#but he doesn’t. because marc and bez have it.

[kingofthecotas]

perfect disaster (ever after) | ao3

soulmate au, 2024 | ~4.5k (explicit)

this is long (valentino has a lot of self-reckoning to get through) so feel free to read it on ao3 if you prefer!

finally done! thank you to everyone who's read this series ily mwah

----

Valentino goes to Jerez. 

Uccio rolls his eyes when he informs him, says, “I’ll be in the garage that weekend. I’ll bring the motorhome.” 

“Sure. Whatever.”

Valentino reaches out and flicks the crease of Uccio’s elbow, where his mark is, and his friend softens like he always does. “Cheer up.”

“Why Jerez?”

“No reason.”

“Not because of Márquez, then?”

Valentino scowls. Marc has been riding well, yes, getting to grips with the Ducati, losing the front too often, but Valentino has a team, he has Bez and Diggia to look after, and Marc—

He hasn’t seen Marc for months. 

“You need to decide what you want with this.” Now it’s Uccio’s turn to prod at Valentino’s mark, to send a comforting warmth up his arm. “It has been over for, what, nine years?”

“Well…” 

Uccio stares at him. Blinks. “Actually, I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Good choice,” Valentino says brightly. 

——

Jerez, Spain

His bravado evaporates once he’s in the paddock. 

Jerez is—he still hates it, just a little. He’d been sat in the garage, stewing about his stupid engine or gearbox or whatever, and then Marc had been cartwheeling through the gravel trap. 

He hadn’t called. Not until Mandalika, two years later. 

And he—

That had cracked the careful wall; he’d shown Marc his bloody viscera, held it out tacky and red in his hands. And Marc—Marc had let him. Marc had answered the phone. Marc had kept answering the phone, until Valencia. 

Part of Valentino wants to say fuck him. Another part sneers that it’s been this long, what’s the difference? If he’s feeling any kind of pull, it’s surely only the rotted dregs of what they had, the marks they both carry. Marc is Marc; there’s a reason they fell apart in the first place. 

Marc is Marc, but he is not the same: not twenty and wide-eyed; not watching Valentino’s every move, logging every reaction like he can’t believe it’s happening to him. He’s changed, Jerez and Sepang and Valentino calcifying everything about him. It hurts more now, now that he’s had a taste of how they used to be, how good they were. How Marc could brush a hand over the mark, the soul-piece, and Valentino would grab his face and kiss him. Helpless. Choiceless. 

He shouldn’t have gone in Valencia. He shouldn’t, because Marc had been upset—he’d been crying, however much he tried to hide it, red eyes, red nose—and Marc doesn’t fucking think sometimes. Just—reaches out. Races towards the gravel because he might not crash, he might win. Pushes his bike until he falls. Reaches for Valentino even when it hurts. 

Hurts so much, apparently, that he’s finally pulled back. Stopped reaching. Closed his eyes, turned his face away. Valentino—well, he’s tried not to let it sting. 

None of it matters when he spots Marc on the Friday, walking in step with his brother, and reaches a hand out with a smile before he can stop himself. “Marc—”

Marc rears away like he thinks Valentino’s touch will burn him. 

Like he remembers how his own pinched expression smoothed out, curled up in the bed in his motorhome, when Valentino touched his mark. Like he hates himself for it. 

(Because he’d been awake. Valentino is sure he’d been awake.) 

(Valentino had said his name. Marc had pretended to be asleep.) 

Álex says, “No,” and pushes between them, head tilted in a challenge.

Fucking—Christ.

“Good to see you,” Valentino forces out, and stalks away. 

——

“You’re riding well,” he tells Marc over the phone, instead of sitting down with Bez and saying talk to me, tell me what is wrong, the bike, the tyres, what is it? 

Instead of opening his motorhome door and walking a few hundred metres. 

Stony silence. Then, “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you—”

“No.” Marc sounds tired in a way that sits in Valentino’s chest. “Why—why are you doing this, Vale? It was easier—” He cuts off. “At least when I knew you didn’t want me—that was easier.” 

“Marc.” It’s like—a tooth hitting something hard, cracking, sharp cold pain, part of himself splintered away and falling to the ground. 

“Fuck, Valentino, stop. Just—stop.”

Helpless, he does.

“I’m not—I won’t—you made it clear, no? This—you wanted this. So I do not understand why—I don’t know what you want. I don’t know why, and it’s—not fair.” 

That hurts worse, somehow. 

“Valentino?”

“Yeah?” 

“Why?” Marc whispers.

And—what can Valentino say to that? Does he say that he still wakes up in the middle of the night in blind breathless panic, scrabbling for the part of Marc branded into his skin, begging for it to still be there? Does he tell him that the familiar bruise, the heavy numbness, is nothing compared to that half-second where the mark—his mark—had flaked away like ash and it had hurt deeper than he could ever comprehend? That it had been worse than he could have possibly imagined, that it proved every fear he’d ever had, that he—?

That Marc had been gone. That he will never change. That Valentino loves him anyway. 

Not because the universe told him to. Because he’s Marc. 

Valentino can’t say that. He can’t. 

Marc makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Marc—”

The line beeps. 

——

He watches Marc on the podium, watches him smile and cheer and play to the crowd, alive and utterly beautiful.

He looks away before anyone catches him staring. 

——

When he wakes up that night, gasping, the memory of it behind his eyes, the emptiness, the ash-smudge where Marc should be, he reaches for his phone. Stops. 

He remembers Argentina sometimes, remembers how the wet grass hadn’t hurt but the anger had, clawing out of his throat, and his arm had burned where Marc had clattered into him. 

He remembers how Marc stood on the side of the track in Sepang, too long, clutching his arm—and Valentino had thought it wasn’t that hard, it wasn’t even on purpose—

And now he thinks of Marc slapping a hand over his soulmark in Misano, of the way Marc had pulled away from him like a reflex three days ago. He thinks of the bone-deep bruise after Argentina—he’d felt it for days, and even in his anger had thought he didn’t hit me that hard—

He swallows. Exhales. Finds Marc, traces the shape of him. It throbs, that old bruise, like a half-healed injury. Does it hurt the same for Marc? he wonders absently, and swallows again.

In Valencia, had he—had it hurt? No, surely not, because Marc’s face that night—and the morning after, nothing but content. He hasn’t fucked it. Maybe. 

Maybe he has. 

He doesn’t call. 

——

Marc crashes. Again. Again. Again.

Assen, that’s a big one, and Valentino has to steady himself when the anger rears its head, ugly and familiar. Marc used to piss him off so much—still can, apparently. Selfish bastard, he thinks, and there it is, that’s what he hated from the first moment. No warning, no choice, just a twist of the cosmos and a soulmark that could vanish as quickly as it appeared, a soulmate that didn’t care. 

He’s lived that now, that nightmare, even if just for a heartbeat, and he’d spent long enough without being angry to truly recognise it when it returns. 

Fear. 

——

They were always meant to fall together, and that’s what made Valentino sick to his stomach. 

Because it should have been his choice. It would have been.

I wanted to choose you. I would have, anyway. 

It was so perfect, so fucking perfect, because of course it would have been. Of course. And he kept scratching and prodding and hurting, trying to prove something, and Marc always came back, because Marc believed in it. Until Valentino pushed too far. 

And he’s Marc, and he’s an idiot, and he never understood what it meant to carry a piece of Valentino’s soul in him, and he never understood what it meant every time he lost the bike, and he never understood that it meant forever.

Valentino—maybe he never understood that Marc is Marc, and he loves fiercely and he races hard and he wanted him. Marc loved him.

Not anymore, maybe. 

Anything. Anything Marc will give him now, he’ll lap it up like a starving dog. Anything is better than nothing. Anything is better than ash. 

——

Misano Adriatico, Italy

Valentino is chilled to the bone by the time the team finishes their post-mortem: fine rain that seeps through even his waterproof coat, sits in his hair. Bez shakes his head like a wet dog as he leaves. 

Franky must be annoyed at himself—he had the pace, and he wouldn’t have made the mistake of pulling into the pitlane. Pecco must be relieved. They’re expecting the ranch now: Misano, Valentino, food, friends, not-so-gentle ribbing, a race dissection. Valentino should send them off, tell them I’ll be right behind you, call ahead to make sure food is ready when they get there. 

But—

Marc. Marc, practically vibrating with the thrill of it. As if Aragón hadn’t been enough, golden under the sun, he’d rolled in heavy as the clouds. Inevitable. 

Valentino can’t—he can’t stop thinking about it, how Marc had been, objectively speaking, stupid, riding reckless, nothing to lose: everything that used to turn sour in his mouth when he pinned Marc against hotel walls and demanded he understand what it would mean to lose him. He can’t stop thinking how it had been beautiful. Marc had been beautiful.

In the end, he sends the boys off to Tavullia, sends Uccio to play referee. He might join them later.

For now, he lets his feet take him, a step at a time, past his own motorhome and towards Marc’s. It won’t be long, surely; it’s late already, and they have to clear the paddock before tomorrow. So he waits, rain clinging in his hair, in his clothes, until he shivers: sticky-cold, unpleasant. He waits. 

Marc is mercifully alone when he appears, huddled in his coat, and stops when he finds Valentino at the top of the metal steps. His eyes narrow, none of the thrumming electricity from before remaining. Maybe he’s thinking of the last time Valentino came to his motorhome. 

A second later—an awful awful second—Marc silently opens the door and lets Valentino follow him through, a miracle in itself. It’s stifling, though, as Marc puts his cap on the kitchen worktop, kicks off his shoes, and tilts his head at Valentino to tell him where he can stand, on the other side of the countertop. Barrier between them. Valentino does as he’s directed, rests on his elbows, tension heavy like a storm in the air.

One look tells him this is it. He has no more chances.

“Well done,” Valentino whispers, and the way Marc shrinks away from him now, retreats even further than before Valencia—it aches. 

“Thank you.”

“Can I—?”

“You probably will anyway.”

“Marc.” 

“Valentino.”

They teeter there for a long moment, cliff edge. Marc is forgiving, yes, but even he had limits; Valentino doesn’t know if he wants to find them. “You cannot say you don’t know what I want when you are being like this.”

The scowl that crosses Marc’s face is so petulant it could be funny. “Like what?” 

“Like—we were—I thought we were getting better.” 

“Better?”

Valentino decides to push. “It was good, no? In Valencia?”

Marc almost chokes; he’s angry, Valentino realises too late. “Valencia—?”

“Not for you then.” And he’s done it, found the edge and sent them tumbling from the sky.

Not for the first time.

“You left,” Marc snarls, face white, fists clenched. “That morning, you just—”

“You were pretending to be asleep!” 

Marc stops. “I—”

“Like you didn’t want to—” Valentino waves a hand. “So yes, I left. You ignored me.”

Marc gapes. 

“You died, also,” Valentino says. May as well, if they’re doing this. They’re going to hit the ground hard anyway. “You were gone, and it hurt. And—I will do anything to never feel that again. Selfish, yes. I don’t care. I always knew—you were going to hurt me.”

“Fuck you—”

“Please listen.” It’s a grace he doesn’t deserve that Marc does, that he waits. Maybe he wants to see the shape of Valentino’s insides one last time, wants them laid out bloody and exposed here in his motorhome kitchen. “That is what I—it hurt more than I could have imagined. And I imagined it a lot. As soon as you—the moment I had you, I was scared of losing you.” 

“You said you never wanted me.” A flash of Marc, pressed against the wall of his motorhome, clawing at Valentino’s arm. If I could rip you out of me, I would. 

“No, it’s—” And how can Valentino ever put it into words in a way that won’t lock him out for good? Yes, before. No, not at first. Yes, after. Yes, for years. Not now. 

“I didn’t die,” Marc says finally, words tiny in the gulf between them.

“Not for lack of trying, hm?”

Eyes rolled. Familiar argument. “I’m racing, Vale. That’s all.” 

And, “I know.” He knows. That’s all it ever was. 

“You said—” Marc swallows. “You wanted the choice.”

“Yes.”

“You would have chosen me.”

Easier to say it at five o’clock in the morning, half-asleep, terror still fresh in his veins. Valentino closes his eyes. “Yes.” 

“I don’t understand,” Marc says, wrung out of him, twisted and squeezed until he gives way. “I—”

When Valentino opens his eyes, Marc is staring back at him, cracked open, wavering. 

“You’re such a fucking—” And Marc laughs. “You’re so difficult. You would have anyway. You just—didn’t like that it wasn’t your decision.” 

What the fuck can he say to that?

“And you were so—” Marc gestures loosely. “You just—were you looking for an excuse, was that it?”

“No—”

“Any reason for you to prove something to the universe.” A flash of teeth: an animalistic snarl. “Because you never asked for this. You never wanted it. You wanted your tenth championship more than you wanted a soulmate.”

“I wanted you,” Valentino whispers. “I want you.” 

“You said—” Marc cuts off. Shakes his head. “You—I don’t understand you. I don’t know—I don’t know what you want.”

“I just told you.” The words are acid, because Marc doesn’t believe him. 

You still want me, right?

Too much—too much since then. Too much pushing and scratching, and their foundations have long since crumbled. He can’t reach out and find forgiveness, can’t conjure it up with the brush of fingers on skin. 

“You told me a lot of things, Valentino.” 

You rode well. You need to stop crashing. I want you. I love you. I never wanted this. I love you. I hate you. I love you. 

“Marc—” There’s panic now, cold and sickening at the back of his throat, because Marc might close up, tell him to leave, and that would be it: no more cracked door, no more answered calls. Gone for good. 

Nothing but an old bruise. 

“Why did you answer the phone?”

That makes him pause, mid-step. “What?”

“When I called, after your crash. Why did you answer?”

“I was concussed,” Marc says, mean, eyes narrowed, trying to hurt. Trying to see how much Valentino means this, if he’ll respond in kind. Blood for blood. 

“Ah, well, they should not have given you your phone, if that was the case.” 

Marc doesn’t crack. “Why did you call?”

“You know why.” 

“No, I don’t. You maybe—you wanted to make sure you didn’t lose your mark? Only because it hurt, of course. You wanted to remind yourself that all I do is crash?” Pushing, pushing, the way Valentino used to: pushing to the limits and beyond, scratching and snarling, testing the reaches of intertwined fate. “Fuck, Vale—give me a straight answer for once in your life.” 

Well, they’ve never been very good at that. Valentino drops his head, presses fingers to his pinched forehead. “You’re my soulmate.”

“That you don’t want.”

“Now who is difficult?” he retorts before he can stop himself, and Marc’s expression settles into something—somewhere between satisfaction and resignation. He pushed Valentino over the edge. Won the battle to lose the war. “No, listen—you are my soulmate. I did not want a soulmate.”

“I know.”

“I want you. Do you see?”

“No.” 

“I’m trying,” Valentino says quietly, and that seems to buy him a little more time, a little more grace. “Why—why did you—in Valencia, why didn’t you answer me?” 

Marc folds his arms, throws his walls back up. “Does it matter?”

“If we are being honest with each other, then…”

“If I—” Honesty comes as difficult to Marc as it does to Valentino, apparently. “If I opened my eyes, it was over. But you left anyway, so.” 

“And…you did not want it to be over?” 

The glare Marc levels at him this time is frigid. “You were the one who—”

“Yes, but—even then?” 

“Before, then, now.” Marc shrugs, like that isn’t monumental, seismic. 

“Oh,” Valentino says, exhales the word and watches it float away. His limbs are air, all of a sudden, because Marc is not the same as ten years ago and Valentino has been unforgivable and yet—

Marc wants him. 

Despite it all, he smiles.

“Do not—” Marc hisses. “Do not fucking laugh at me.”

“No—no. Sorry. I am sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m—so fucking sorry.” For it all. Such a small word for everything he’s done. 

Marc’s tight jaw loosens. “You are getting good at saying this.” 

“We are never too old to stop learning, I think.” 

Silence. 

“Sorry,” Valentino offers again; Marc looks at him and he’s feeling fucking giddy now, helium-light, floaty. 

Marc swallows, says, “Valentino,” in a way that pulls him back to earth. 

He has no right to expect it to be that easy, not after everything. The lightness turns leaden. 

“You are not being fair,” Marc whispers, throat clicking as he swallows again, eyes shining. It’s worse, this, than his probing cruelty. “You—it is always up to you, no? You want me, you do not want me. I will keep racing. I will crash. You will change your mind again. I am not—I will not do that.”  

“I will not change my mind—”

“I think you will. I will race Pecco too hard, maybe. I will go to the ranch and you will get that look—like you remember it is the rest of our lives and it scares you, or like you hate me for something that I—I could not control any more than you could. I am not waiting for you to remember that you do not want me.”

Valentino drops his head again, presses his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. His head hurts. He’s cold. “You will be waiting a long time. For that.”

“How long?”

“Forever.” 

“That is a long time.”

“Yes.” 

“Look at me.” 

Valentino does, helpless. Marc’s expression is wretched; his eyes dance, side-to-side, until he’s found whatever he was looking for in Valentino’s face. He pulls his eyebrows together, turns the corners of his mouth down.

“I mean, I know the sex was good, but…” 

The laugh sputters out of Valentino’s chest, halfway hysterical, almost a sob, and Marc grins, triumphant, because he’s joking, he’s— “Don’t be a bastard.” 

“I am allowed this, no?”

Valentino tips his head, side to side. “You are allowed this a little, I think.” He lets himself smile. “Why did you answer the phone?” 

“You know why.”

He does. But— 

But. 

“I was not the one who—” and Marc stops this time, swallows the words. Like he knows they might hurt. Like he cares that they’ll hurt. 

There’s hope now, singing a thready song in time with Valentino’s pulse. If he can just grasp it—

“You should—you should come to Tavullia,” he says in a rush. “Not—not the ranch. My house. Please. You should.”

Marc stares, disbelief written openly on his face.

“I know—I know this means—it is forever. I know that. I will not—”

“The team will want to celebrate,” Marc says, dull.

“Oh.”

“But—well. We will finish early, probably. We have to prepare for the flyaways.” A shrug. “After that…”

“After that,” Valentino agrees on an exhale. 

Marc smiles. 

——

Valentino had meant it: they’d been good in Valencia. It had been good. It also—hadn’t been.

Valencia was—it was Marc upset, falling to pieces between his hands in all the wrong ways, fracturing until he slipped away like sand. Marc didn’t understand, thought he was playing Valentino’s game, and Valentino had thought finally, finally, he’d fixed it. It had been frantic, too frenetic after eight years without. It had been a supernova, brilliant and bright for an agonising second before the sky went dark again.

Not this time. Valentino is not ashamed to admit his elbows are starting to strain, arms taking his weight, but he’s not rushing this, not when he has Marc between his planted palms, staring up at him and grinning. Marc’s not drunk, but—pink cheeks, eyes shining dark in the half-light, hair a mess, smiling so widely it’s splitting his face. They used to be good; this might be better.

Valentino rolls his hips, bites his lip at the friction, forces his eyes to stay open because Marc’s smile melts into a perfect gasp, eyelashes fluttering.

Marc had made it to Tavullia. He had then made it no further than the sofa. 

“Vale—” he hisses, and there’s the scrape of fingernails, but across Valentino’s back, far from any soulmark. 

“Okay?” 

“Of course it’s okay—” Another broken-off inhale. Marc grabs Valentino’s right arm, just above the elbow; when he steadies himself, he slides his fingers up, traces the oh-so-familiar outline, and Valentino’s smooth, careful movement turns jerky at the burst of sparks. “Stop—fucking around.” 

Valentino laughs, light, and Marc’s mouth finds his, smiling again.

The quivering electricity fades, but Marc presses his big palm over Valentino’s mark and keeps it there, warm and steady, says here, I’m here, I’ll always be here without words. Valentino can feel it, the promise of it, beating with his pulse—not throbbing, not bruised, not anymore. He drags his hips up, slowly again, relishing the heat around his cock, watching Marc’s face as his sigh melts into something blissful. 

It doesn’t matter what the universe says; it never mattered, because this is Marc. He’s an idiot, and Valentino’s an idiot, but they’re here and they’ve chosen to be here. 

That—that has to mean something. 

——

“Vale.”

He cracks open one eye, forces himself out of the doze that had almost become sleep. “Mm?” 

“I have an early flight,” Marc whispers, warm against his skin. Cracking the door open, dismissing himself before Valentino has to. 

“You should go to sleep, then.”

Silence—then, in the dark of Valentino’s room, Marc smiles. It’s shadowed in the watery moonlight trickling through the curtains: Marc, silhouetted all silvery beside him in bed, the lines of his body, his mussed hair, his cheeks curved up as he beams. Hot breath ghosts over Valentino’s mark—his mark, his mark—and he shivers. 

“Long flight, yes?”

“Indonesia.”

“Ah,” Valentino says, like he doesn’t already know. 

“Not my favourite.” They’re heavy, those words; they carry a lot. 

“Not mine, either.” But, Valentino supposes, it’s a little like full circle, in a fucked-up way. Mandalika: Marc falls; he picks up the phone. And now, now—

Now he might finally have what he always should have wanted, what he only realised he’d miss when he nearly lost it for good. Forever. 

It’s as if Marc can read his mind, because he rolls closer, chin pressing into Valentino’s chest. “What…?” He stops. “What if I never had that crash?”

Valentino has been trying to avoid thinking about that, mainly because he doesn’t have an answer himself. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I said at the time, yes?” Valentino reaches over to tap a finger on Marc’s soulmark, smiling when he sighs.

“Stop trying to distract me—”

“Without this, my mark, I would not have called. So that is something.” 

Marc tilts his head, like he remembers what they said on the phone that first time, like he turns it over in his head as often as Valentino does.  “You never��before that, you talked about it differently. You never said—you never called it yours.”

Another thing Valentino has no answer to. Maybe Marc just needs to say it, let it take form and hover between them. He hopes so. He’s gotten off lightly so far. 

“You know in 2015–”

Jesus. Maybe not.

“I was racing,” Marc says, unapologetic but like he needs to say it, needs Valentino to hear it. “Don’t look like that—we never fucking talked about anything before. We just had sex.”

“Good sex.” 

“Valentino.” 

“I thought you had a flight in the morning—”

“Valentino.”

Valentino sighs. “I know you were racing. I know it was nothing else. I know. I just—I was already—you had crashed so much, bad crashes that year, and it was like you didn’t care about yourself, or my races. There was so much, and there was Jorge, and the championship, and my soulmate had a death wish. It—everything. All of it.” 

Marc’s eyes glint in the thin darkness, watching him steadily. 

“Not an excuse. I—”

“You hurt me.”

“I know,” Valentino croaks. Hurt his arm. Hurt their marks. Hurt him so deeply it’s a miracle they’re here at all. 

He wonders if it means something, for that little part of him to live now among the rest of Marc’s scars. If Marc had ever felt his arm ache and not been sure which injury was digging old teeth in. If Valentino ever became, even for a while, just something else Marc had healed from.

But Marc is forgiving, or maybe just tired, and he tucks his head in, settles himself in Valentino’s arms. 

“It’s a long triple header.” 

“Yes,” Marc murmurs, and he doesn’t sound upset about the change in topic. It’s more than Valentino deserves. 

“What are you going to do after?”

“Get ready for the next triple header.”

Valentino curls his right arm around Marc’s shoulders, fingers finding scars and soulmark. There’s himself. There’s Marc. “Sensible. What about after that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could come back here. You should.” 

Marc looks at him. Smiles. “And after?” 

“Ah, I have a race. And you have the test. Ducati, of course. After that, you will come back here again.”

A smirk, no sharp edge to it. “I will?”

“Yes,” Valentino says, and it sings between them, the certainty of it. The promise. “You will.”

[moonshynecybin]

Bez would for suuuuure get wish baby's name tattooed over the entire outside of his forearm

photorealistic tattoo of her face with her name in tacky cursive and FAMIGLIA on the other arm in a gothic font and certified clean girl marc marquez literally cannot look at him for two weeks he’s that disgusted.

[fall0utmind]

Old man would accidentally like Marc’s post hurry to unlike so he doesn’t notice but end up liking it again the cycle continues and marc is just watching his notifications thinking Vale’s having a stroke

No because why is this so accurate?

Vale liking and unliking the post like 20 times. Finally, unliking it and thinking he's safe.

Marc is having about 8 annuyerisms cause Vales liked his post for the first time in a decade. But then it happens again and again. And Alex calls from the other room like, why has Valentino rossi just followed me ans viewed my story. And Marc is dying a bit.

He texts luca or pecco and asks if Valentino is okay? Like has someone taking his phone. They might wanna stop that before a fan notices.

Pecco and luca realise and lose it. As a group they decide to fuck with vale. Marc just posting progressively more obscene posts on instagram. The others help. It's absolute carnage. Valentino is dying and trying not to tell anyone, but they all know.

Pecco hangs out with marc, and he wears the helmet. Valentino is so fucking jealous.

Oh, so many good ideas from this. Bez gets marc a collar as a joke, Valentino almost chucks himself off a building.

Amazing, no notes.

[faster-faster-aster]

Gold and Gravel ~2k words, marcnaia immediately post-Aragon 2024

Pecco has been watching the patch of sunlight on the wall of his motorhome change shade and shape for the last several hours. White fades to gold; the rectangle slants into a diamond as the sun slants towards the horizon. Good, he thinks. The sooner it sets, the sooner he can set this wretched weekend behind him. 

If he closes his eyes, strains his ears to listen, he can still hear the cheers and chants of Marc’s fans. It’s not so loud, anymore— the roar giving way to a low and distant rumble, like thunder on the horizon. Going out like the tide, washing into the streets of Alcañiz. It will go on all night, he is sure of it. And maybe if things were different he’d be celebrating too— if he’d taken Acosta’s place, or better, Martin’s— if he had shared the podium with Marc again. Alex could have joined them too, but that possibility is gone now. Buried in the gravel, crushed somewhere in the mess of metal and limbs. 

Pecco shudders. Shifts the ice pack on his shoulder that has long since melted. It’s not his fault, he knows. The stewards said it wasn’t, laid the blame evenly between them— but the guilt creeps in all the same. At very least he was too harsh on Alex after the race. He’d meant it then— hurting and angry and embarrassed—  he wouldn’t say it now. 

Because if he were better, he would have known not to take the risk. If he were better, he’d deserve the title he may as well have handed to Martin. If he were better, he wouldn’t have been battling Alex at all— would have been running at the front. Fighting with Marc, maybe, like they had three years ago. 

He sighs. Maybe if he were better he would be able to rein in his thoughts, wouldn’t be sitting here spinning his wheels and going nowhere. He’ll be up all night, at this rate, unless Carola comes and drags him to bed. 

There’s a knock at the door. Pecco winces as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. It’s probably Bez, he usually likes to stop by after a bad race, so he heaves himself the rest of the way up, walks stiffly to the door and opens it. 

And stands there, blinking in surprise, because— it’s Marc, on the other side of the door, one hand fiddling with his watch. 

It takes at least a minute for Pecco’s brain to reboot. When it does, all he’s able to say is a quiet, questioning, “Uh, hi?” because— this is the last place Marc should be, today. 

“Hi,” Marc says. “Can… can I come in?” he asks, a moment later, and Pecco realizes he’s been blocking the doorway. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, stepping aside. 

He follows Marc in, goes to the counter and sits on it. Marc leans on the table opposite him— Pecco watches as he glances over, as he frowns at the ice packs on the shelf by the couch, the half-empty packet of ibuprofen. 

The guilt washes over him like a wave again, pools cold and heavy in his chest. The only reason why Marc would come here, when he should be off celebrating somewhere with his team, is because of the crash. Because of what Pecco had done to his brother, what he’d said about Alex afterwards. Marc must be here to bite back. Harder, Vale had said, now that he’s seen Pecco bleeding. And Pecco doesn’t want that— can’t stomach any cutting words from Marc when he’s heard them enough in his own head. 

Marc opens his mouth but Pecco speaks first, ducking his head as he does. “If you’re here about Alex, I’m sorry,” he says, and it feels too much like baring his neck for slaughter, but he continues. “I was upset, hurting; the interview, what I said, I meant it then— but not anymore. I know he didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Pecco,” Marc starts, but he just shakes his head. 

“And I— it was a stupid move. Too risky. Another lap and I could’ve caught him anyways, it was my mistake.”

“Pecco, I—” Marc starts to say again, but Pecco presses on. The longer he’s talking, the longer Marc isn’t— the longer he can delay the inevitable. 

“I’ll apologize. Next chance I get, I will— I will walk it back. I don’t want to make trouble for him.” And that’s all he has to say— all his cards laid on the table. He clenches his jaw, grips the counter with white knuckles. Braces for the bite. 

But Marc’s voice is soft as he says, “Pecco, look at me,” and it’s so unexpected— what can he do but lift his head?

Across from him, Marc is standing in the patch of sunlight he was watching earlier. It paints gold over the planes of him, his face, pools warm and honey-rich in the dark of his eyes. Catches in his hair like a glowing halo. Winning looks good on him— there is a weightlessness, an ease to him now that Pecco has never seen before, only marred by the concerned slant of his brow. 

“I appreciate it— you should apologize to Alex,” Marc says, slow and measured, “but that is not why I am here.”

“Then why?” Pecco asks before he can stop himself. “You should be celebrating, no?”

“No, actually. We are leaving for Madrid in an hour— no time.”

Pecco must look confused because Marc waves his hand in a vague gesture and says, “Eh, I’m too old for all of that now. Maybe in a few years you’ll understand.”

Pecco just shakes his head. Doesn’t want to think about being Marc’s age, having to endure the same things he has. “You look— you looked fantastic all weekend,” he says instead. “On the bike,” he clarifies. “Even if it were just a few drinks, you would deserve it.”

He watches Marc’s reaction closely, half-hoping the praise will catch him off-balance like it does to Pecco. But Marc just smiles at him, all relaxed lines and incandescent teeth, and Pecco is the one knocked unsteady. 

“Eh, maybe,” Marc says. “But look at you, distracting me again.” 

Pecco just blinks at him. If he’s not here about Alex, or to fish for congratulations, then why the fuck is he here?

He must be making a face, because Marc laughs, shakes his head, and says, “Pecco, I came here to check on you.”

“What?” Pecco breathes, feeling like he’s suffocating under the bike again. Because that— that doesn’t make any sense. That’s not who Marc is, not ruthless or cunning like Pecco has come to expect. Surely it’s just another mind game. 

But Marc sounds entirely genuine as he says, “The crash— I saw on the replay. It was bad for Alex but it looked worse for you.” He winces as his eyes flick down to the collar of Pecco’s shirt, where the bruising edges its way up his neck. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Pecco shrugs. “It could have been worse— my helmet did not catch on the tyre,” he says, slow and measured, trying not to give too much away. “Both of us walked away from it. No broken bones.”

“That’s always good,” Marc says with a knowing look. 

There’s a beat of silence between them. Marc seems unsatisfied, somehow, waiting for more— and maybe that’s the game, Pecco realizes. Offer a bit of vulnerability, see who flinches first. He hasn’t made a good counter to Marc yet, but he can. 

“Still fucking hurts, though— I am very bruised,” he says. “Do you want to see?”

Marc perks up at that. “Sure,” he says casually, but the way he leans forward belies his interest. 

So Pecco hops down from the counter, turns his back to Marc, and shucks his shirt off over his head, wincing as the movement strains his sore muscles. 

He doesn’t dare look at Marc, but he hears his sharp intake of breath, how the table shifts as he stands. “Shit, Pecco,” he hisses as he steps closer and then— 

Marc’s hand brushes the curve of Pecco’s shoulder blade, feather-light, testing. The sensation sings up his spine, sets him alight— he only just suppresses the urge to shiver. Because he knows what Marc must see, the pale skin of his back mottled purple from neck to tailbone; he’d caught a glimpse of it in the mirror and had to look away immediately, feeling ill. He’d hoped Marc would do the same.

But he seems to have no such reservations. He splays his hand out over the bruise, gently probing with his fingers. It feels— it feels good, Pecco thinks, the warmth and pressure like a soothing balm over the ache. He had tensed up, when Marc had touched him, but he relaxes into it as Marc rubs little circles down his spine. Then he reaches the small of Pecco’s back, where the skin is flushed pink, raw and irritated. It stings when Marc touches it, little jolts of pain, but then he presses down—

“Ah, fuck,” Pecco hisses, flinching away. “Gentle, please…”

“Sorry,” Marc says, and Pecco looks over at him, needs to know if that was intentional or not. But Marc does look genuinely contrite, brow furrowed in concern as he studies Pecco’s face. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, reaching out to rest his hand on Pecco’s shoulder. “That is— that is not a bruise, is it.”

“No, it’s not,” Pecco says. “It is a burn, from the exhaust— got me through the leathers.” 

Marc makes a small sound, low in his chest, eyes flicking back up to Pecco’s face. Before he can react, Marc is sliding his hand up to the nape of his neck, pulling him down into a hug. 

And he’s caught completely off-balance, again, stands there for a moment before it occurs to him that he should reciprocate. So he winds his arms around Marc’s back, feels him stroke a hand down his spine. Marc is so warm, pressed to him front-to-front like this— what can Pecco do but tuck his head into Marc’s shoulder, melt into him like honey, golden and sweet? 

He doesn’t want the moment to end, but all too soon Marc is stepping away, trailing his hands to rest on Pecco’s arms. “I am glad you are okay,” he says, looking up at Pecco wide-eyed and earnest, and he— he believes him, Pecco realizes, rocking him like a punch to the gut. 

But just as quickly Marc���s face relaxes again, into that easy, winning smile, as he says, “Rest well for Misano, yeah? When I said I wanted to share a garage with the world champion next year, I meant it.”

Pecco can feel his face flushing, shakes his head and says, “Okay. If only so I can beat you next weekend.”

Marc laughs and lets go of Pecco, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t push it,” he says, mock-scolding. He heads for the door— Pecco has half a mind to offer him a drink or something, get him to stay a little longer, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he just says, “Congratulations, Marc. You were incredible.”

Marc opens the door, looks back and smiles at Pecco one last time. “See you on Thursday,” he says, and then the door is swinging shut behind him. 

The latch clicks, and it’s like a spell has broken, leaving Pecco standing there blinking in confusion. Because— he buries his face in his hands and groans, loud and long— what the fuck possessed him, to make him act like that? Marc must have laid the trap, somehow, and Pecco blundered directly into it. There’s no way he’ll be able to rest— he’ll be up all night thinking about warm hands grazing his shoulder, about deep brown eyes looking up at him with open, genuine concern. 

But it wasn’t genuine, Pecco knows, it wasn’t anything real. Just another mind game— so why, he thinks, does he wish it wasn’t?

[ren-the3rd]

Marcmarc fic (untitled and unfinished) ; 1.8K

it’s a WIP i might not finish but wanted to share what i got for now. not beta read and english isnt my 1st language so,,, mind the mistakes i guess

“Marquez?” Vale’s voice was tired. No, tired didn’t even begin to cover half of it. “Of all people?”

Bez wiggled uncomfortably in the chair. In front of him Vale was pacing, eyes closed and rubbing his temple. Giorgia – from PR – was still typing something on her laptop. She glanced up sometimes at him and looked annoyed. But it was still much more bearable than Vale’s eyes. The look said something in between “How can you be that stupid?” and “How the fuck did that even happen?” Both questions were left unsaid and Bez didn’t have an answer for any of them anyway.

It had happened in a drunken haze and he wasn’t even sur how or why. Just that he didn’t regret it a single bit.

Maybe he should, considering the PR storm he just caused.

He had woken up, Marc’s face settled on his chest and his phone had started ringing loudly. When he picked up, he had been informed of the pictures, the leak on social media. Two minutes later, it was Marc’s phone that rang.

They had scrambled awake, grabbing their clothes as fast as possible. At least it wasn’t awkward. The whole situation was too fucked and Bez worried to much about his potential end of career that he didn’t really think about Marc.

It was Monday after the American GP and neither their PR team nor Vale had left Austin yet. So they met at the track’s motorhome, locked themselves in an office.

Bez had seen the photos. They were incriminating, you could see clearly Marc’s face. Selfishly, he thanked God, or whatever higher power that his face was mostly hidden on all those photos.

He was still recognised him, if you knew him, you’d know. But there was potential deniability.

Vale explained the situation, that they talked to Marc’s team. They are doing everything in their power to erase those photos.

“It should be alright, it hasn’t reached public knowledge, we pulled them from social medias and are in contact with journalist to settle on a… discreet outcome.”

“And if they don’t agree?” Bez asked, a bit pitiful.

“Marc takes the fall, release a statement. Doesn’t mention you in any way. His career can take it and he’s the one most visible on those.” Giorgia chimed in. “I got a response from…” But Bez barely listened to her.

He was split in between relief and sadness. Giorgia was right, Marc Marquez was fucking Marc Marquez. He had both seniority and fame and talent. His reputation could take the hit.

Bez on the other hand. It would all depends on the sponsors, and he wasn’t very optimistic. But simply because it was logical, didn’t make it right. Nothing in that situation was right. Bez thought of what it could mean for Marc. Being forced to come out was a betrayal.

“Bez?” Vale’s voice stirred him away from his thoughts. “It probably won’t go there. Don’t worry.” He said softly. Bez just nodded.

They spent another hour going over the situation, possibilities and outcomes. They barely acknowledged Bez and he noticed how Vale never mentioned Marc in anyway. When it was clear Bez was of no help or utility, they released him.

His flight back to Italy wasn’t until tonight, he had some time to pack up. When he was back in his room, he checked his phone. There was a text from Pecco checking up on him and another one from a Spanish number. It wasn’t registered on his phone but he knew who that was.

+34 XXXXXX [11:47] : Hope you’re okay. We should talk when it’s all settled.

Bez definitely did not want to talk about it. Not now and probably not ever. But the older one was trying to be kind, so he sent something back and threw his phone on his bed.

It hasn’t been serious, they met on accident at a club after the race. They were drunk and they hooked up. End of story.

Bez took a shower, letting the hot water cascade over his skin, enjoying the burn of it. He focused on that, he focused on his sore muscles from the race, he focused on the week ahead.

He didn’t think of how Marc looked, still asleep, his arm hugging his chest. He didn’t think of the scars running along Marc’s shoulder. Nor of how he traced them mindlessly with his finger. He didn’t think of the split second before everything went to shit and he hoped there would be a next time. And he definitely did not think of Marc’s naked body on top of him, fucking him stupid.

Bez couldn’t afford to think of that. He apparently couldn’t be trusted to even hook up without risking his career.

Before the end of the day, he got a text from Giorgia assuring him everything was under control and nothing would get out. He turned his phone on airplane mode and boarded.

˚⁺✧*✧⁺˚˚⁺✧*✧⁺˚˚⁺✧*✧⁺˚

Marc didn’t want to admit it, but he was a bit hurt by the whole situation. Later in the week, when it had been clear nothing bad would come of it, he had texted Marco. His text has been on delivered for three days now.

He did want to talk to him. Tell him he was sorry about the whole thing.

Technically, Marco had been the first to kiss him. But also technically. They had been dancing on some dubious club music, he had been incredibly drunk. Marc had found Marco on the dance floor. He would have been lying if he said he recognised him immediately, but he didn’t back away once he did.

They locked eyes for a moment. Marco froze, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. He looked confused for a second, but then his face relaxed, and with a slight shrug, he just continued dancing. Marc hadn’t thought anything through. He had slipped a hand beneath Marco’s shirt, and stepped closer. That’s when Marco kissed him.

Marc hadn’t thought of the people around, he hadn’t thought anyone could be filming or taking pictures. He was thinking of having Marco’s lips on him and more.

But he should have thought of that. It had been silly and dangerous.

The Spanish GP came along and Marco was avoiding him. That’s the only conclusion Marc could come up with. He couldn’t find him anywhere. Well, maybe in his motorhome, but if Marc could avoid stepping there, he would.

Later that day he finally caught sight of a spot of bright neon yellow and curly hair.

“Hey, Marco!” Marc exclaimed, picking up his pace to catch up. Marco didn’t even react, still walking towards wherever he was going. “Can we talk?” Marc asked, now that he had arrived at Marco’s level.

“I don’t think we should.” Marco said and continued walking towards his motorhome. He wasn’t sparing a glance to him.

“Marco.” Marc was going to grab his arm but his hand hang in the air. He looked around, too many people. “Marco, I just…”

“Leave me alone, Marc,” he replied tartly, finally meeting his eyes. “You’re going to ruin everything.” His lips trembled but his eyes gave no emotions away. He didn’t wait for a reaction or an answer from Marc, he turned his heels and left.

Marc stood in the middle of the paddock, completely stunned. Somehow it felt so much worse than when Marco came to yell at him last year. He had been fuming and angry and stupid. There he was just… Cold.

Marc was walking back to his motorhome. He had a free practice to focus on.

He wasn’t going to let the Italian distract him from anything. It was only a hook up, he wouldn’t even have texted him or tried to talk to him if there hadn’t been a PR risk. But this was all buried and hidden away, he could just move on.

Once he entered the Gressini garage, any thoughts of idiotic Italians vanished and he started talking to his mechanics.

˚⁺✧*✧⁺˚˚⁺✧*✧⁺˚˚⁺✧*✧⁺˚

“What’s up with Marquez?” Pecco asked, as he barged into the room. Bez loudly grunted in response.

“Shut up,” he whined, earning only a raised eyebrow from his friend who settled on his couch, not bothering to ask for his opinion. They had just wrapped up with qualifying and the media pen. Pecco had showered, his hair was still dripping water on his shirt – and now onto Bez’s couch.

“No, seriously. Vale wouldn’t say anything, and you are just… weird. So?”

Bez wanted to disappear, or maybe die. Someone please put him out of his misery and just strike him down. But he trusted Peco enough to mutter. “We hooked up. In Austin. People took pictures of us kissing before we left the club.” Bez wasn’t looking at Pecco, rather focusing on taking off his leathers. But he could imagine him, wide eyes.

“So why are you being weird? Was he that bad?”

“No,” Bez sputtered, caught off guard. “My career was almost ruined. Because of him.”

“It wasn’t,” Pecco pointed out, his eyes steady and confused, fixed on Bez. “So, what’s actually wrong? Was it ‘cause he was awful at it? Cause I don’t really see the issue. They took care of the photos, right? And worst-case scenario it would have been like the Jorge/Aleix thing, no?”

Bez sighed, loudly, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Pecco didn’t get it, it wasn’t even about what happened. That night, he had seen his entire career and hopes flash before his eyes. He wouldn’t risk it again, he wouldn’t. But he couldn’t help that he wanted Marc again. And as long as he felt that way, he couldn’t let his guard down.

“He was not awful. And they did take care of the pictures.”

“So?” Pecco pressed again. But Bez wasn’t saying anything. “Sure, I wouldn’t have picked Marquez, of all people. But I’ve seen you take worse decisions.”

“It was only a one night stand. I don’t owe him anything, he doesn’t either. I don’t see the issue. It’s not like I even was on his radar before Austin. So let’s continue like that. Anyway, I’m taking a shower.”

“Can I come with?” Pecco laughed

“I’m telling Domizia!” Bez shouted before shutting the door behind him. He took a quick shower, sighing at the warm water. His mind briefly drifting to the qualifying results—P2. He felt good about the race ahead. He didn’t let his mind linger too much on what ifs, that would be for the debrief and tomorrow. Afterward, he slipped into more comfortable clothes, and when he opened the door, Pecco was still there, now completely laying down on the couch. He was scrolling on his phone.

“Don’t you have a debrief or something?” Bez asked.

“Don’t you?” Pecco shot back, not even looking at him.

“Later. Do you want to get some food?”

[hotmessmaxpress]

helloo i absolutely love your abo au and i am obsessed with the marcmarc dynamic

i was wondering would you ever write pecco/marcmarc something like pecco being sad/upset over something and the omegas just comforting him, it could be just cuddles or it could be something a little more i think it would be interesting to see how marc and pecco’s relationship is like without vale there (we know marco and pecco already get along so well) also i think pecco deserves to get spoiled by two omegas

Rosquez a/b/o au, part ???

I think that marc and pecco deal with disappointment/mistakes similarly (internalize, internalize, internalize) so it would simultaneously be easy for marc to understand him and also difficult for him to deal with. He would definitely feel more comfortable having bez around to help!

Thank you for the ask. 🤍

Pecco is no stranger to criticism. He’s grown up in an environment entirely based around competition, and he’s used to looking at statistics and numbers and comparisons. Faster, faster, how to be faster.

No matter how much criticism he deals with, though, Pecco is always his own biggest critic. He is the one to put the most pressure on himself, even when his parents and sister and pack tell him to take a step back and calm down. It’s common for his mood to be affected by his performance, and when Marc joins the pack it’s one of the things he notices immediately. Even at the ranch, which Marc had thought was fun for the boys, Pecco can sometimes come away in a sharp mood. 

Marc also notices that Bez is the one most adept at handling Pecco’s big feelings. He takes all of Pecco’s sharpness and jagged edges that would cut someone else and files him down until he’s smooth like a river stone. It’s one of the many things that Marc admires about Bez as a fellow omega. It doesn’t even seem like Bez realizes he’s doing it. 

The race goes terribly. Pecco goes down hard, and while thankfully nothing is broken, he’s sore all over. He’s stewing in his anger as the rest of the pack wrap up their media duties and finish up for the day. The alphas check in with him, but it becomes apparent very quickly that Pecco has no desire to deal with any of them. 

It’s Carola that happens to grab Marc’s arm as he’s heading toward the pack trailer. 

“Marc!” she greets.

She sounds happy, which is still odd to Marc. He’s getting used to being liked by faces that he was too used to avoiding. He always assumed that Carola had a distaste for him, but she seems pleased that he’s joined the same pack as her brother. Marc almost feels guilty for assuming that she didn’t like him. 

“Carola,” he greets, kissing her on both cheeks. 

“Are you going to your pack?”

Marc nods, cheeks flushing. He doesn’t think it will ever get old, acknowledging his pack. 

“Can you stop at Pecco’s motorhome first? He won’t come out on his own and he should be with you all, not alone and wallowing. I am trying to find Bez but I think he will come with you, too.”

Marc blanches for a moment, stunned by the faith that she has in him to support the alphas of his pack. He doesn’t have time to tell her no, though, because she’s off with a toss of her hair. 

Marc does as he asks and goes to Pecco’s trailer, knocking first and then letting himself in. 

Pecco is sitting on the couch, head in his hands while he stares down at a tablet that Marc can only assume contains data from the race. 

“My pace was enough to win,” Pecco complains, immediately, without even looking up to Marc.

Marc knows this is a tenuous situation, and he hopes that Carola sends Bez his way soon. He has a distinct feeling that he might be out of his depth on this one. 

“Yes, it was,” Marc agrees, knowing that Pecco probably won’t respond to platitudes from him of all people. “You were fast.”

Pecco looks up at him angrily, and Marc curves his shoulders and tilts his head so he’s looking at Pecco through his eyelashes. Marc may not be offering platitudes, but looking cute and nonthreatening can’t hurt. 

Pecco huffs, and Marc takes his lack of comment as an invitation to move toward the other man and settle down on the couch next to him. He takes the tablet out of Pecco’s hands, having to pry his fingers a little bit, and then tosses it behind him. 

Pecco growls, but there’s no heat to it. It’s just a warning, and Marc has never been one to heed warnings the first time. He reaches out and offers his wrist to Pecco, who brings it to his nose. Marc’s scent seems to pacify him a little, so Marc takes Pecco’s hand with his free hand. 

“Let’s go to the pack room. Carola is looking for Bez and we might find him on the way.”

Pecco still looks annoyed, and Marc has to smother a smile at the stormy look on his face when they step out of the trailer and set out across the paddock. Marc smiles and waves and greets people as they walk by, a stark contrast to the silent and cranky alpha following him. 

They run into Bez right outside the pack motorhome, and Bez immediately relaxes when he sees the two of them. 

“Marc! Franci! Good. I’m glad you managed to drag him here.”

Bez climbs the stairs first, and Marc pulls Pecco along. Once they’re inside, Marc sets about making a nest for the three of us while Bez has quiet words with Pecco. Bez is laughing, which at first seems to make Pecco angrier but then succeeds in getting a small smile from him. 

The nest takes no time at all, and Marc happily tugs Pecco into the center of it. Bez slots himself against Pecco’s other side, and they’re all silent for a moment. 

“I was fast,” Pecco complains, petulantly and without the same heat and frustration from earlier. 

Bez makes eye contact with Marc and rolls his eyes, and Marc has to hold his breath for a moment to avoid giggling.

Pecco frowns and looks between the two of them. 

“You two are terrible.”

Bez and Marc shake their heads at once.

“Maybe we are,” Marc teases. “We have a sad alpha in between us and we haven’t spoiled him even a little bit.”

He reaches up and tangles a hand in Pecco’s hair, scratching at his scalp. He gives Pecco a gentle tug, and bares his throat to him so he can tuck his face against him and scent him. He scents Marc first and then Bez finally gives up on the teasing and bares his own neck. Pecco turns to press a kiss to the base of Bez’s throat and Bez purrs happily. 

“It was a good race, Franci.”

“Until I crashed,” he complains bitterly. 

“Until you crashed,” Marc agrees. “But you won’t next time.”

Pecco huffs, and Marc wraps himself tighter around the alpha. 

“It was the back wheel,” Pecco explains.

He launches into a pouty debrief, and Bez and Marc both relax. When Pecco starts to debrief, it’s the beginning of the end of his bad mood. He always needs to stew in his frustration, then analyze, then he can move on. 

Marc only half listens as Pecco rants about the race, and instead distracts himself by playing with Pecco’s fingers and making faces at Bez. By the time Pecco has run out of steam, he is much more relaxed between the two of them, and Bez and Marc basically lay themselves on top of him. Their legs all tangle together, and the smell in the room finally loses its sharp edge. 

Marc rests his head in the crook of Pecco’s neck, and he smiles against his collarbone as he hears Bez press a kiss to Pecco’s lips. 

“Love you,” Bez says sweetly.

Marc can practically hear the roll in Pecco’s eyes as he returns the expression of love. 

The three of them lay there together, relaxed and calm, until Marc is nearly asleep and remembers he needs to text Vale, who is back in Italy on business. 

Vale: good race ❤️ 

Vale: how is pecco?

Marc smiles, happy that Vale is checking in on their pack as always. 

Marc opens the camera and holds it out, snapping a picture of the three of them before Pecco can protest. 

He sends it immediately, and only moments later Vale responds with a row of hearts. 

Vale: I am proud of him. Love you.

Marc shows Pecco and Bez the message, and his heart swells with happiness at the relaxed smile on Pecco’s face.

[myrquez]

i have MANY thoughts about marcs relationship with pecco versus his relationship with bezz (compelling in different ways!)

with pecco you can tell he’s naturally more closed off, and marc seems like he’s coaxing pecco out of his shell with him slowly! like very on pecco’s terms, very aware that how he acts affects pecco’s feelings on him a lot

compared to with bezz, who’s feelings on marc were kinda set already, and marc seems aware that if bezz is going to change his opinion on marc it has to come out of his own choice/own brain, he is NAWT going to be coaxed out! so he lets bezz make his decisions before starting to engage with him when he made clear that he’d changed his mind about marc

marc’s super media aware so that Could be playing into it, but i think marc is just good at reading people and has been pretty thoughtful about pecco and bezz because of their very close proximity to vale, and therefore more difficult to manage interpersonal relationships. the more i think about it the more i appreciate marc’s maturity, and just general sweetness despite everything

THIS! exactly this anon! thank you <3

i often joked about the fact that marc probably doesn’t even know bez full government name, bc you can tell how he acts around him. is he gentle and absolutely nice in every case? yes, but nothing more than that. if bez speaks to him, or greets him even, that’s totally okay. but he will NOT start any conv whatsoever. no sign of acknowledgment. ofc he’d be happy if he saw bez being nice to him a bit more day by day but it’s not something that he’s actually searching for. (i still think the fight they had last year is something that its not really easy to brush off… for marc, at least, def not)

that’s why marcmarc to me is HEAVILY on bez’s side. i think he has to be the one taking the first steps ofc.

with pecco is Sooo different, bc you can tell how marc always goes and try to chat with him a bit!, ever since the testing days. he knows pecco has always been the “moderate” one, at least compared to bez. i think he also came to respect him as a rider, eventually, and as he was entering ducati’s ranks ofc pecco had to be his reference if he wanted to be the absolute best. they both love going for some psychological warfare, something that marc is a master at, and pecco just learnt from the best during his academy days. their battles on track are the funniest and most entertaining thing for marc. and vale’s shadow is still THERE nevertheless. just a bunch of things that get mixed together, and that really does enhance their lore!!

ofc, this could also somehow help marc’s position for next year, as pecco wants the atmosphere at ducati to not get ruined. so, idk anon, there are sooo many layers playing a hand in their relationship!! very. VERY compelling

[formulapookie]

i need to know more abt petplay marcmarc 😿😿😿😿

ok so I’ve got nothing written (yet) but I can yap about it a bit

So Bez likes praise, that is obvious from day one of their relationship (yes it’s an established relationship in this fic)

Marc usually praises him while Bez sucks him off or fucks him, for how much he can without moaning with a broken voice, because Bez really IS good.

One of the first times Bez and Marc fucked a bit more rough (cause racing shit happened like they both DNF) Marc bites a bit at his neck and Bez almost cums on the spot and Marc jokingly says “If you can cum from me just kissing your neck I may think about having to put a collar on it to keep you at bay” and Bez goes RED but like crimson red because he never told Marc but he’d love the feeling of having a collar round his neck while they fuck, it makes him feel owned.

And Marc obviously notices because he notices everything.

And plays more into it.

“Yeah you’d look beautiful collared up for me Marco, I could just tell you what to do and you’d obey right? Like a good puppy”

And Bez just can’t hold himself back anymore and comes right there and then.

After this Marc is REALLY interested in this side of Bez he hasn’t explored fully yet, so he tries to have a conversation over it but Bez is too shy.

And Marc reassures him he doesn’t have to be shy about it, that he’s in fact very attracted by this side of him because it’s something new to him too.

And Bez so just tells him he likes the idea of being bossed around like that, that even if he’s the one doing the fucking Marc is the one in control, Marc can tug at the collar how he pleases and get him closer or further from him when he sees fit, just basically being there for Marc’s pleasure.

And Marc goes crazy for it because like yeah it’s obvious that Bez was a little submissive in the bedroom but THIS? Oh this just gives him so many possibilities

So he begins looking for a pretty enough collar to have Bez wear next time he feels like it (because obv they don’t like do this every time they fuck) and he finds one who’s made of black leather and he can personalise with a name.

So he buys it and has “Marco” written on it

He hopes he made a good thing and when he sees Bez’s reaction he knows he did.

He goes red again but clearly with arousal rather than embarrassment and drags Marc to the bed and begs him to please put that damn collar on him and do what he wants and tell him what to do

[kingofthecotas]

find tomorrow with you

5 times valentino suggests they get married and 1 time marc does | 2.4k words

5+1 is a fun and whimsical format that we should use more often

–––

i. 

It’s not the first time Marc has been to Tavullia since Valentino decided his life was infinitely better when they spoke—and, indeed, fucked—but today is the first time he truly seems comfortable. 

Pecco being here is helping, helping soothe the agitation that is all Bez’s, helping to be a friendly face—and Luca, if he weren’t finding it all so funny, would be helping as well. Marc is smiling, talking, laughing—and he isn’t dragging his feet as they all get ready to ride. That’s the crux of it, the load-bearing pillar that crumbled their first time around. 

Not this time. They won’t let it. 

(Not ever again, Valentino won’t let that happen ever again. He won’t do that to Marc ever again.)

It’s never polite when they race at the ranch. It’s animalistic, all friendship abandoned at the archway that marks the start of the track, screeching under helmets as they tear around corners and dive into the side of opponents. No quarter. No prisoners. 

Naturally, Marc, now he’s comfortable, is perfectly suited to this kind of all-out warfare. 

(He’s terrifying. Valentino is entranced. He loves him.) 

It happens after about an hour, all of them hot and tired but no one willing to throw a white flag. Marc goes for the lead, throws it up the inside of Bez, and outbrakes himself. He skids to the edge of the track, where his front tyre finally surrenders, and he’s sliding through dirt, one leg dragged with the bike.  

Even over the growl of two-stroke engines, Valentino can hear Bez’s, “Oh shit.” 

He pulls to the side of the track, kicks the peg-stand down with a practiced ease that covers his panic, because Marc is staggering away from under his bike, is collapsing on his back, shoulders shaking, and what if he’s hurt—?

“Marc?” 

Marc is cackling like a maniac, leathers dusted white, one hand over the part of his helmet where his forehead would be—even Bez can’t stop himself laughing in return. 

Valentino kneels beside him, pushes his visor up. Then he pushes Marc’s open, too.

“You idiot,” he says, slow and deliberate, yet without sting. 

Marc laughs harder. “That was fun!”

Valentino leans down, helmets almost touching. “I am going to divorce you.”

Bez chokes on his giggle.

Marc doesn’t miss a beat, eyes still smiling at Vale through his visor. “You have to marry me to do that.” 

“I will marry you,” Valentino agrees, “and then I will divorce you.” 

Marc laughs again. 

——

ii.

Valentino’s phone alarm goes off at 5:45, fifteen minutes to spare before lights out, and he stifles a groan, rolls away from Marc. Marc does not appreciate being woken up before seven on a Sunday. 

(He knows that. He loves that he knows that.) 

Qualifying had been hairy, drizzling but not completely wet. It should be a dry race, though, and he settles himself on the sofa downstairs just in time for the broadcast to start scrolling through the starting grid. Kimi had done well, and he smiles.

There’s a noise in the doorway: Marc, a hoodie thrown over his bare chest, eyes heavy.

“Good morning,” Valentino says, raspy. “Did I wake you up?”

“Who has a race at this time?” Marc grumbles. 

“They are in Japan,” Valentino says, and lets Marc crawl into the space next to him, tired and clumsy with it. “Now you know what it is like when I am watching you in Japan, or Malaysia, or Australia.”

Marc groans in the back of his throat.

“You could go back to bed.”

“You’re not there.” Unfocused eyes peering over the top of his hoodie, Marc glares at the screen, seemingly unaware that he’s just curled something warm and tender around Valentino’s ribs. “Who are we cheering for?”

“Ah, your friend Carlos managed only twelfth. It is Piastri and Verstappen at the front—Kimi is there in fourth, you see? And the Ferraris in fifth and sixth—always we want them to do well. Lando had a penalty, so he is seventh, but the McLaren should be fast here.”

They’re pulling away for the formation lap, weaving to warm their tyres. Marc watches, focused as ever, until he yawns. Valentino shushes him. 

“They are not even racing,” 

“They are explaining the strategy.”

Lights out. Clean start. Marc is watching more intently now, undivided attention, check pressed against Valentino’s arm.

Ten laps in, Gasly dives down the inside of Ocon, and they’re both spinning off into grass and gravel; embarrassing but harmless, enough to bring out the safety car. Valentino pulls himself free and goes to make coffee. 

Marc is barely visible beneath the throw when he returns, dark eyes glaring balefully at the television like it’s offended him personally, but he softens when Valentino hands him a mug.

“You are the best,” he mumbles, then, “At making coffee.”

Valentino laughs—once, he might have bristled at the harmless joke—and slides back into his spot between Marc and the sofa arm. Marc thumps his head down, somehow burying himself even deeper in his swaddling of blanket and hoodie and Valentino. 

It’s—it’s something they never would have imagined, even two years ago. It’s gentle, early Sunday mornings wrapped around each other; the kind of softness that shouldn’t be possible after years of tearing each other apart, digging in fingers and pulling until they drew blood. 

Valentino doesn’t ever want to go there again. He doesn’t ever want to lose this. 

Marc is breathing softly against his arm, still, quiet, perfect. 

“I want to marry you,” he murmurs.

Silence. His stomach drops. 

Marc’s inhale catches in the back of his throat, halfway to a snore, and Valentino laughs, gentle so he doesn’t wake him. He plucks the coffee cup, dangling precariously, from slack fingers, and places it on the side table. 

——

iii.

They’ve created a routine over the past few months.

(Valentino’s stomach jumps every time he thinks about it, thinks about how they’re falling into habits, into familiarity. Every time, he smiles.) 

It’s their last day together for a while: Marc is leaving later, and Valentino flies early in the morning to get to his GT race. But the routine doesn’t change. He’s making lunch for them. Marc is upstairs—his phone had rung, insistent, and he’d groaned but pulled away, leaving Valentino to chop the rest of their salad. 

Marc emerges after nearly twenty-five minutes, eyebrows pinched together, but accepts the plate Valentino slides towards him with a distracted smile.

“Everything okay?” Valentino asks.

“Ah, my accountant.” Marc scowls. “Apparently I am spending too much time in Italy.” 

Valentino can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his chest. 

“It’s not funny,” Marc says, almost whines. “It’s a tax thing. Between all the time I spend here, and time at the factory—not enough in Spain, apparently.”

Shrugging, Valentino taps one finger on the table. “We could get married.” 

Marc snorts. “Would that help?”

“I don’t know. I am very bad to ask about tax advice, remember?”

“Me too.” Marc stabs a piece of his salad—viciously, in Valentino’s opinion. 

“Don’t frown. It will be okay.”

“I can hide here. It is difficult for you to be in Madrid.”

“It will be okay,” Valentino repeats. “And remember, we can always get married.”

He thinks he deserves it when Marc throws a slice of bread at him. 

——

iv.

Clouds hang heavy on the mountains in Spielberg, threatening rain but holding off for now. Valentino leaves Luca with a last pat on the shoulder, weaving his way up the grid towards Franky’s starting spot.

It’s slow going, stopped every few steps, shaking hands with people he recognises, people he doesn’t.

“Valentino—Valentino!”

It’s Laverty, and Valentino doesn’t mind that because he doesn’t tend to ask stupid questions. He indulges the interview, long past acceptance of the fact that he built his own mythos and will never be left alone for the rest of his life. Yes, he’s doing well, thank you. Yes, it’s nice to be on the grid. Yes, he’s proud of his boys. Yes, he’s still enjoying racing with BMW. 

“And a final question,” Michael says. “You seem like you and Marc Márquez have finally buried the hatchet. Is everything put to bed? How did you manage it?”

Maybe Michael Laverty does ask stupid questions. 

Perhaps he should have been expecting it, because clasping hands before a race, sharing a smile under the podium—people notice. Especially when the norm used to be nothing at all, or worse.

“Ah, you know.” He has plenty of shields for the media, and it’s no problem to pull out an old favourite. “We talked. Dinner with candles. It is all going very well. Maybe soon we get married.” 

Michael laughs, loud and boisterous, like Vale hasn’t just wrapped up the truth in a pretty package and presented it as a joke. He smiles, camera-easy, and returns Michael’s ciao. 

It’s only when he turns around that he realises Álex and Bez, lined up side-by-side on the grid, are staring at him. 

——

v. 

Misano is hot, sweltering August-end heat. Valentino is sweating under his cap and sunglasses, pressed in a red throng of Ducati engineers. One-two. Red on red. 

It’s Marc who’d won, victorious in the battle of weaving-turning-diving along long straights and through heavy-brake corners. Pecco had given him a good fight, an Italian classic of a race; he’s smiling at Marc, learning to enjoy the scrappy thrill of battle as well as the ease of a flawless win. 

Marc’s shining, beaming at his team, smiling down the cameras, alive under the sun. Valentino swallows down the urge to kiss him, if only because their comms officers would kill them both. 

The podium has never seemed so long. Media obligations have never seemed so long. It’s an age before they’re alone, motorhome door locked, and Valentino has Marc, to himself, finally.

He used to think Marc was too much for him, in danger of eclipsing him, their implosion inevitable as two brilliant stars orbited closer, closer, too close. Too much light for the world to handle.

If he met that version of himself now, Valentino thinks he would shake him. 

Marc glows, yes, but there’s a brightness that only Valentino gets to see, one that erupts out in starbursts of ecstasy when they’re together, when Valentino is pushing inside him, when Marc is staring up at him like there’s nothing else in the world. 

Valentino stops, earning a petulant glare; even that’s breathtaking. How—how—he can’t find the words.

“I think,” Valentino forces out, elbows taking his weight, “I want to marry you.”

Marc blinks, face suddenly cutting, incredulous. “You are telling me this now?” He’s a livewire, crackling with sparks, hot with triumph, shooting static through Valentino’s skin. He’s beautiful. Valentino wants to see this for the rest of his life, so yeah, he’s saying it now. 

He tilts his hips, and the disbelief is gone, washed away as Marc gasps. It’s something like reverence now—but not how it used to be. Nothing that Valentino could shatter this time, even though he still wants to hold it close. 

Contrary as always, Marc winds fingers through his hair, pulls him down for a breathless kiss—and Valentino smiles into it, because he can do this, he can have this effect on Marc, still. Still. 

“Vale—” 

He’s helpless when it’s Marc. Still. Always. 

When they’re finished, when they’re lying curled into each other, Valentino breathing heavy into Marc’s hair, Marc looks up, eyes narrowed. 

“You did well today,” Valentino tells him softly, and the hard expression is gone once again, replaced with a different kind of wonder. 

“Did you mean it?”

He knows what Marc means. “Yes.”

Marc nods. “Ask me again. Another time.”

It’s—Valentino smiles again. “That was not a no.” 

——

+1 

It’s not a bad crash—it’s not, not by the metrics of this sport, not compared to what it could have been, what it has been in the past. 

It’s not bad, but it could have been: Marc, bumped wide by Acosta, unable to save it, sliding helplessly through the corner apex—and Bez, unsighted, trying to avoid the recovering KTM, sailing past his braking point towards Marc, and almost—almost. 

It’s not bad, but it was close, and when Marc is back in the paddock, when he’s speaking to cameras, when he’s with his engineers, there’s something wild about him, something faraway sitting behind his eyes, and Valentino knows. He knows.  

(He still dreams, sometimes, of Austria; not of the crash, but the feeling of it, the prickle at the back of his skull, the cold finger-brush of something not right. The almost that he didn’t see coming.) 

So he waits. Marc is settled enough, trusts him enough, to reach for him when he needs him. Valentino trusts Marc enough to let him. 

The knock on his motorhome door comes long after the chequered flag has fallen. Valentino doesn’t get up, knows Marc will let himself in.

“Sorry. Pedro wanted to talk—I am not angry, but good he apologised.”

“That’s okay,” Valentino says, gentle. 

Marc drifts, loose, unmoored, towards the sofa, folds his legs underneath him, presses into Valentino’s space. Valentino lets him, waits for him to speak.

Marc is shaking. Not a lot, just enough for Valentino to notice when he takes his hand.

“Okay?”

He’s not, of course he’s not, but it’s a door nudged ajar, an opening if Marc wants to take it.

“That was—close.”

“Yeah.”

“I was—watching the bike.” Marc swallows. “Just—that was all I could do. Watch it coming towards me.” 

Valentino pulls their joined hands up, presses a kiss to the back of Marc’s. 

Marc’s next exhale trembles in the space between them. 

“You’re okay.” 

“If Bez didn’t turn—” 

If. Almost. “You’re okay,” Valentino says again, because he needs to hear it himself. Marc’s fingers clench in his. “Okay? Look, you are holding my hand. You’re okay.”

It won’t be long before Marc is through this, before he’s smiling, before he’s raring to climb on his bike again. Not yet, though. Valentino knows—he knows.

“We should get married,” Marc says abruptly.

“I have been saying—”

“Seriously.”

Valentino takes him in: pinched eyebrows; hair flattened from his Ducati cap; pursed lips. “I think I am offended, that you only ask me after today.”

Marc pulls his hand away, the laugh jolting out of him. “Valentino—”

“And you are asking me in a motorhome—really, I would have taken my hoodie off at least—”

“Vale,” Marc groans, but he’s there, he’s smiling, he’s back. 

He can’t stop a smile twitching the corners of his lips in return. “Yes?” 

“That was not a no.” 

Valentino takes his hand again.

[red-ruth]

Phillip Island GP

//Info//

27 laps Dry Race/Flag2Flag DNFS: 2

Pole: Jorge Martin Winner: Marc Marquez Fastest Lap: Marc Marquez (1:27.765s on Lap 9) New Lap Record! (previously held by Marquez from 2013)

Race Podium: 1 Marc Marquez (+25pts) + 0.997s 2 Jorge Martin (+20pts) + 9.103s 3 Pecco Bagnaia (+15pts)

Championship Standings: 1 Jorge Martin (424 pts) + 20 2 Pecco Bagnaia (404 pts) + 59 3 Marc Marquez (345 pts) + 14 4 Enea Bastianini (331 pts)

Summary and Report under read now

//Summary//

Marc gets his own tear off under his rear wheel in the start. He’s not able to reach it and it causes a horrific start. He barely gets any acceleration and ends up p13 going into turn 1. By turn 2, he’s p9. By turn 3, he's p6.

The rest of the grid has very similar starts as the sprint. Pecco has a great start and sneaks past Maverick in p3 into p2. However, he has a wobble just before/at the braking and loses the place to Bez. Jorge has a significant lead into turn 1 due to the other two front row starters having bad starts and is unchallenged.

Binder gets a great start, up 7 places into p5. As does Morbidelli in p4.

By end of lap 1, Jorge has a half second gap.

There’s a small gap Marc is having to make up from p6 so there’s a battle for p4 between binder and morbidelli.

Bez does his long lap penalty from the sprint. The race order is now Martin, Bagnaia, Morbidelli, Binder, Marquez.

Once Marc catches them, Binder makes a mistake and Marc has a look. However the following corner he passes him and into p4

Lap 3 Marc is p4

Lap 4 Bez crashes and rejoins, slide from turn 4.

Pecco keeping gap steady to Jorge, he’s not pulling away like the sprint. Tyre saving mode.

Marc has slip stream on Morbidelli passes him into p3

Marc sets fastest lap, he’s now got clear air infront. 0.859 second gap to Pecco lap 5.

Luca Marini has to give up a place because he undertook under yellow flag.

Lap 6 Enea in p6, he’s stuck in traffic. The top three are pulling away significantly.

On lap 6, Marc breaks the race lap record from 2013 that he placed himself. I didn’t record it at the time as he continued to improve, but the record is currently the time he set on lap 9, 1:27.765s.

Diggi and Enea scrapping for p6 on lap 8.

Marc has caught Pecco the same lap. And closes 8 tenths on Jorge in the lead.

Marc tries a lot down the straight to pass Pecco, but he can’t match him in the braking.

With Marc and Pecco fighting for p2, the hurry up is now closing the gap to Jorge

Lap 11 Jorge does a mistake, loses a lot of time and all three of the close into a three way battle. Pecco passes Jorge on the inside, Jorge gets him in the switchback, except Marc sees the gap Jorge went through and follows him, putting Jorge back into p1 and Marc past Pecco into p2.

Jorge and Marc both sit together, pulling away from Pecco. Marc doesn’t really try any moves, but he barely lets the gap go below 0.200s from here on out.

Lap 16 the gap to Pecco is one second. A few laps later, with Pecco losing his tow, this gap has doubled.

Lap 18 Jorge goes wide slightly. He’s making minor mistakes.

Marc has the same problem in the straight he had with Pecco in that he turns so much better in the corners, especially the left handers, but he can’t even try on the straight because the gp24 (and Martin too) can brake so much later than him. Even though he gets the run on the both of them, it amounts to nothing.

Lap 20 the speed of the front runners is incredible. Enea (p4) is 10 seconds behind Jorge. That’s half a second faster than the rest of the field. They’re in a race of their own.

Lap 23 (4 laps to go), Jorge goes wide by the smallest margin, Marc sees the gap and plants himself on the apex, passing him and making it stick. However, Jorge is very very close behind.

The start of lap 24, Marc, who has not shaken Jorge, gains on him on the straight, and flies past Marc in the braking at turn 1.

Same lap, turn 4, same corner he did the pass on the previous lap, Jorge brakes later, responding to his own mistake that let Marc through the first time. However Marc does the opposite, lunges down the inside of Jorge, slows right down at the apex, pushing Jorge off line/out. Then accelerates out of the corner, creating that gap Marc needed the first time. He learnt from the previous lap.

Lap 26 Marc has seriously pulled away. Jorge tries the same thing at turn 1 that got him back to p1 before, however he was too far back and Marc stays ahead.

Joan Mir crashes and retires

Last lap, Stoner corner, the one corner Marc’s been so strong at all weekend, he pulls such a massive advantage from Jorge that by the time he’s crossed the line Marc is nearly a second over Jorge.

//Report//

Thank you Marc Marquez for your masterclass. I know there are a lot of people complaining about the racing at the level that Ducati is at. Which is fair, it leaves a lot of seriously talented riders not having the results they need because they’re just not on ducatis. However, as a Marquez fan I’m having a ball, and I’ll admit my bias in that.

So first off the bat, the looney toons ass start leaving Marc in butt fuck knowhere, yet he recovers half of it in the first sector is insane. From there on it’s basically just the same as the sprint. Working through the field. And I said yesterday, five laps longer he would’ve caught Jorge. So Marc gets to that point in the race where he has the track he just needs to put the laps in and he does.

Genuinely, Marc was faster than the gp24s in terms of pace. But he was really struggling to actually pass them. You can see how hard he has to work. I felt insane watching him consistently get better exits, carry more corner speed, rotate the bike on a completely different level, and all the gp24s had to do was get the braking right and it undos all that.

Marc was seriously struggling to get past Pecco, and if it weren’t for that little three way kerfuffle giving him the opportunity to, I feel as if he would’ve been stuck behind him for much longer.

Ultimately it wouldn’t have made that much of a difference because Jorge and Marc’s pace was unreal. Watching them pull away further and further, with Marc so far up Jorge’s ass he could probably smell his breakfast, and for it to stay that way for Multiple Laps, crazy. I know really it was just going around and around in circles because Marc wasn’t making many moves at first, but that last 7 laps or so, with Jorge making mistakes, and Marc lunging it left and right was beautiful. I love good clean impressive racing. In my live notes all I put for Marc’s final move was just “most beautiful lunge ever”

But I cannot imagine being Pecco in this situation. I know Phillip island is Marc’s strength, but it’s so clear that this race was Marc using his skills to best bikes with clear advantages. With Martin going to Aprilia next year, your sole competitor’s only drawback being the advantages you hold over him, the same advantages that will be levelled next year is scary. Because what that was from Marc, was pure skill. The title fight next year is going to be fiery, but we’ve known that :)

Also, god I’m so unsure how this championship is going to pan out. I know we're saying this is going right down to Valencia, and I agree, but to be honest, the next race will make the difference to me. If Jorge is at or around the level he was this weekend in Thailand, I think he’ll be taking it in Valencia. If Pecco does, this faux battle will continue for longer, let’s see what happens :)

[artanticaa]

in my head it was just that they never dare ask the name of who's in the photo and marc is solely known as "the small bastard" by everyone in the shop. and when they finally do meet him, bez is like "if you're a tattoo artist, why don't you have any tattoos?" and marc just shrugs and goes "i'm afraid of needles". although bonus for him having a 46 tattoo somewhere hidden (upper thigh?) that drives vale insane whenever he thinks of it and has him stabbing the photo with the dart very aggressively while everyone else is sat there like ... okay then. oh and pecco and bez doing their first proper tattoos once they've qualified or whatever on each other bc cute. there's more like plot and drama in my head lol, but it's all v self indulgent lol.

IM CRYING- no no “the small bastard” is literally perfect and i love that so much…

What i’ve come up with so far is basically marc has his own studio and vale hates it because marc is very into like his own one style and like “new” tattoo trends, so like UV tattoos and all that fun stuff… i’m thinking maybe marc apprenticed with Vale like a loooong time ago and then they had a big falling out

marc seems like he doesn’t have any tattoos but i like the idea that he has UV ones and they don’t show up until he goes like fucking black light mini golfing or something and then he’s glowing everywhere 😭

AND WITH PECCO AND BEZZ UR SO SPOT ON BRO- they DEFINITELY have atrocious stick and poke tattoos from when they were like 15 and once they get licensed they give a tattoo to each other ASAP HAHAHA

Somewhere between all of this i picture Bezz wandering into Marc’s shop one day not knowing it’s “the small bastard’s” and marc comes out of the back wearing like a mask and goggles because he’s laser removing someone’s tattoo (he offers that service) and has a whole conversation with Bezz without showing his face and Bezz LOVES him and comes back to get a tattoo and Marc’s face is showing and Bezz is like “oh my god it’s YOU🫵”

But again thank you so much for enjoying this💕

[kingofthering]

hiii, if you feel like it, rosquez + "Still the best kisser in the world." thank you! :))

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Valentino slips him a smile as Marc settles next to him, forearms leaning against the railguard of the balcony he just joined.

“In this exact spot or at the ceremony?” Valentino asks after taking a sip from the glass in his right hand. Definitely a Spritz. Marc can’t help his frown of disgust and he doesn’t miss Valentino’s answering amused face. It does make Marc wish he’d come out with a drink of his own, something to keep his hands busy. He shrugs and Valentino answers, “I’m here for Bez.”

Marc nods, a small part of his mind wondering if Valentino would have still been here otherwise or if he’s just lucky that one of Valentino’s boys won the championship on the year where Marc decided to retire. He could only finish 5th in the standings this year but the FIM officials had wanted to do something for him, a little tribute he couldn’t not attend, hence his presence at the gala tonight.

“I suppose I can congratulate you too, while we’re here,” Valentino adds quietly. Marc knows that Valentino still travels a lot but his accent sounds stronger anyway. “You managed to stop before me, I was kind of surprised when they told me.”

“No one is going to beat that record of yours, don’t worry,” Marc chuckles. “My body wouldn’t let me anyway.”

He can feel Valentino’s eyes on him as Marc very consciously rubs his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, tonight, but, well.

“At least you got a 9th title.”

“Didn’t get a 10th, though.”

“Didn’t get a 10th.”

Marc almost expects the word “karma” to leave Valentino’s mouth but it doesn’t. Instead they just share a look that means a thousands things at once. It’s been well over a decade since 2015 and they’ve both grown too much to still care like that. Marc’s not sure when they both made their peace with the situation, probably not at the same point in time, but the result was the same.

Valentino takes another sip from his glass and Marc can’t help but watch his throat works as he goes about it. It hasn’t been long since he last saw Valentino -after all, Valentino still owns a team and always tended to be on circuits a couple of times per season- but it has been some time since he last saw him from up close, since they last talked, even.

Of course, Valentino’s face bears the marks of time, lines on his forehead and at the corner of his eyes, scars that Marc knows weren’t there back when they met. His eyes are still a piercing blue that Marc could get lost in if not careful.

A lot of things have changed with time but Valentino is still handsome, Marc will never be able to deny that.

“I found Fabio and Tony making out in a dark corner when I left the bathroom earlier. I almost told them about the room,” Marc eventually says, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

There is a smile at the corner of Valentino’s lips when he turns his face in Marc’s direction. 

The room. That quiet place that Valentino knew basically everywhere, the original one in Jerez or the other one in Valencia, for once they started doing the FIM awards there.

In 2014, that’s where they have sex for the first time after making out in a pretty similar to now balcony, too hungry to make it to a hotel room first (but that’s where they continue the night for round two, and then round three in the morning).

The following year, no hotel, just those four walls, harsh movements, bruises, hate sex to the very core of its definition.

In 2016, they’re in a better place. The sex is more fun, less rushed. It almost makes Marc believe that they could go back to the way things used to be. Except they don’t, the moment just existing outside of their usual timeline.

Valentino isn’t here in 2017 and Marc pretends that he doesn’t miss him. He might drink a little too much but he’s 24, he can survive a harsh hangover, whatever.

In 2018, Marc almost thinks it’s not going to happen. Dovi keeps sending him questioning looks because Marc apparently looks troubled for half of the night, his eyes trying not to land on where he can see Valentino flirts with other people. It’s not like they ever promised each other the awards were their night but it stings anyway. Valentino catches him before Marc leaves. He almost wants to say no out of principle but there is one squeeze of his wrist and Marc is gone, following Valentino’s footsteps mindlessly.

“Why didn’t you?” Valentino asks. “Did you want to have it for yourself tonight?”

Marc can’t read Valentino’s voice and it throws him off just a little. Instead of the witty answer he could come back with if Valentino wasn’t so close to him right now, Marc says, “They’re big boys, they can figure themselves out.”

He doesn’t know how they got to stand so close to each other, they weren’t touching from shoulder to hip when Marc joined Valentino earlier. It makes Marc feel on edge, electricity running through his veins.

That should be the part where he asks the question back to Valentino. Do you want the room for yourself tonight? But Marc doesn’t have it in him to ask, doesn’t have it in him to learn the answer.

From the corner of his eyes, Marc can see Valentino’s glass being discarded to the side and then, the tiniest bit of movement.

Marc doesn’t know if he shivers from the coldness of Valentino’s hand against his cheek or the tenderness of his thumb when it sweeps against Marc’s jaw.

Valentino leans down and Marc meets him in the middle, one fist going for Vale’s shirt, bringing them closer together. Melting into the kiss is second nature, opening up for Valentino’s tongue as easy as coming back home.

They say old habits die hard. Maybe they can be just a tiny bit immortal when they’re about something you wished for for a long time, something that became part of the best thing in your life for a good while.

Marc is a little breathless when they break apart. He feels a self-conscious about his grip on Valentino and after releasing his dress shirt, he taps Valentino’s chest two times in a false attempt at smoothing down the fabric.

“Still the best kisser in the world,” Marc teases once he’s done with Valentino’s clothes and ready to look him in the eyes again, the words out of his mouth before he truly processes them.

Valentino chuckles. “Trying to sweet talk me into your bed, Marquez? You know I’m better than that.”

Marc blushes, the cold of the wind a stark contrast against his warming up cheeks. The current between them hasn’t snapped with the kiss, it’s still there, low and keeping them together. There might be the hint of an offer behind Valentino’s words and Marc isn’t sure what to do with it just yet.

“Don’t worry, I would never call you easy. You’ve never been anything close to easy.”

“Good thing you’ve never liked easy, though, Marc. Right?”

Marc thinks he might turn even redder. He huffs a laugh before setting his eyes back on the landscape under him, his thoughts going haywire inside of his brain.

Being kissed by Valentino on the night of his retirement felt like closing in a circle, the end to something that began right with his carreer, simmering in the background all along.

Marc doesn’t know if going further means strengthening the buckle of the circle or starting a new line in a whole different direction. 

He doesn’t mean to spiral. His heart might have just hopped onto a rollercoaster but it’s fine, he can handle that.

Marc couldn’t say how long the silence stretches between them but it’s not uncomfortable, Valentino’s presence still a nice radiating warmth by his side. 

It eventually gets broken when Valentino detaches himself from the railguard, hand grabbing Marc’s left wrist.

“If you want to know if I’m still the best in the world for some other things, you know where to find me,” Valentino says with a sweep of his thumb over Marc’s pulsepoint.

It sends goosebumps down Marc’s spine and Valentino has his back to him, almost out of the balcony, when Marc calls for him. “That was horrible. The opposite of smooth.”

Marc can hear Valentino’s chuckle echo in the night and then the last words he addresses to Marc before slipping back inside. “Good thing you’ve always been easy for me, then.”

send me a prompt + a pairing.

[hotmessmaxpress]

can we please have bez/cele getting together in of au?

Yes you can! This is a direct continuation of this, where Bezz finds out that Celestino subscribed to Marc's onlyfans before Marc and Vale started dating. That threw Bezz into a gay crisis, and here we are!

Thanks for waiting so patiently for this!

OnlyFans au interlude: celestino and bezz

Bezz wakes up the following morning on Celestino’s couch. He’s stiff and still a little tired, and he enjoys that special type of calm that comes from waking up in a safe place. 

He freezes when he remembers the events of the previous day.

Cele has an onlyfans account and he subscribes to Marc Marquez. Bezz lays there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what other types of people Cele subscribes to. Do any of them look like him? Are they all tiny, fit twinks? Are they all fucking Spanish?

Bezz doesn’t realize he’s breathing heavily until Celestino walks timidly into the room. 

“Bezz? Are you okay?”

Bezz sits up and looks at Cele. He’s sleep-rumpled, and Bezz wonders how late the two of them must have slept. There’s a pillow line across one of Cele’s cheeks, and the neck of his shirt is stretched out. Bezz wants to wrap Celin up in a blanket and bundle him back into bed. He wants to hold him and kiss him on the forehead and make sure he’s warm and comfortable at all times. 

The revelation nearly sends him into another panic attack. Now that he’s acknowledged that he likes men, or, at least likes one man, it’s like he is seeing Cele with new eyes. 

“I”m okay,” Bezz says, voice rough and a little high pitched. 

Cele stands there awkwardly for a moment, and Bezz pats the couch next to him. Cele sits down, and he grabs the edge of Bezz’s blanket so he can pull part of it over himself as well. 

“Can we talk about yesterday?” Bezz blurts.

Celestino looks like he would rather do quite literally anything else, but he doesn’t get up, so that’s a win. 

Bezz has no idea what to say now that he’s opened the door, though. How do you tell your best friend that you’re having some not-quite-heterosexual thoughts about him? How is he supposed to tell Celestino that he hates Marc now, only because he has to live with the knowledge that Cele found Marc so attractive that he–

“You aren’t going to tell Vale, are you?” Celestino asks awkwardly, interrupting Bezz’s spiraling.

“What?” Bezz asks, staring at him. 

“Please don’t tell him. If you think he needs to know then I should be the one to tell him– but I already cancelled my subscription, okay?”

Well, that’s not the direction Bezz thought this was going to go. 

“That’s not what– no, I’m not going to tell Vale. I am trying to explain…” 

Cele stares at him expectantly. 

“I don’t like that you followed Marc. I don’t like that you’ve seen him naked.”

Cele recoils, embarrassed and clearly a little hurt. Bezz immediately realizes his fuckup and knows there’s no coming back from this. He can’t let Cele think he’s homophobic. 

“Bezz-”

“I’m jealous,” Bezz croaks. “I don’t want you to be attracted to him.”

Cele stares at him. Now that Bezz has admitted it, it’s impossible for him to stop his mouth. 

“I want you to think of me that way because I want to think of you that way. And I know you didn’t have sex with him but in a way it feels like you did, and I am jealous of that because he doesn’t deserve that from you. You shouldn’t have to watch him jack off or whatever because you deserve to be taken care of,” Bezz complains. 

Cele is staring at him.

“Sorry,” Bezz adds, as an afterthought. 

Cele is still staring at him. 

“You’re gay?” Celestino asks, dubiously. 

Bezz hadn’t gotten that far in his internal discussion when he woke up. He has no idea, and he’s not sure how to explain that to Cele. He hasn’t ever considered if he likes men before. He knows without a doubt that he likes Cele, though. He thinks he probably always has. It feels like breathing. This entire situation has felt like his world has been upended, but liking Celestino feels like breathing. 

“I… I don’t know,” Bezz says lamely. 

Cele looks away. 

“But you like me?”

Bezz nods, but Cele isn’t looking at him. 

“Yes. I think… I didn’t ever really think about it until you said you follow Marc and I felt jealous. And then I had to think about why I felt jealous. And I guess if I’m jealous that means I’m at least a little gay, right?”

Cele is silent for a moment before he snorts and starts laughing. 

Bezz shoves at him, embarrassed and defensive. 

“You’re supposed to be supportive!”

Cele is howling with laughter now. 

“Of course I am supportive! But you were the one who made me think you were mad at me yesterday!”

Bezz frowns. 

“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely, but Cele is clearly not listening. He’s still wheezing with laughter at Bezz’s expense. 

Bezz pouts while Cele calms back down. 

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Bezz complains. 

That seems to remind Cele of what they were talking about, and he turns to Bezz with wide eyes. 

“Wait,” Cele says, “you have feelings for me.”

Bezz’s heart is racing and he nods. 

“You are jealous that I follow Vale’s boyfriend because you want me to see you naked, not him.”

Bezz nods again, sure that he has never been this mortified in his life. 

“You’re ‘a little bit gay’,” Cele says, making exaggerated air quotes. 

Bezz buries his face in his hands. 

Cele laughs again, then pulls at Bezz’s wrists until he uncovers his face. 

“You’re lucky I’ve had a crush on you since I was thirteen.”

Bezz makes a startled noise at that information, but before he can think, Cele has placed a hand on the back of his neck and guided their faces together. 

It’s the worst first kiss Bezz has ever had. Their noses bump together and Cele is still giggling a little bit, and Bezz’s brain is still moving so slowly that he only realizes he’s being kissed as Cele is already pulling away. 

He frowns, deciding that is not good enough, and he leans forward. This time he’s prepared for it, and Cele has stopped laughing, and when their lips meet it’s easy for Bezz to close his eyes and relax. 

Kissing Cele is feels normal. It’s almost anticlimactic how normal it feels. There are no fireworks or explosions. 

It feels like getting on the bike; a flash of nervousness followed by a sense of rightness; a feeling that all is well. Bezz has a flash of frustration at himself for taking so long to realize that he wanted this. 

He’s not sure how long they kiss, but when they finally pull apart they’re both smiling.

[safetycar-restart]

Oooh ds au motogp, you mentioned thirst trap slutty chaos demon Jorge? Please do tell me more, im very intrigued. 👀

So Fabio being a good boy and Marc deliberatly getting a spanking by posting thirst traps were just so delicious. Fabulousness.

But what punishment does Marc recieve for the soft porn half naked workout videos? Or did he gave permission for those ones? Or was that when he felt very neglected and passive aggresivly shot those without a collar and posted?

On the other end of the insta spectrum how much does dom coo over marc and his brother's dog, fabio and various dogs, jorge and his (?) dog, enea and his dog, bezz and his dog (was it any other moto boy you liked for this?). Like the adorableness.

Also Fabio in various soft sweaters, so coo worthy, need to cuddle and pet his hair.

And then we have Marc in various post surgery and injury recovery pics. Is that something his dom takes as a sign that Marc needs all the soft but structured scenes. Needs to just float and let someone else be in the drivers seat for a little while and be loved and cared for?

Cheers 🏍 anon

There are only three things guarantees in the universe: death, taxes and 🏍️ anon dropping killer MotoGP asks. I fucking love this. I really want to write more for MotoGP cause they’re actually truly my favourite lads.

So I’m gonna discuss this by separating each concept, because I think that makes the most sense? As always, let me know if you want to hear more about anything/if anything inspires you/if you want to see more MotoGP!

D/S AU THIRST TRAPS:

So firstly, as I said Jorge is indeed a chaos demon with this, and I say demon because he doesn’t just post his own thirst traps, no no he must drag you into hell with him. He’s not getting into heaven and neither are you.

If you go to the gym with him, sweaty workout selfies of both of you WILL be posted. He must show off both his insane body and also his insanely hot dominant. And he’ll do the most suggestive poses over, he once posted a picture of him shirtless leaning against you, literally licking your neck he’s an absolute menace.

You have to curate the pictures he does and does not post or else he will post straight up porn on his Instagram stories, and he’s perfectly happy with you choosing what he can post as long as he’s still allowed to post soft core porn and pictures with you.

As for Marc’s punishments….

So I think the half naked workout videos actually are taken with permission, mostly because they actually have to be edited? It takes work before those can be posted, unlike just taking his shirt off and posting a picture.

In fact I think him doing them without a collar would probably somehow be a requirement? Like a sponsor doesn’t want him to wear it. And Marc, as much as he loves to push your buttons, would NEVER take his collar off because that’s his everything. So he was very unhappy filming those videos and had to take multiple breaks to get reassurance from you.

However, he does get punished for just randomly posting half naked pictures without permission and that is always done when he’s feeling bratty and wants attention. He gets his attention for them, which is a very good spanking followed by a cockcage but that’s exactly what he wanted.

CUTENESS:

(I adore all of this babble)

So firstly, all of the subs take introducing you to their dogs VERY seriously. Especially Marc and Bez. It was an entire event with Bez. You literally had to come to his house just to meet his dog. As for Marc, he conveniently forgets the dogs are actually Alex’s and just treats them like his own and it’s also very important that you like them and get along with them.

For Bez especially though, because whenever he has the time he’s always with his dog and he doesn’t want to have to split his time between his Dom and his dog. And he absolutely adores spending time just the three of you. In fact maybe you start calling bez’s dog in for aftercare? You get Bez all cleaned up and fed and whatnot and then it’s just time for cuddles and waiting for him to recover so you call his dog in and then Bez can have dog cuddles!! It’s the absolute best. Just a happy, sleepy fucked out Bez cuddling his dog.

Oh god and Fabio with all his sweaters!! I actually recently spoke about this on discord server and I’m gonna repeat it here: Fabio LOVES being his Dom’s babygirl. He loves to be cared for and loved on and looked after and treated like he’s too pretty to do anything for himself. He’ll put on some comfy oversized sweater and his cute little glasses and fuzzy socks and come snuggle right under his Dom’s arm, refusing to do anything for himself because he’s simply too cute and too sweet you must do it all for him.

And Marc! Poor Marc. Honestly by this point I think you’d have a whole aftercare protocol in place for post surgery care with him just because of the sheer number of surgeries he’s had to undergo. I think the first few days after surgery are always the toughest for Marc, because that’s when he can do the least and when he literally just needs to rest it. Once he starts being able to start the rehab process, then he’s okay because he’s got a game plan and things to do. But the initial week or so of having to do literally nothing kills him.

That’s the time where he spends most of it just floating in subspace for you. It’s so much better for him when you just take him down. Because then he can’t feel bad about not doing anything or push himself too hard or get stuck in his own head because he’s too busy being your good boy.

Marc also insists he heals much better like that, but most likely that’s just because you’re there to take very good care of him. So yeah, plenty of very relaxed non-sexual but structured scenes that allow Marc to just float in subspace and recover.