely six pack. Jorge truly is a wonder to look at. Marco envies him as much as he wants to eat a piece of that fucking cake.
“What are you staring at?”
Jorge pulls at his belt loops, making Marco stumble. They breathe into each other’s mouth – stale alcohol and something incredibly sweet, that encourages Marco to bite. Not hard enough to draw blood, but just so he can finally make Jorge lose his composed balance too. He hisses, biting back, and Marco sees white for a moment.
“Nothing. I want you to fuck me, do you do that?”
Jorge laughs, his nimble fingers making quick work of Marco’s jeans, he says “who do you take me for? A fag?” and Marco laughs too. Long before he’s actually had the time to process it, he’s naked from the waist down, shoes, socks and everything else piled up haphazardly in a corner, Jorge sizing up his dick and smiling like it’s something appetizing, edible.
“I guess I owe Aleix a lot of money…” he chuckles, hinting. Marco frowns, confused.
“And it’s relevant now, because…?”
“Because we had a bet going. He said you struck him as someone with a huge dick, but I thought you were pretty average down there. Well, now you’re proving me wrong, Bezzecchi. It’s a shame you don’t want to top, tonight.”
I will, next time, Marco thinks, swallowing thick saliva that tastes too much like sugary mojito. The way Jorge says Bezzecchi, with a very soft z and a weak c that coils on itself inside his mouth, is so downright filthy, straight up porno material to which Marco will jerk off for weeks. And the fact that someone has placed a bet over his dick? That’s like – a wet dream of some sorts coming true.
“Do you want to suck me off?” He hears himself saying, helping Jorge out of his clothes until he can see him in all of his naked glory, olive skin stretched out over well defined muscles, all tense and ready. His dick too is a sight to behold; veiny, girthy and dark, pubic hair trimmed short around it, making it stand out even more. Now he wants to suck Jorge off, but when he’s forced to open his legs to accommodate him it doesn’t matter anymore, Marco just complies, heaving a sigh, throwing his head back on a tremulous exhale.
“I want to suck you off and I want you to moan so loud you wake the dead.”
Jorge chuckles, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper, but he’s not even kidding, Marco can feel it in the way his mouth leaves sore, purple bruises on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, each followed by a triumphant, throaty sound.
This gets his blood running like nothing else – being owned, even if only for one night, branded like cattle. And, fuck, he does moan. High pitched and whiny, showing no concern for the poor occupants of the nearby rooms, wrenching his fingers back into the inky mass of Jorge’s hair, urging him to finally take it in his mouth. Alcohol has made him slightly unhinged, frenetic. Jorge harpoons his buttocks, squeezes, letting out a strangled sound of approval around his dick. Marco feels – ecstatic. Like he’s tripping on something, pleasure seizing him, all the electrical impulses in his body misfiring at once. Hard reset.
It’s nothing like one of those meaningless blowjobs he could have won by shooting his shot right at the bar, this is more akin to a symphony, poetry in motion; Jorge is a natural, a fucking game changer. He sucks dick with the skill and the passion of a vacuum cleaner, sealing his lips around the shaft and drawing his cheeks in, spit trickling down the corners of his mouth in thick rivulets, sloppy, wet.
Marco goes pliant, unresisting, pleasure assaulting him like the tide, threatening to make him tumble overboard long before he’s savored the feeling. Jorge is experienced enough to prevent it, measuring out his ministrations perfectly; when it starts to feel like it’s too much, suddenly it becomes not nearly enough, and when Marco gets frustrated out of his mind Jorge sucks harder, swallows him whole, his silky throat closing around the tip of his dick while his tongue works on the base and Marco cries out, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of sensations.
It feels like a lifetime has passed when Jorge emerges from between his legs, shoving him gently on the bed. Marco whimpers, he hasn’t come yet, and his balls are clenched so tight they hurt.
“Sorry, I didn’t want to spoil all the fun,” Jorge chuckles, kissing him. His tongue tastes like salty precum, and Marco wants to scream. “I will fuck you now. Get on your fours, ass up, and take off your shirt.”
Frankly, Marco is too far gone to listen to the small voice in his head that’s wondering when did Jorge Martín of all people learn how to be so assertive in bed, or who taught him that. Still, looks can be deceiving, and he has never tried to guess how Jorge liked it in bed other than acknowledging the fact that he’s probably Aleix’s bitch and laughing fleetingly about that while sharing a drink with the boys. Petty considerations aside, Marco knows when to be good and docile, so he does what he’s told, peeling away his hoodie and t-shirt first, then arching his back and gasping when his hard nipples brush against the bedsheets, his heartbeat hammering into the mattress, making him slightly dizzy.
He can’t see Jorge, but he can perfectly hear the sound of a bottle being opened and squeezed, and then there’s a finger inside him and sparks going off behind his eyelids, the digit pressing right into his sweet spot, his thighs spasming already.
Jorge says something in spanish, but Marco has long lost his ability to articulate that, unfortunately, he doesn’t understand spanish at all, so he just moans, pushing back towards the knuckle, ignoring the calloused hand that’s trying to slow him down, setting an excruciating rhythm.
Two fingers. Marco’s dick throbs, twitches, long ribbons of translucent precum becoming a puddle under his stomach. Three fingers, and he wouldn’t be able to remember his name to save his fucking life, biting down on the sheets not to howl like a desperate beast, hungry, insatiable. Behind him, Jorge’s breath is calm and almost calculated. Lube froths, trickles down the back of his thighs, and it fucking feels like dying.
“You’re holding your breath,” Jorge points out, on a half-chewed laugh. Marco realizes his lungs burn only when he inhales some silicone-scented air so sharply it burns a hot trail down his sore throat – the three fingers slip out of him, and the sensation of emptiness that follows is almost unbearable, agonizing.
“Fuck, I was-”
Riding his fingers, mostly. With frenzied thrusts, chasing the delicious thrill of having his prostate hit exactly at the right angle, the way it makes his toes curl and his mouth fall slack and drooly.
“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”
The amused, slightly cutting edge of Jorge’s voice should annoy him. It’s kind of irritating, obnoxiously patronizing. And yet, it feels like another nail in his coffin – he likes to be patronized, sometimes. Challenged. Being told what to do and rewarded for being such-a-good-boy-for-me.
“Yes,” he hisses. His teeth are impressed in the sheets, and his fingers are going numb from the sheer force with which he’s balling them. Jorge chuckles again, slapping his butt playfully. Marco’s nerves, still raw and tingling, vibrate, ripping another broken sound out of him. He can almost picture how smug Jorge must look by now, how pleased with himself. He should feel ashamed of the way the mental image turns him on.
Sometimes, Marco has felt like an idiot for being rather bad at reading the room, but with Jorge everything flows so naturally, devoid of any kind of ambiguity. From point A to point B in a straight line, without all those useless twists and turns that sometimes make him lose the plot entirely. Even like this, drunk and with his naked ass up in the air and his face pressed into the mattress, Marco finds a certain comfort into the fact that it didn’t take them much to agree on fucking – they were horny and bored, and this is starting to look less and less like a mind game, only a way to get acquainted and comfortable with one another, testing the waters, seeing if it will happen again in the near future or not.
In the back of his mind, Marco thinks about falling on his knees for Jorge after a heated 1-2. Sticky with Champagne and slippery, undoing his matching leathers and undersuit, warming Jorge’s cock into his mouth in a secluded corner of the Aprilia garage – locked inside the restroom, the fear of being caught in the act as exciting as the thing itself.
He hears the bottle of lube being squeezed again. The mattress dips under Jorge’s knees, then his hands are on his hips, Marco watching over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the scene. Jorge’s hair has fallen over his eyes, making him look even more debauched and wild. When their gaze locks, Jorge winks, finding his balls and cupping them, squeezing gently, his hand sticky with lube, searing hot.
“You should be put in this position more often,” he muses. “It suits you.”
He opens a condom with his teeth, rolling it onto his dick swiftly, with a small groan. Against the crack of his ass, Jorge is hard as a fucking post, obscenely warm and tacky. There must be lube everywhere, Marco can even feel it on his scalp, the slimy sensation sending needles to the back of his head – he’s still deciding whether he likes it or not.
“You should see me on my knees,” he ends up mewling, jerking his hips, urging Jorge to fuck him. Jorge chuckles, keeps stroking his balls teasingly.
“Are you so desperate for some dick in your mouth?”
I am desperate for anything, he would like to say, but the words die in his throat the moment Jorge angles himself, starting to push in deliberately slow, groaning when Marco clenches around him, hungry for it. They both want it too badly to make it particularly sweet, but Jorge bends over him nonetheless, mouthing at his shoulder, plush lips being dragged across his skin, rising goosebumps all over his back.
Pleasure builds up steadily in his lower belly, fast enough to startle him. He tries to hold himself together, counts backwards from twenty and bites on a long stream of curses, but there’s something terribly erotic in Jorge’s fingers leaving bruised indents into his hips, where he’s holding onto with his left hand, while the other is splayed between his shoulder blades, keeping him in place when he tries to squirm. It’s almost – too much, all at once.
Like being ripped in a half, so violent and sudden the sensation. He tries to tell Jorge to slow down - or perhaps to go faster? - but his brain isn’t cooperating, the pathway between his mind and his mouth completely shut off, his breath coming out of his nose in weird, quick squeaks. When he’s not moaning, finally buried inside him completely, Jorge coos with delight.
Marco starts begging – he’s not sure what for, anyway, but saying pleasepleaseplease in a rapid fire helps him divert his focus from the heat spreading from his ass to his knees, relentless and oh, so fucking sweet.
“Are you coming already?”
He really doesn’t know what to say. Eyes shut tight, Marco lets out a long cry, his legs threatening to buckle under his weight, and Jorge’s rhythm starts breaking, soon becoming a messy back and forth, in and out, ripping a series of tremendously nasty sounds out of him.
It’s like a fucking rollercoaster. Marco braces for the impact, but he isn’t actually ready for how powerful his orgasm hits, sucking all the air out of him, leaving him breathless and stunned like he’s been concussed.
He shuts down for, like, ten whole minutes, reduced to his more basic functions: beating, breathing and, occasionally, blinking. He doesn’t register Jorge coming and pulling out to fetch a towel and clean the both of them, and he’s barely conscious when he finally flops down on the bed, pressing his forehead into his arm and nuzzling, exhilarated.
Jorge must have helped him towards the pillows at some point, because when he slowly comes out of his stupor he’s staring at the ceiling, still breathing heavily, cold as fuck and sore all over. Instinctively, he rolls towards Jorge, who promptly curls around him like a human blanket, whispering soothing nothings into his curls.
It’s strangely intimate and horrifically sappy, especially now that Marco doesn’t feel as drunk anymore, but it’s nice, somehow, different than what he’s used to, yet tangentially familiar. In that no-longer-drunk but not-quite-sober state, Marco floats, sighing contentedly, his eyes glazed over, out of focus.
“So?”
He lets out a weak approximation of a tipsy laugh.
“So what?”
Jorge’s fingers run up and down his spine, knuckles pressing gently against the notches – Marco would purr if he didn’t feel so self-conscious about his cliché submissive bottom attitude, now that he’s not clouded with ecstasy.
“Was it a good team bonding activity?”
Marco shakes his head. Beneath his ear, Jorge’s heartbeat is steady, comforting, slightly lulling him to sleep.
“Do you think we could…like, bond some more in the near future?” He finds himself asking, his mouth always a little quicker than his brain, stifling a yawn. Jorge laughs, husky and low, his head thrown back on his pillow.
“You owe me a blowjob, no? I don’t see why not!”
Marco’s stomach somersaults at that. Jorge keeps stroking his back ever so gently, and it feels so-fucking-nice.
“A promise is a promise,” he agrees, grinning.
Jorge’s laugh makes a shiver run down his spine. Probably, they’ll be bonding again tomorrow, before Jorge’s flight back to Spain.
Well, it’s not like he’s complaining; having a good relationship with your teammate is beneficial to the whole workplace, after all. If anything, it shows his commitment to the cause.
And if he happens to have fun while he’s at it… well. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?