#motogp fic

[kingofthecotas]

lion's den | ao3

marc at the 100km race in 2026 | 3.4k

i have. compressed the timeline. for narrative reasons 

----

Luca catches him just before they pile out of the house, towards the changing room and the bike shed. It’s not difficult for him: Marc has been hovering, peripheral, all morning. Pecco tried his best to pull him into a conversation, but Bezzecchi turned cold and Valentino appeared from the kitchen and that was that.

Marc fixes the unsure set of his face the second he realises he’s being observed instead of politely ignored. The smile is enough to convince most people—it usually is. 

“You know…” Luca visibly picks through his words before he says them. “You don’t have to forgive him.”

Marc tries not to allow the smile to falter. 

“If you are doing this for Pecco—that is kind of you. But you do not have to forgive him.”

“I think…” And Marc tilts his head, calculating what he can afford to reveal. Luca—he likes Luca, has always found him reasonable. “Too late for that, maybe.” 

Luca’s eyes flicker for a heartbeat, too quick for him to catch even if the rest of his expression is perfectly controlled. Surprise. Marc had surprised him. 

Marc clearly isn’t as fucking obvious as he thinks he is. 

“Well, just …” Luca shrugs, looks him up and down. “It’s good you are here.”

“Good for Ducati?” Marc says, twisting Pecco’s words just enough that they sound mocking. 

“Good for Ducati. Good for the cameras, of course.” Maybe Luca—he doesn’t have blinders on, perhaps, the way Bezzecchi does. Knows Valentino, knows what he does, and loves him anyway. “Come on.”

The moment they step outside, there’s a phone in Marc’s face, wielded by someone in a VR46 hat. Good for the cameras. Good for Valentino.

He huffs out a breath that coils in the air, hangs like smoke, before following Luca to the changing rooms with something sickening in his chest, in his stomach. 

——

Pecco had suggested it first, after a particularly friendly debrief; he’d charged off into the Italian afternoon by three seconds, and Marc chased but decided the championship was close enough that twenty points was better than gravel. Things had stopped being fraught after Qatar—bizarrely, since Pecco had heard Marc behind him and locked the brakes, leaving Marc with nowhere to go but over his teammate’s sliding rear tyre. Gravel trap, Pecco helping him to his feet—and genuine shock when Marc accepted his apology without question. He’d watched Marc for an hour like he expected him to snap, before seemingly deciding he was safe. 

So things had been fine. And Pecco had been fine. So when Pecco won in Misano, clawed some points back, and suggested Tavullia—Marc had laughed. Good joke.

“No, I think it would be good,” Pecco said, his smile half-confused and half-polite—but not joking. “Good for the team.”

“Do you?” Because—Jesus, Pecco had been there. He’d been young, yes, but he was there.

“Just—you don’t have to.”

“Sorry,” Marc said. “Not a good idea, I think.”

“Okay,” Pecco said, unconcerned, and that had been that. 

——

Valentino snares him the moment he steps into the outbuilding, blinking at the same wooden walls he’d doomed himself in over a decade ago.

“Marc! Come here, come here, you need to sign.” And he’s being shepherded towards the table, towards the poster and the pens. Leaving his mark, he supposes.

Cameras. Marc smiles. “So I go right in the middle, no?”

Everyone laughs, indulgent, and Valentino even smiles in return before pointing out a spot for him. Marc does as he’s told; he’s walked himself into the lion’s den, so he may as well play before he’s torn to bloody ribbons.

“And the shirts, behind you.” Valentino is close, too close, a hot vein of lightning in the very centre of Marc’s awareness as they move together, entirely at his whim. 

Marc swallows, wonders if he shouldn’t have come. 

Valentino pulls the hem of the shirt, stretches it out taut, even though one of the hovering assistants had held her hand out to do the same thing—Valentino holds it carefully until Marc has finished, then does the same for the next one.

Then, “Allora,” and Marc is forgotten as Valentino turns to entertain, to hold court. 

——

In the end, it was Valentino who had extended the second invitation, the one that Marc felt like he couldn’t refuse. It was magnanimous, the way Valentino reached for him when he won his ninth title, perfectly positioned for the cameras to capture. Summoned, to kneel and kiss the ring: Marc could play the PR game too, and he acquiesced.

And maybe—

He’d been hot and tired from the race; high on victory; dizzy from champagne and the way his palm had burned, even through gloves, when Valentino had locked their hands together so Marc couldn’t pull away. 

But he’d known exactly what he was doing—what both of them were doing—when he said yes. 

——

Pecco watches them both, not nervous but something like it, over the top of Bezzecchi’s head. 

It’s cold, January-cold, a soft mist sitting over the track. Valentino has his hair tucked into a bright yellow hat, talking in a voice that’s clearly meant to be picked up by the ever-present phones. Marc listens, pretends to listen, smiles when he senses he should. 

“Ah,” Enea says at his shoulder, “we will be fine.” Enea—relaxed, easy. Everything is easy for him, even standing in this crowd of strangers. Marc’s selfishly glad he’s here, and quietly grateful to Pecco for orchestrating them being together. 

At the very least, Marc has something like a shield. 

“Better when you get out and practice, yes?” Valentino says. “Get the, ah, get the feel.” He’s being so attentive it’s making Marc itch, caught under the laser-beam of his focus with no escape. 

Marc swallows. Makes himself nod again. The eyes observing him narrow—and Valentino finally finally turns away. 

When Marc looks back at Pecco, he’s still staring. So is Luca. Not concern. Anticipation, maybe. 

“This was a bad idea,” he mutters to Enea, because Enea won’t care—and he doesn’t, letting out a loud laugh.

“Ah, I don’t know. Good for me. I might win this.” 

“We might win this,” Marc retorts, reflex, and Enea laughs again.

Fuck Pecco. It’s helping.

——

Valentino—fuck him—is right. As soon as the flag drops and they roll out for their practice laps, something settles, even on this plain black bike with his number stenciled in red on the front. Unfamiliar beneath his thighs, and yet he settles into it straight away. It takes a couple of laps, that’s all, before he can throw it into a corner and grin when it bites, when the rear tyre slides how he wants it to. Valentino pulls in before he does, perches on his bike to watch Luca with folded arms, but turns his head when Marc trundles down the side chute to the bike shed.

“Feels good?” Enea says, hair a frizzy halo.

“Yeah, good.”

“You hear that, Pecco? He’s going to win!”

“He usually does,” Pecco shoots back, and grins ruefully. It almost sounds like he doesn’t mind.

——

The day moves quickly: cameraphones; qualifying; a Sky crew that Marc tries his best to steer clear of. He knows he’ll be in the background, though, so he sticks close to Enea and Pecco, ignoring Bezzecchi’s glare. Valentino would be annoyed if someone caught Marc on his own, excluded.

And then—

And they’re lining up on the track, Marc steadying the bike in his hands, not looking at Valentino two spots over who’ll be swapping in the same time he does. The flag drops. Enea sprints.  

Away they go.

——

The bike feels good. Someone kind—Pecco, probably—had made some basic changes to the setup. It feels good, and it’s easy. 

Enea passed the reins over to him from second position, and Bezzecchi slid on his way out of the switch line, so Marc gritted his teeth and just—went. No one in front. A few bikes close behind, so he could throw himself at the apex of every corner, could hit the inside, could let the rear tyre kick out a warning. 

It’s heavy, all of a sudden, a thundercloud rolling in and pressing down—and plenty of people here have blue leathers with bright yellow, but Marc knows. Valentino is behind him. He pushes through the next turn a little harder. 

Corner after corner after corner, Valentino’s bike a growling hum in his ear. Hornet buzzing inside his skull. Marc almost misses the bell to start the final lap; Enea is yelling something as he streaks past that doesn’t carry.

One lap to go. One lap. He’s going to win.

And Valentino is going to look at him like he’s holding a lemon under his tongue, and even the cameras won’t be enough to stop his eyes going cold again, and—

Marc puts his foot down, as if to catch a slide. The crowd noise pitches up. Valentino pushes through on his inside.

The flag waves.

——

Valentino won’t stop glaring at him.

You won, Marc wants to howl, you won, what else do you want? He doesn’t say anything though, accepts his necklace of sausages, and tries to think of the earliest possible opportunity to leave. 

And Luca—Luca keeps glancing in his direction, eyebrows drawn together like he’s concerned, like he can sense his brother’s slow-burning anger beside him on the top step. Spark creeping down a fuse: it’s going to come to a head too soon for Marc to escape.

They let the fireworks off while Enea is pouring champagne down the back of his suit, and Marc yells, twists away, stupid fucking sausages thumping against his chest. When he opens his eyes, shivering, Valentino is still staring.

The fireworks crack. Marc blinks.

——

“This is nice,” Bezzecchi offers across the table. A harmless comment that’s like throwing a stone onto a thinly-frozen pond; the fragile peace shatters.

Everyone else is talking, laughing, eating, and it’s so loud, excruciating, against the tense bubble at the head of the table: Marc, pinned on a bench between Luca and Franky; Valentino, mouth pinched in that awful familiar way. 

“Normally it is just a barbecue,” Pecco tells Marc, gallantly ignoring the heavy silence around them. “Vale is treating us well this year.”

“To celebrate a good race,” Valentino says, voice hard. “The spirit of—competition.”

Marc stares down at his plate. 

“Was it—not a good race?” Luca says mildly. Marc wonders if kicking him is the way to go.

“I expect everyone to give their all on my track.”

“And you think I didn’t,” Marc says, too loud. Enea, further down the table, turns to look. 

Valentino huffs through his nose. “Maybe I expected too much of you.” 

“Okay.” Marc stabs his fork into a piece of salmon. “What did you expect, given that we have spoken, hm, once in the past five years?”

Pecco’s eyes widen, food abandoned as he glances between them. 

And Valentino’s lips twitch, as if to say there you are. That’s what he’d been expecting, because no one can get under Marc’s skin, splinters in nails, the way he can. “I did not expect you to fuck up on the last lap.”

“It’s happened before.” 

“It was a mistake, Vale,” Luca says quietly. 

But Pecco—Pecco stares at Marc. Pecco knows Marc. 

“A stupid mistake.”

Marc sets his jaw, something fluttering in his chest. Lion’s den. “I make mistakes all the time. I am dangerous, no?” 

Valentino ignores that. “Too stupid for you.”

Marc holds his gaze, doesn’t let it slide to the wine glass balanced elegantly in his left hand, until Valentino blinks, takes a sip, rings glinting on long fingers. Pecco exhales, as if released from a spell, and picks up his fork again; it scrapes against the plate, high and piercing, and that’s enough to break whatever hold had Marc bound to his seat. 

“Thank you,” he says, directly to Pecco. “This was nice. I think I will not be invited back.”

Pecco looks at him, then at Luca. “Marc—”

“See you at the team launch.” It’s a miracle Marc extricates himself from the bench without stumbling, feet numb from the cold. He should message Enea, apologise for leaving. Thank him for making it bearable. 

A chair scrapes behind him as he pushes through the door, out into the frigid air. Footsteps in the dirt. 

“Marc.” Valentino has been saying his name all day, and none of them have grated like this one does, this one with no one else around to hear it. “Marc!”

“I am leaving.” Marc keeps his gaze fixed on the house—he will have to ask Pecco to bring anything he forgets, will have to plead with him before the Ducati launch in ten days’ time. If he can just find the keys to his hire car—

“Why?” And even that’s sharp, like Marc failed a test. 

He groans into the night sky, breath misting, before whipping around to glare. “Why? God, I cannot fucking win, Valentino. Maybe I am leaving too early, hm? Did you want to make a speech about what a disappointment I was?”

“No.” But that expression—lips pursed like there’s something sour behind his teeth. 

“Oh, of course, I am sorry.” The laugh that escapes Marc’s throat is sharp, a barking sound. “Did you not get enough on video? To show how—what a sportsman you are. All is forgiven. How kind of you.”

“Jesus, Marc—”

“Whatever I do—” And it sticks on his tongue, stings with the threat of tears. How humiliating. “Whatever I do, you will—you will find something. I am not staying here.”

Valentino stays where he is, halfway between Marc and the outbuilding. “There are no flights until tomorrow.”

“I don’t care.”

“You threw the race.” It’s not—it’s different, this time, not probing, not sneering. 

“I made a mistake. I finished second.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t know why—”

“Yes.” A few steps, and Valentino is close enough that Marc can see the house lights glint in his eyes. “You do. It was not a mistake. You are just clever enough to make it look like one.” 

Nausea almost sends him to his knees in the cold dirt, but Marc is well-practiced at ignoring his body’s cries. He folds his arms. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“If you were going to humiliate me by giving me the race,” Valentino says, closer again, “you should have made it more obvious.”

Marc closes his eyes, bites back the frustrated yell. “You are angry that you won?”

“I want to know why you think I need your help to beat you.”

“Fucking hell,” Marc breathes. “And what if I had won? Am I a dirty rider? What would fucking—what do you want? Because last time—” And he clamps his mouth shut, cursing his own slip.

No one can do that to him but Valentino. 

Valentino, who pounces. “What about last time?”

“You were—angry. Last time I was here. And you would have been pissed off if I had said no, or if I had qualified last and fallen off. You would have—nothing is fucking good enough. So I will leave, and then at least I am just the sore loser you always thought, yes?” He should turn now, walk towards the house. He should. 

“You threw the race,” Valentino says again, and now it’s as if he’s tasting the words, finding something new in them. 

“And I should not have bothered. Because everything I do—” Marc swallows down the sting in his throat; after all this time, he still fucking cares. “You decided who I am a long time ago. I don’t know why I thought I could do anything about that.” 

It’s silent, just puffs of breath between them, and Marc turns around. He can’t be pulled back in again: he won’t. 

“Marc.”

Just—twenty steps, and he’ll be inside. Closer to safety.

“Marc.” Like a scolding teacher, an indulgent king. 

“Don’t.”

Too late; a hand grasps his upper arm, stops him in his tracks—and then drops away like it had been scalded. “Fuck, sorry—I didn’t think—”

“My arm is fine,” Marc grinds out. “I’m going home.”

“Why did you come?”

“What?”

“You did not tell me—why did you say yes?” 

Marc scoffs. “Wouldn’t want you to look bad now you are finally feeling forgiving.” 

“Oh, so you are doing me this favour instead?” The words are hot, too close to Marc’s ear. 

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“No.”

In, out. Breathe. 

“You haven’t asked why I wanted you here.” 

“Pecco wanted—”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to, Marc.” He can—he knows how Valentino is standing, can feel it like a twist deep in his torso: knows how he’s leaning down, hands hovering inches from Marc’s jacket. “Ask me why.”

“I don’t care why.”

A laugh, ghosting against the back of his neck. Marc shivers. “So why did you come?”

“Good for Ducati.” 

“Of course.” Lips, pressed against the base of his skull, the first tense knot of his spine. 

Marc is so fucking tired. It would be so easy to pull away now, keep walking, never look back: even easier to close his eyes and sink back into him. He’s tired, so he says, “It should be easier for me to hate you.” 

And Valentino must be tired, or drunk, because his hands find Marc’s waist and he whispers, “I don’t want it to be easier.” 

“You never wanted anything to be easy,” Marc tells him, a little too aching. 

Silence, silence that pulls in everything around them: the breeze in the trees behind the track; the faint sound of laughter; the distant rumble of a car��s engine. Valentino’s hands are brand-hot through his clothes, different and so familiar. 

Silence, before Valentino moves, slips his way around so he’s in front of Marc, between him and the house now. His fingers slip under Marc’s hoodie, find the skin just above his hipbone, other hand on the back of his head. “I don’t. Which is why next time you will not give up the win.”

“Next time,” Marc echoes, absent, caught on the trail of fingernails across the back of his neck, through his hair. 

“You need to keep Ducati happy, no?”

“Of course.” They’re too close now, Marc knows it, knows he’s staring into the jaws of death. He wishes he cared more, wishes he weren’t leaning into Valentino’s hold. Wishes it weren’t coiling tight in his stomach. 

Ribbons of flesh: that’s all he’ll be when Valentino’s done with him this time. No need to carve new lines when the old scars still smart. 

“You are very fucking frustrating,” Valentino mutters, and it hits Marc in the corner of his mouth. Too close. Focused in. There’ll be no escape. 

“Always,” but he’s closing his eyes. Valentino was too close to do anything but lean forward, and he does, and Marc meets him with his mouth already open. 

——

The bed shifting wakes him up, makes him roll over and squint, before throwing his left arm over his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Valentino pauses, trousers halfway up his thighs, a loose hoodie already pulled on. “Well, I did not think it was that bad.”

Marc lets his arm fall away; Valentino is pouting, entirely unoffended. In a good mood, for now. “It was not bad.”

“Good.” And now there’s a vulpine grin being levelled at him. “You have not changed.”

Marc has, so he glowers and bites. “And you are old.”

Valentino just snorts. “I could set the fire alarm off. The meeting point is by the track. You could get to your car without anybody seeing you.”

Oh. Marc swallows, suddenly cold. “Is that—do you want me to?”

“Do you want to?”

“Not particularly.”

“When I go downstairs,” Valentino says, instead of answering that, “and make two coffees, there will be questions.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Don’t you?”

And Marc thinks of Pecco inviting him, Luca watching him, Franky pointedly offering him a seat at dinner near Valentino. He smirks. “No.”

“Ah. I see.” Valentino taps a long finger on his chin. “Luca was telling me it would be good for my image, Pecco was saying it was for the team—we have been—yes.”

“Yes,” Marc agrees, then, “Do you—mind?”

Valentino drags his gaze down the length of Marc’s body, then up again. “Hm. No.”

“Good.”

“You never asked, you know.”

“Asked what?” But Marc knows. Why?

“Coffee,” Valentino says, as if he’s just remembered, and leans down like he might drop a kiss on Marc’s head before he catches himself. “Into the lion’s den I go.” 

Marc waits until the bedroom door closes behind him to bury his face in his hands. He sighs.

Despite himself, he smiles. 

[lagunaseca2013]

can’t sleep bc I’m stressed about going into the office tm and I’m deeply dreading it so instead I’ve been maladaptive daydreaming about my rosquez one-sided-bond horror-disguised-as-a/b/o universe where marc goes into heat the night of crazy murder race at the ranch and it triggers vale’s rut which leads to him losing control and biting marc but then not letting marc bite him back which leads to. obvious misery.

marc is like on cloud nine at first bc even tho they never discussed it he wanted it (was obvi begging for it the whole time even if he only vaguely remembers) and definitely thinks it’s like fate or whatever happy accident etc. there’s like hand wavey world building omegaverse lore/logic/whatever you wanna call it so you can only mate when ur in rut/heat and vale just had his rut and fully suppresses them during the season so they’ll have to wait a while to complete the bond anyway.

cue vale’s descent into madness. it’s definitely gradual at first bc they’re still fucking for A LOT of it (the sex is even crazier now bc marc can like feel him through the bond but it’s all very fuzzy bc it’s only half a bond so it’s more like….idk emotional impressions or whatever but it definitely makes sex way more intense on his end). this of course freaks vale the fuck out bc he doesn’t like that marc has access to him in a way that he doesn’t have access to marc (omegaverse is genuinely the most fun way to push all vale’s control freak buttons btw) which is like….okay man there’s an easy solution to that but whatever u say.

uccio is off uccioing and waving his idk ipad telemetry around and also feeding vale’s crazy delusions like convincing him that marc triggered the heat on purpose to seduce vale and make him lose control to……..get an emotional ?? advantage over him ?? but like….marc wasn’t the one who bit him……..so vale isn’t even affected by marc’s emotions………it’s exhausting. vale is looking for outs atp bc the mating stuff has 1) majorly triggered his crazy committmentphobia (huge thanks to stefania and graziano for never mating) and also 2) exacerbated the championship issues bc like vale voice I don’t think someone who claims to be my [omega] would race me like that blah blah blah

anyway vale sets omega rights back one hundred years etc w his presscon rantings. marc is like nauseous w bond rejection and also feeling vale’s hatred AND guilt, bc he can literally feel impressions of his emotions. also this whole time marc’s been walking around all season with the largest most visible and grotesque mating scar on his neck and coyly dodging questions about it and vale is obviously. mark free as the day he was born. so even tho they’ve been all over each other the last two years and also for parts of the season no one is really accusing them of being secretly one-sided-bonded, which is actually really frowned upon anyway in their society ESPECIALLY if the omega is the one bitten.

vale is really banking on 1) no one believing marc if he tried to out them, 2) marc not even considering it as an option. both are true, honestly, but marc is having the equivalent of getting served divorce papers on live tv and also going into bond rejection and ignoring it so he has a lot of other stuff on his plate.

and then his alpha knocks him off his bike and he goes into a stress heat (hand wavey omegaverse rules, it happens with bond rejection to entice the unmated one to get with the program). it’s horrific, of course, alex goes to vale’s motorhome in tears prepared to beg on his knees and uccio doesn’t even let him in. they have to take marc to the hospital bc his fever is so high he’s going to die and then he spends three miserable days crying out for vale. on the fourth day his doctors are like. he’s not getting any better in fact it might be getting worse is there really no way to get his alpha here? vale (or uccio, idk does it matter?) has blocked both of their numbers, alex has been texting franky but that connection is still nebulous at best at this point in time so his responses are sparse and extremely vague (vale is obviously going through a stress rut as well and it’s like all hands on deck rn bc he’s getting violent).

well anyway. they put marc in a medically induced coma to ride it out and he literally doesn’t wake up for like two weeks. (yay more medical trauma for the medical trauma guy yippee) (also idk if I could even fit this into the story bc I haven’t even gotten to the plot yet this is still the extended backstory context but I think after the whole ordeal he’s basically terrified of going into heat again and for several years lies to everyone that he spends them at one of those like omega care facilities where you pick an alpha that’s been vetted out and deal with it that way but he ACTUALLY goes to a hospital and gets put into a coma again to ride it out bc he genuinely can’t deal with how it feels to need vale when he can still deep down feel all of his alpha’s resentment)

I imagine eventually alex finds out (maybe during arm misery when marc is like between surgeries two and three and alex is like hey isn’t this messing with your cycle and marc, high on painkillers or just delirious w pain is like nah they can put me out whenever) and then they have a blowout fight about it and alex cries a lot and marc is also crying but he absolutely cannot ever feel that way again or he will off himself so then they compromise which means marc just never comes off his suppressants but does start seeing a therapist. (he hates her and she tries to make him go to like bereaved omega support groups which he doesn’t even pretend to consider)

um okay so we’re getting to the part where the story would actually be set which is marcnaia 2025 teammates lol. while marc has been experiencing the horrors vale has acquired an entire pack. okay yes the academy was loosely around for the events of 2015 but after vale has his insane response rut where it takes like basically all of them to make him calm the fuck down things are a little different. it was much more familial at the beginning bc most of them were unpresented so it was more of a like adopting pups crisis for vale. when they’re all older and presented and adults they make it official and he (checks notes) bites their wrist scent glands which is for like pack bonding. they spend heats and ruts together as a pack, not all of them all the time (and luca and marta are mated in this one, rip pecco, so it’s really just a family thing for him) but it’s nice. harmony. whatever. as is popular around these parts, I do think bez is the only omega in the pack. more on that later.

okay NOW we pick up the plot. vale is an idiot and also has been trying not to think about marc for the last nine years so he doesn’t know that marc can actually feel it every single time vale adds a new member to his pack. he still can’t feel everything you’d usually be able to feel with a mating bond bc it’s one sided, but adding pack members definitely leaves an impression. alex has to like train marc to stay away from academy members bc he has like pack omega urges to bond w them and be near them (this fic would have gratuitous touch starvation etc) and it’s painful to ignore his instincts

alex in this universe should be granted sainthood, seriously.

vale voice allora where were we. okay nothing good can come of marc and pecco sharing a garage right? if vale was serious about staying unmated and hating marc he would probably spend a lot less time lingering around the ducatis. gigi makes several biting jokes about how vale didn’t seem to like the team this much when he was driving for them! which. well, double edged sword to neg him about, no?

basically marc has felt less and less from vale over the years bc of distance and like sort of trying to get over it (thank you alex for psychologist ultimatum) but renewed proximity stirs everything back up and suddenly his suppressants are failing him and for the first time in like a decade people can like actually catch slight traces of his scent. marc, also a notorious control freak (made worse by everything that’s happened to him in this universe) is having a category eleven panic attack about it, like calls his favorite hospital and asks if they can put him in a coma again, etc.

vale meanwhile is like falling in love with marc again and hiding it badly. getting distracted during pack orgy bonding time bc he’s missing the insanity that he and marc used to get up to (which, if it happens during bez’s heat, sets him up for a nightmare scenario of omega infighting……..you know….if he was considering trying again w marc. but he’s not. so)

ummmm wow okay this got extremely out of hand. idk where any of that came from. I only vaguely know how it ends so if you have any thoughts about that lmk lol. I have to get up for work in four and half hours so I’m gonna send this into the void and probably delete it in the morning lol.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

here and now, unhaunted: dovquez [g]

@dovquezdecember bingo + mouth

Marc’s front wheel slams against the side of his own. Dovi wobbles, kicking up sludge and mud. He’s down just like that, sliding on the ground, the bike making a reedy, spluttering noise.

It wasn’t a very hard crash. The corner is narrow, slow—more annoying than anything. Same goes for how he hit the ground. Dovi gets up unsteadily, cazzo stuck on his teeth, then realizes he isn’t dizzy at all, just loose-limbed, relaxed. Amusement curls in the hollows of his chest.

Ahead, Marc has stopped, is running towards him.

He tugs off his helmet. Breathes in the December cold.

Marc takes off his helmet too. His fingers dig into it erratically, the redredred plastic of it, and there’s the cut of his troublesome mouth, pinched tight and tense. His eyes are huge, liquid, staring straight into him—Dovi’s met street dogs with more shame than that. Then considers that someone else might not read it that away. Might see malice in Marc. An insult.

“You could’ve told me we were riding for a title,” he says, deadpan, his voice flat.

Marc’s back straightens. His smile seems knife-thin, deliberate. Strained. It is the thing about Marc—bit of a naked razor, bit of a jerk. Wound tighter than people would like to think about. Dovi snorts out a laugh, pours the dirt from inside his glove.

“I didn’t ride you like this when we were fighting for a title.”

Like hell he didn’t. Dovi levels him with a look, and Marc raises his hands in a mock surrender.

“You know you can’t overtake here, seriously,” Dovi mutters.

He cradles that red-hot flicker of irritation close. Lets it unfurl into the usual harmlessness. Because it isn’t a title fight, and even when it was—

Marc shrugs carelessly. He doesn’t fidget, not really, not anymore, but he keeps looking from Dovi to the snow-licked track. Keeps—thinking, probably. All very obvious. “I know now.”

There’s a moment of suspended silence between them, before Dovi turns back to get his bike up. Marc makes a noise, a faint intake of breath, jaded, ripping around the edges, rooted to the spot. He makes an addendum to his notes—he’s also met street dogs less wary than this.

“That’s a grid penalty, for sure,” he calls out over his shoulder, pretending to shake his fist at him.

Marc frowns. Runs his tongue over his teeth. “But—do you want to?”

Dovi, well. He knows Marc now. The sharp-edged shape of his hurt. There’s no waiting, feeling it. Crystalline tears to mania to a bloodsport. It shouldn’t—charm him so much.

“We still got some fuel,” he says. Smiles.

It’s the easiest thing in the world, to forgive him, to coax him back down. Marc drops his shoulders from somewhere around his ears, rushes on to help him with the bike. From up close, he’s a lovely, devastating thing, shinning with sweat, cheeks pink, the cut of his leathers almost demure. Dovi could—reminds himself sharply that they have dinner to get through.

That it is cold as fuck out there.

Want lingers in his stomach anyway, tugging like a fishhook. Marc, evidently, doesn’t help one bit. Opens his mouth wide and breaks into a loud, shameless cackle. He stares a little, then a lot more. At the cut of his lips, chapped, broad. At the flash of his too white teeth.

Dovi remembers—was it in 2012? Marc, baby-faced, un-fucking-manageable already, looking up at him through his lashes, wrapping his tongue around the fork he’d been holding.

Christ.

“You’re starting from the back of the grid,” Dovi tells him. Doesn’t tug Marc for a kiss.

It’s a very close thing.

He bristles, indignant, gesticulating broadly—that’s way too much time spent in Italy, down to the pathos of his offense. Dovi hides a chuckle in his hand.

“That isn’t fair!”

He shakes his head, helpless as always. “Do you listen to yourself when you talk?”

“Dovi!”

It’s only when he puts on his helmet again that Dovi realizes he’d been smiling.

They don’t race after that, though. Their laps are lazy, sedate, Marc a heartbeat behind him, so overtly, deliberately careful he sighs. It isn’t even subtle. When he slows, so does Marc. When he leaves the insides open, Marc doesn’t lunge.

So he didn’t learn risk management. Dovi shakes his head.

Night falls early. It gets colder, darker, more snow on the track. His fingers creak, protest. Marc’s arm can’t be doing better, he realizes, and that fine needle prickle of worry gets him to get off the bike and herd them inside.

Inside where it is warm, and Dovi can tug off Marc’s gloves, help him out of his knee sliders. He doesn’t mention the way Marc holds his shoulder, or the way he watches him.

“Are you—” He tries, trails off, horribly clumsy in how brazen he is.

Dovi squeezes his wrist once, very light. “No, not really. Bolognese or carbonara?”

He already knows the answer. Carbonara—too heavy for the season.

Marc still watches him. Breaks into a smile that Dovi doesn’t think he even notices. “Carbonara,” he says, and Dovi—

He isn’t such a difficult thing from up close, Marc. Exactly as troublesome as promised, maybe, but not difficult. Not bad.

They eat to the noise of cutlery scraping against the plates. Things unsaid.

“Did you have fun?” Marc asks, earnest, earnest enough to ache, a smear of white sauce in the corner of his mouth.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” He doesn’t budge an inch, bull-stubborn, expectant. “Of course I did.”

Dovi leans in. Cleans that stain with the pad of his thumb, then guides Marc for a kiss with a touch on the hinge of his jaw.

There’s a noise, soft. The kitchen melts away. Marc clambers into his lap gracelessly. There you are, Dovi thinks, triumphant, and keeps him close, a hand on the flat of his back, dinner going cold around them.

[hotmessmaxpress]

A/B/O bond rejection au where vale bites marc shortly before argentina but because of how badly it goes and because of sepang, the bite doesn’t heal and just festers with vale’s rejection of him until half of his body is basically unusable and he finally collapses and vale has to grow up and pick up the pieces

Tw: a bit of body horror (slightly worse, maybe, than the body horror already canon in marc’s life?)

(Somewhere in the realm of 2500 words)

At first it’s just itchy and a little painful, but then it darkens and scars, and eventually black veins start to spread from it like spiderwebs. Marc has to wear a bandage over it to hide how disgusting it looks.

Doctors throw out words like “retirement” and “care home” and “palliative care”. He’s told that unless his alpha either releases his bond or he bonds to someone else he’ll die. Marc, stubborn Marc, refuses. He will never bond to another alpha again, even if it saves his life.

The bite becomes so painful that Marc moves in a haze, arm often tucked into his pockets to disguise how it otherwise hangs limply at his side. His chest hurts when he breathes too hard and he can’t fully turn his neck.

He takes painkillers almost constantly now, instead of just when riding, but it’s become apparent that it’s not enough. The infection has spread from the bite to his heart and down his arm, and he knows his brain is next.

It’s Luca who finds him, collapsed between motor homes, neck gauze soaked through in blood and black pus. He nearly gags, but he drops to his knees and checks for a pulse. Marc’s eyes wrench open as Luca grabs his phone to call an ambulance, and Marc grabs his wrist.

“No. There’s nothing they can do,” he says, curling up on himself. “I need Alex.”

“How did this happen?” Luca says, filled with panic and anxiety about his brother’s former lover. He thinks of Bezz, their own pack omega, being in pain and nearly wants to wrench his hair out. He is overcome with the sudden urge to find his teammate and bury his nose in his neck.

More pressing matters, however, lay trembling in his arms.

“What is Alex’s phone number?”

Marc repeats it and Luca calls. Alex doesn’t answer, so Luca sends him a text with one hand, begging him to find them.

Luca pulls Marc up, letting him rest his head against his chest. He may not be his alpha but he’s still an alpha, and he hopes that gives Marc some comfort. Marc nuzzles his head against Luca’s collarbone.

“He rejected me,” Marc finally explains. “He bit me but then he rejected me. An incomplete bond— it’s fatal. It infects the rest of your body until it kills you.”

Luca feels himself shake from the effort of not crying out.

“How can we fix it?”

“You can’t,” a voice from behind them says, harshly. “Only your brother can, and he’s made it clear that he’d never do anything to help Marc, regardless of the consequences.”

Luca flinches but Alex doesn’t care, instead moving toward the two and gently peeling Marc away from Luca. Marc immediately buries his head in Alex’s neck, who purrs soothingly.

“I’ll talk to him,” Luca croaks. “Please let me. I can’t— if I’d known—“.

“He won’t,” Marc says wetly, without moving his face. “You can try but I know he won’t.”

Alex helps Marc to his feet, and begins guiding him the short distance to their shared motor home.

Luca watches for a moment, terrified, before he runs.

Bezz finds Luca screaming. He’s never heard him this way, and when he realizes Luca is screaming at Vale, he’s stunned. He’s not sure who to comfort— his instincts scream at him to intervene, but his feet feel frozen to the floor.

It’s Luca who makes the decision; as soon as he smells him enter the garage he turns, throwing himself at Bezz and scenting him. It’s then that Bezz realizes he’s crying.

“Maro,” he breathes worriedly.

Vale is standing there, watching them both.

“Vale… what happened?”

Vale doesn’t respond. He walks over, tucks his face close to Luca’s, and presses a kiss to Bezz’s head.

“Take care of Luca. I’ll be back.”

Bezz drags Luca to the pack room of the VR46 motor home, and is happy to find Pecco and Cele lounging around. He deposits Luca on one of the long loungers and then climbs on top of him, resting his entire weight against the alpha and keeping his face firmly pressed against his scent gland.

Pecco and Cele sense something is wrong immediately and tuck themselves around the two. Pecco brushes Luca’s hair back, who is still shaking.

“What happened?” Cele asks, eyes wide.

Bezz reaches for him, sensing his distress, and takes his hand.

“It’s Marquez— did you know he and Vale bonded?”

Bezz feels himself tense, and Luca whines, so he forces himself to relax again.

“What?” Bezz hisses.

“No they didn’t,” Pecco says, stunned.

“They didn’t do it all the way I guess. Vale bit him and then they had their falling out and now Marc is going to die. I didn’t even know that was a thing that could happen. You should have seen it, oh my God.”

Bezz purrs to try and comfort Luca as he continues.

“He looked terrible. I found him collapsed— it explains why his riding has been so terrible. He was bleeding and his neck was infected. He said the doctors can’t do anything. It’s Vale’s fault,” he sobs.

Bezz has trouble having empathy for Marquez, normally. He knows what Vale has said— that Marc is a dangerous rider and should not be allowed on track and that he ruined Vale’s championship. He’s seen Marc’s danger on track firsthand.

Still… he doesn’t deserve to die, even if Bezz hates him.

“But Vale will fix it right?” He asks, finding himself anxious.

Surely Vale wouldn’t let someone die. He’s too good for that. He would never, never treat an omega poorly. Vale has always supported Bezz and ensured without a shadow of a doubt that Bezz’s omega status would never be a detriment. He’s always kept him safe and loved and supported by his pack, swift to correct anyone who doesn’t treat Bezz well. Surely Vale would never hurt an omega so deeply, even if it is Marc.

“I don’t know,” Luca whimpers

Pecco runs a hand down Bezz’s back, and it’s only then that he realizes he too has begun shaking. He presses himself closer to Luca, both to comfort and be comforted. He needs to feel safe and reassured. The thought that any of the boys would do that to him— leave him half-mated and slowly dying— fills him with such distress that he knows the others sense it.

Pecco rises and comes back with blankets, and Bezz leaves Luca only enough to make a makeshift nest around the four of them.

Cele puts a hand on the back of his neck, and he tilts his head so Cele can scent him. He hears the tapping of Pecco’s phone keyboard behind him, clearly rallying the other pack members to come comfort Maro and Bezz. Their pack needs to be together.

Alex might kill Valentino Rossi with his bare hands and teeth. He wants to tear into his jugular and rip it out in a spray of blood. It’s what he deserves for doing this to his brother. He deserves worse.

Still. When Vale turns up on their motorhome steps, smelling like distress personified, Alex knows he has to let him in.

He makes eye contact and growls, until he sees Vale’s shoulders dip and his eyes drop in submission. He growls once more for emphasis and his own satisfaction, not needing words to warn Vale against misconduct. Then he steps aside, and allows Vale to take unsure steps toward a delirious Marc.

Marc has been whimpering and crying softly since Alex dragged him here after his collapse, and when he sees Vale he whines and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Alex, please,” he whimpers.

Vale takes a staggering step toward Marc, as if in pain, and drops to his knees beside the bed where he is laying.

“Marc,” he says softly.

Marc opens teary eyes, and Alex clenches his fists.

Alex knows that something is passing between the two as he sees Marc relax. Vale turns to him.

“Please,” he says, and Alex closes his eyes for a brief moment.

“Marc?” He asks.

Marc nods, and despite every instinct screaming at him, Alex steps out of the room and closes the door. He refuses to leave, though, and instead parks himself just outside the door. He won’t give up Marc’s safety just to give them privacy.

Every instinct tells Marc to throw himself at Vale, to tuck his face in his neck and beg him to bite him again. The pain in his neck has lessened just at Vale’s proximity. He can only imagine how it would feel to be held by him.

Still, Marc knows he cannot.

He stares at the older man, blinking away tears. He has no idea how Luca got him here, or how he managed to get Alex to let him through the door.

“Vale?” He asks quietly.

Vale takes Marc’s hand, the one with blackened veins from the infected bite, and presses it to his lips.

Marc whines, and gives up resisting. He reaches for Vale, prepared for rejection again. Instead, Vale tugs him close, pressing Marc’s face into his neck.

Marc inhales, deep, letting Vale’s— his alpha’s— scent wash over him. It settles something deep in his bones, and he relaxes completely against the older man.

Marc floats from there. He remembers crying, sobbing, relaxing as Vale rumbles low in his chest. At some point Vale joins him underneath the blankets, allowing Marc to press himself against the full length of Vale’s body.

He loses himself in the sound of Vale’s low rumbling and his familiar scent. He’s pretty sure that it’s a fever dream and that he must truly be on the verge of death, but he enjoys it while it lasts.

At some point Vale’s phone buzzes, and he has a soft conversation in Italian that Marc’s brain is too sluggish to parse out. Vale has several more hushed conversations as Marc drifts in and out of sleep. At some point Alex returns, speaking to Vale in worried tones, but he leaves again shortly after.

Marc whines as he wakes one time, feeling sluggish. He flexes his fingers, grabbing onto Vale’s shirt. His arm doesn’t burn, for the first time in years. His body is exhausted and sore, like he’s just woken from a long nap he hadn’t meant to take.

“Vale?” he whimpers.

“Marc,” Vale soothes. “Good morning.”

“Morning?” Marc questions after a moment. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, or really what has happened.

“Yes. You’ve been recovering.”

Vale holds Marc’s hand up for him to see, and Marc stares unblinkingly at the smoothness of his forearm and bicep. He still sees blackness on his shoulder, near where he knows the bite is, but the infection of his arm has receded.

“How?” Marc questions.

Vale nuzzles behind his ear, and Marc realizes that it’s just Vale being near that has had such an effect on him.

“Oh,” he breathes.

There’s a long pause where he and Vale simply lay together.

“You’re really here?” he asks.

He feels Vale tense, and he shrinks away, afraid that now he has broken some spell and Vale is leaving. He wraps his arms around himself and bites back a whine.

Vale rumbles, low in his chest, and tugs Marc back.

“I’m here. I’m sorry it took me so long. Why didn’t you tell me?” Vale asks.

Marc is afraid that Vale will leave if he says what he thinks, but he can’t help it.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he croaks, feeling like he’s cracking his chest open. “I didn’t want you to reject me again. I couldn’t take it. It hurt too much the first time. It was better to just let it happen.”

Vale makes a pained noise, and Marc shrinks away again.

“Shh,” Vale soothes, running a hand down Marc’s arm. “I’m not angry with you.”

Vale shifts so Marc can tuck his nose against Vale’s neck, breathing in his scent.

Vale is quiet for a long moment. “I should have done a lot of things differently. We can talk about it all later. For now you need to heal.”

“How?”

Vale snorts. “Did you ever actually talk to a doctor about this?

Marc grumbles, and Vale laughs.

“You’re stubborn.”

Marc growls.

“Alex and I talked. And I called a real doctor. We can reverse everything.”

Marc yanks away, dizzy with the force of sitting up and scrambling away from Vale so quickly.

“No!” he squawks.

Vale stares at him in shock, hands held up in surrender.

“No, please,” Marc begs. He knows it’s killing him but he doesn’t want the bond to be reversed. He knows it’s nothing good, not even a real bond, but the thought of it being gone is painful. “Please, Vale.”

“Why would you want to stay sick?” Vale asks, hurt coloring his features.

“Please don’t take it away from me,” Marc whimpers, pressing his hands to the bite.

At once, understanding dawns on Vale’s face.

“No, no, no,” he says, emphatically. “Not like that, Marc. We can fix the bond.”

Marc’s brain whites out in relief and he clambers onto Vale’s lap.

“Oh,” he says, dumbly.

Vale chuckles.

“You’ve been healing,” he says. “All it took was time together.”

Marc frowns, looking down at his arm and craning his head to try and see as close to the bite as possible.

“But you hate me,” he argues. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t hate you,” Vale breathes. “I tried, but it didn’t work. I have been mad for a very long time but I don’t think I can be angry any more.”

Marc huffs.

“We’ll have to talk about it.”

“I know. Heal first. Hard conversations later.”

Marc nods, allowing Vale to once again wrap his arms around him and scent him.

Vale presses the most gentle of kisses to the bite, which Marc knows must still be scarred and black.

“Does it hurt, still?”

Marc shakes his head and then shrugs.

“I don’t remember what it’s like for it to not hurt. It hurts less now.”

Vale kisses it again, and Marc purrs. He has no idea who Vale talked to or how exactly Vale intends to fix him, but he can at least enjoy this new turn of events.

“Will you stay with me this time?” he can’t help but ask.

Vale pulls back enough to look him in the eye.

“I promise,” he says, and seals it with a kiss.

(A/n: in this universe, Mark never breaks his arm because he has enough body horror in his real life that I feel like if I add some, I need to take some away.

Also I know it’s controversial to make bezz the only pack omega but for the purposes of this I wanted him (certified Marc Hater) to be the only one on the team with the unique perspective of also being an omega and coming to the realization of “oh god would vale do that to an omega? Would he do that to me?”

Plus I love the idea of him being the One Special Boy, Center of Attention in the academy but then Marc and Vale fix their whole mating thing and now Vale has His Own Omega hanging around. And bezz is SO JEALOUS, literally pussy out growling and basically begging Marc to fistfight him in the parking lot

Until vale finally long-sufferingly sighs and grabs him by the back of the neck and shakes him, then kisses him (on the forehead? Side of the head? Straight on the mouth?) and reaffirms to him that even though Marc is around Bezz will always be his and the pack’s Most Specialest Boy

also Bezz being the only omega gives me an excuse to fantasize about him being the center of a vr46 academy gangbang but let’s not get carried away

[xoxogeorgiegirl]

nothing but myths now | rosquez | rated T | 3.6k

"You need to end it," Uccio says, apropos of nothing, voice crackly over the phone. "He is a distraction, and he will lose you the championship if something does not change.

'What, not even a hello?' he thinks about replying. Vale looks at Marc across in the kitchenette, brushing his teeth and watching out the window, tapping a hand lazily against the countertop as though listening to a song. He says nothing.

[azulonso]

marco waking up and realizing he's not at his hotel room or even vale's ranch, hes laying on a bed that's unfamiliar to him. then he turns around just to be frightened by the familiar naked body sleeping beside him. it can't be.

when the other guy turns around in his sleeps to hug marco, hairs and head's on bez's naked chest. he's even more shocked. its marc. as in marc marquez. the marc marquez. he wanted to rush to get all of his stuff and run away. but he cant anyways.

this is all bcs of that damn stupid drinks and late partying, yeah its definitely not because of the suppressed crush he has been keeping from the other rider. or even all of his friends. yeah its just the alcohol or the weed (he cant remember), not because of marc and his lovely smile that makes marco wants to do everything he said. yeah.

[kingofthecotas]

paperweight pt. 2 | ao3

luca & marc teammate fic

––

The bike—

The bike is good.

Luca knows it isn’t even the finished product; there’s more to do before the development shutdown, and even more progress they can make in the new year. But it’s good.

Even if he couldn’t feel it himself, Marc’s smile is enough. The smile is a warning, and it’s not directed at Luca; the cameras are on them, more than they have been the past couple of years, but that’s a natural consequence of moving up the grid, and also of having Marc Márquez in the same garage.

It should mean more. Luca should be excited. He should be nervous. He’s coming off the back of his best season since 2023, and this bike is going to be even better. Maybe he’s compartmentalised a little too well.

They’re in a lull now, the team running some data, making some changes, and Marc has disappeared; Santi is still there, poring over his laptop. 

Luca steps out into the pit lane, sends a cursory glance up and down; Bez is still running laps, Cele is nowhere to be seen, and Pecco is never good company on a test day. He does, however, spot a familiar figure leaning on the pit wall, leathers around his waist, shoulders hunched.

Marc has never been one to admit to pain if he can help it. He’ll sit in it, muscle through it, even as it cuts lines across his face.

With something in his stomach, a knot, a sickly lump, Luca wanders towards him. It’s easy to call out in Spanish, “Marc? Are you okay?”

Marc twists his head, smile already painted on. “Fuck, Luca, I think I am still hungover.”

That startles a laugh out of Luca. “Well, it was a good championship. And you did not get to celebrate at the time.”

“I think Ducati are sabotaging me,” Marc groans. “No, I am joking. I cannot drink the same. I am not twenty.” A pause. “Getting old.”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re thirty-three.”

It’s Marc’s turn to laugh. 

“I thought—it might have been your arm, so…”

“No. Just my liver.”

“Well, if you are this bad, I should maybe check on Bez. I didn’t hear from him yesterday at all.”

When Marc laughs this time, it’s real; not the protective skin he’s worn for years. “Good thing the test was not yesterday.”

They both fall into a comfortable silence, leaning over the pitlane wall. One of the BMWs shoots past.

“What do you think?” Marc nods towards it as it disappears around the first corner.

“I think doing well in another series has made them cocky. We’ll find out their real pace soon enough.”

“Mm. And Ducati?”

“Always they will be fast. Pecco will be the strongest.”

Marc tilts his head. “And us?” 

“You can see how the bike is,” Luca says. “We are there.”

“Yes. It will not try to kill me this time.”

“Hopefully. How is it, compared to Ducati?”

“Different,” Marc admits. “I need to—learn how to ride it again. I can see the work you have done.”

That—it warms Luca, because Valentino Rossi may be his brother, but Marc is Marc, and it’s different coming from him. “Ah, broke my collarbone for it. It better be good.” 

Another smile, readily given. “Worth it, I hope?”

“We’ll find out.” 

A Ducati rolls down the straight: Pecco, sitting up, steering one-handed, allowing Fabio’s Yamaha by. Luca waves.

“Marc!”

“Ah.” Marc straightens, turns to greet David with a soft smile. “I thought you had forgotten me now that you’re a real MotoGP rider.”

David ignores that, pressing himself against Marc’s side, and leans back on the pitwall. “This is—the coolest thing.”

“Enjoying it? Gresini are looking after you? I will speak to Frankie.”

David launches into it, almost tripping over his words as he tells them how the braking is—like they don’t know—how the tyres feel, how the start took him by surprise. “And the grip when you take the second turn—hi, Vale—it’s just, you can get so much more speed through the corner.”

Luca whips his head around, finds Valentino hovering a few steps away. It takes everything he has not to roll his eyes. “Uccio was fine, then?”

And Valentino grins. “You are all, ah, slacking. Should be doing laps.”

“Fuck off.” 

Marc snorts; he’s smiling still, but placidly, too calm. Dangerous. David looks fucking starstruck, glancing between them. 

“Good weather,” Vale offers.

“Good weather?” Marc says.

“Warmer than normal, yes?”

“Yeah.” 

“It is normally cold this time of year. In Valencia.”

Marc says nothing this time, just blinks. Runs his tongue across his bottom lip. 

Luca wonders if—it should be possible, he thinks, to be able to combust on command, which would surely, surely be less excruciating than whatever his brother is trying to do. Would make a firm point, too. 

“I am not telling you how the bike is,” he says instead, pressing through the strange tension, nails through cling film. “Team secrets.”

“Of course, of course.” Vale claps his hands together. Shoots a glance towards Marc. Sends a cheerful smile in David’s direction. “Congratulations, David. You deserve it.”

There’ll be cameras on them soon: champion, champion, champion, and Luca. He squirms under it. “How is Cele doing?” 

“Ah, it is a lot, yes, but he will learn.” A step closer, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “The team will look after him, I think. Yamaha has done a lot with the bike also.” His shoulder is probably hurting, too, but Valentino, always protective, always careful, won’t give that away. 

“Good.”

Silence.

Spontaneous combustion, Luca prays, and he really fucking means it this time. Valentino stays where he is, a pace and a half away, seemingly held at bay by Marc’s blank stare. 

“I should go back to the team, yes?” Valentino says after a pause. “Maro, you will make sure Pecco eats lunch?”

“Sure.”

“Good luck for the year, David. You do not need it, of course.” Vale smiles, ducks his head in that falsely bashful way of his, and retreats. The air clears; David lets out a long breath, eyes wide.

Just for a moment, Marc’s expression changes, and Luca catches it. Only a second, but he smiles at Valentino’s retreating back, full of wonder and humour and—

Tenderness, maybe. Something like it. 

——

It’s a short winter. Christmas passes in a flash, as does New Years Eve—spent at the ranch, as it has been since before Luca can remember. Domizia gives birth in the middle of a cold January, and Luca lets Pecco cry down the phone in sheer exhausted joy. 

And—Luca would say he’s good at compartmentalising. Too good, maybe. So good that it doesn’t truly hit him until it’s launch day, and Marc is beside him in the backstage area that’s serving as a dressing room, pulling Honda leathers over his ankles. 

BMW, brash with the confidence of newcomers, had come knocking; Joan, still with a championship under his belt, had been lured away. And Honda didn’t panic. They didn’t send the men in suits. They sent Santi Hernández to have a beer with an old friend.

At first, Marc with his eight championships and too much on the line, had politely refused. But then Luca finished in the top five, then on the podium, and Joan came close to a win, and they kept getting better, and Marc wrapped up his ninth title with two races to go.

And now he’s in the makeshift dressing room next to Luca. 

The air seems thick, and Luca swallows; it’s like Valencia never happened.

“Nervous?” Marc asks, like he can read minds all of a sudden. 

“I hate these things.”

“They’ll have more questions for me.” Marc bends his elbow, testing the leathers. He frowns at it; the different colours, the unfamiliar sponsors. 

“Are you nervous?” Luca asks before he can stop himself. 

“Of course. Always.”

“You are good at this, though.”

“I have to be,” Marc says quietly. “I was never given a choice.” 

Luca doesn’t know how to answer that one, not when he’s always had the protective flare of Valentino: Valentino, acutely aware of how the media operates; Valentino, who turned their heat-seeking scrutiny on a kid. Marc grew up too fast, the boy king, but it was Valentino who forced him to retreat behind a shield wall. 

He never wants to think about that too hard, because he doesn’t like his brother when he does.

They’re ushered towards the main room, introduced with a flare of graphics and some over-the-top music, like they’re fucking Formula 1 drivers. Luca has always tried to take it in stride, but if he ever wins a race and they put him on a moving platform, he’ll retire on the spot. Marc does as he’s directed with the ease of someone who’s been doing these for years, unblinking in the bright lights, and takes his microphone. Luca can only follow.

The questions are easy, at first, looking forward to the season, asking about the bike—but they can’t hide from it forever, and they turn to Marc eventually. He’s ready, of course.

“Ducati have been like a family to me.” 

A media-friendly lie. Ducati are not a family; they are a church, another Italian religion wrapped in red bringing riders to the altar of success, willing sacrifices, crushed under the weight of expectation, gnawed away to bone when they don’t deliver. Marc had squared his shoulders, withstood it, because he is Marc. Pecco has never resisted, instead letting the red tendrils worm around him, into him, until they’re indistinguishable from his own muscles and sinew: their perfect godling. 

“But Honda has always been my home,” Marc continues. “I always said I would come back if things got better.” 

“Back where you belong,” someone comments. “Do you feel like you can jump straight back into leading the team?”

Luca swallows; he can’t say why that stings, exactly, but it does.

“Well, I have been riding Ducatis for three years,” Marc says, “and you cannot forget the work that everyone has been doing to improve, especially Luca.”

Against his will, Luca’s head snaps around to stare at Marc; it’s lucky his default expression is calm, because his mind is spinning. 

“You can see the improvements, and it will be a different bike from what I remember and what I am used to, so I don’t—I don’t want to say I will be the, the leader straight away. I cannot leave and come back and expect this. But I am excited to work with Luca.” Marc turns to meet Luca’s gaze, intense, focused—and then he smiles. “He has improved a lot the bike, and also himself. So it should be good.”

Sometimes, when Marc smiles, it’s the slow creep of a stalking predator, the first sign of danger. Sometimes it’s unbridled jubilation, high off the thrill of battling and emerging victorious. This is neither; it’s gentle and open, not a warning, not a battle cry. 

Luca smiles back. 

“And Luca? Are you looking forward to having Marc as your teammate?”

“One of the best ever, no?” Luca says with a shrug. It’s never been a problem for him to say, not like it would be for Bez, the poster child of Valentino adoration. “I know how much Pecco has enjoyed him as a teammate, and he said he was still learning from him, so looking forward to it. Good for the team, and good for me.” 

“He is lying,” Marc says into his microphone, with that tone of letting the whole audience in on their joke. Just like Vale, when he has to be. “Pecco hated it.”

Everyone laughs, cameras flash, and Luca keeps smiling.

[lagunaseca2013]

how does pecco tell his parents that he's pregnant in the teen pregnancy au? how awkward is the eventual valentino safe sex talk for both luca and pecco? Do they eventually have another kid way later in life luca unintentionally having kids that have the same age gap as him and valentino?

hi anon! this ask honestly got me to open a google doc for this thing which is more than I can say for half the wips I’ve talked about here lmao. as always things kind of got away from me so I hope I’ve answered your questions but tbh I feverishly wrote half of this in the actual tumblr app bc I was so inspired so. apologies if it’s not that good! but cheers <3

—

“Pecco?” Carola picks up on the fourth ring of his ninth attempted call. She sounds groggy and confused, like she’s just woken up, probably because— “It’s four AM,” she groans, “you just woke me up. What’s wrong?”

Pecco swallows against the lump in his throat, the words getting stuck in his mouth. He can’t think of a single thing to say, though he’d spent the entire five-hour drive to Turin agonizing about it. In his defense, he couldn’t really do his best thinking when he kept having to pull over to throw up. Most of the time he wasn’t dry heaving on the side of the road, he’d spent going 200kph and trying not to have a panic attack.

He’s breathing heavily, trying desperately not to burst into tears again. Pecco knows if he’s silent for much longer, Carola will either hang up or call the firing squad, the best big sister ever, even if his skin is crawling, just thinking about facing her right now. In his. . . .state.

“I’m outside,” he croaks, finally, his voice sore from disuse and crying and, god, so much throwing up. “But I forgot to bring my keys.”

Carola is silent for a moment, but he can hear her taking slow, steady breaths through the crackle of the line. “Stay there, I have to turn off the alarm for the gate.”

—

His mama nearly has an aneurysm when he slinks down the stairs, late in the morning. He’d slept tucked into the corner between Carola’s bed and the wall like he hadn’t since—well, probably before he moved to Pesaro. Or hit puberty, whichever came first. After his sister had tugged the explanation out of him, she’d refused to let him go to sleep alone. They'd huddled together under her soft floral sheets and she’d pressed a curious hand to the slight swell of his belly that he couldn’t even really look at without getting nauseous, an expression of wonder on her face that he hadn’t yet encountered from anyone who knew about the—

“Francesco!” His mama interrupts his downward spiral, pressing two warm hands against his cheeks. “Is that Valentino not feeding you properly? You have to come sit down and eat, eat piccolo! You’ve gotten too thin!”

For once, his stomach doesn’t rebel at the plate of brioche, and his mom happily flits around the kitchen tidying up in the way she does when she’s trying to figure out how to approach a conversation. She frowns when he pushes away the espresso she’d left for him, and asks for warm milk, but carefully hasn’t asked him what the hell he’s doing here, why he hadn’t told them he was coming home. Why he’d shown up in the middle of the night and couldn’t bring himself to face her. Since he was little, Pecco has always been. . . .different, when it came to emotional matters, and his mama had learned long ago to let him come to her when he was ready.

Pecco doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready for the conversation they’re about to have. In fact, he barely gets down half a slice of bread before he’s running to the bathroom, hacking it all back up, the thing inside him rejecting it all anyway. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until his mama pulls him in, rubbing soothing circles into his back and reaching up to brush tears off his cheek. “Oh, bambino,” she sighs, heavy with concern. “What’s going on?”

—

He’d insisted on waiting for his papa and Carola to return, mostly because he was pretty sure he was only going to be able to handle the conversation once, and he really needed his sister’s support to even attempt it. His mama had fussed over him for the rest of the day, forcing him back into bed with bowls of broth he’d thankfully been able to keep down. She’d even taken his temperature, humming thoughtfully when it was perfectly normal, though Pecco thought, uncomfortably, that they both sort-of knew he wasn’t that kind of sick.

Unfortunately, crushing Carola’s hands like a lifeline and staring back at his deeply concerned parents, it feels even worse than he’d imagined.

His papa is the first to break the silence. “Francesco,” he says, slowly, like he’s afraid Pecco might bolt if he’s too loud. “What’s wrong, piccolo?”

Pecco swallows hard, his fingers trembling where they grip Carola’s. He feels like a child again, sitting at this very table, confessing to crashing his scooter into the neighbor’s mailbox when he was fifteen. But this is so, so much worse.

“I—” He chokes on the word, his throat tight. His mama’s face is open, patient but worried, while his papa frowns, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Carola wriggles one of her hands out of his deathgrip to pet the curls at his nape reassuringly.

“I’m pregnant,” he finally blurts out.

They all freeze for a moment, pure disbelief. His mama’s breath catches audibly, her eyes widening in shock. His papa blinks at him like he’s misheard.

The silence stretches unbearably. Pecco’s heart is hammering so hard he thinks he might actually pass out. There's a high possibility he's going to throw up again.

“Scusa?” His papa’s voice is strangled.

Pecco licks his lips, his mouth dry. “I’m pregnant.” His voice wavers slightly, but the words come out clearer this time. “I found out a few weeks ago.”

His mama makes a soft noise, pressing a hand to her mouth, her eyes shining with something unreadable. “Oh, Francesco. . . .”

His papa, on the other hand, looks confused and concerned. “But—how? That’s not possible, that’s not—you were tested, at birth, they said—you were not. . . .” He gestures vaguely, like he’s searching for an explanation in the air.

Pecco shrugs weakly. “Turns out I am.”

Silence again, Pecco's shoulders are tensed up nearly to his ears. Carola's free hand grips the back of his neck firmly, like she thinks he'll try to make a run for it.

Then, suddenly, his mama’s chair scrapes against the floor as she stands. For a split second, Pecco braces himself for yelling, but instead she kneels down, pulling him into her arms. “Oh, bambino mio,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “You must have been so scared.”

As soon as she says it, Pecco finally shatters. He crumples into her, sobs tearing from his chest, months of anxiety and fear draining out of him all at once. His mama holds him tightly, rubbing soothing circles against his back, whispering soft reassurances into his hair.

Carola reaches over, rubbing his shoulder, and even his papa, still looking completely out of his depth, awkwardly places a hand on his back.

“It’s going to be okay bambino,” his mama says firmly, pulling back just enough to cup his face. “We’ll figure this out together.”

Pecco sniffles, his breath hitching. He’s exhausted, terrified, still fucking nauseous, but for the first time in weeks the knot in his chest loosens, just a little.

—

It’s terribly hard to focus on what Valentino is saying when Luca looks this good, Pecco realizes with dawning horror, the third time he zones out of the lecture, staring at Luca’s hands. His long fingers are folded neatly in his lap, the perfect picture of proper and respectful, if Pecco couldn't see that he was still sporting a semi under the table.

In their defense, Valentino had walked into the apartment unannounced in the syrupy hour after lunch, but before Pecco’s third daily nap, when he had the best chance of seducing Luca into messing around on the couch. He’d then decided, seven and a half months into the unplanned pregnancy, that catching his brother with his hand up Pecco’s stretched out tshirt was cause for the safe sex talk he’d been “meaning to get around to” for the last five years.

Valentino, completely oblivious—or maybe just choosing to ignore the heavy tension radiating between them—leans forward, elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together like he’s about to deliver the most important race strategy briefing of his entire life. Pecco wonders, idly, if this is what he looks like when Uccio shows him “telemetry” on his iPad.

“Look, I get it,” he says, nodding sagely. “You’re young, you’re in love, you’re horny—”

Pecco makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Luca chokes on his own spit.

Valentino waves them off and keeps going. “But you clearly haven’t been careful enough, considering. . . .” he gestures vaguely at Pecco’s belly, which is currently both peeking humiliatingly out the bottom of his tshirt and pressing up against the edge of the table.

Pecco glares. He knows he's gotten huge recently, and he's been feeling particularly sensitive about it. “Wow, grazie, Vale. Really, I hadn't noticed.”

Luca, to his credit, looks genuinely sheepish. “It’s not like we didn’t try to be careful,” he mumbles, scratching at the back of his neck. “We didn't know Pecco was a carrier.” Pecco feels his face heat up at the reminder.

Valentino levels them both with a sharp look. “Clearly, you didn’t try hard enough. Even if Pecco hadn't been a carrier, it is still the safest to use a condom!”

Luca groans, tipping his head back against the couch. “Mio Dio, if this is your way of giving us the condom talk, you’re about seven months too late.”

Valentino ignores him, finally in the rhythm of his tirade. It's an interesting look on him, considering it's usually Uccio who attempts any kind of lecturing about the behavior of the Academy. “You know, there are many ways to be safe. Barriers, timing, communication—”

Pecco shoots Luca a sidelong glance. Luca, who is still, inexplicably, half-hard in his boxers. Luca, who just an hour ago had been shoving his tongue down Pecco's throat against the couch cushions, murmuring things that had absolutely not been about barriers or communication. Things much more aligned with how they'd ended up here in the first place.

Pecco swallows hard. This is kind of his second worst-nightmare, just below getting knocked up mid-season on the list. He hasn't even let himself think about how Valentino said they were, jesus, in love, and neither of them even protested it. Pecco has been in love with Luca for as long as he can remember, but he's always known Luca just saw him as a friend. Luca, of course, is just having sex with him out of convenience.

Meanwhile, Valentino is on a roll. “And don’t think that just because you’re already—” another vague hand-waving gesture at Pecco’s belly. It's kind of amazing that they're this far along, and he's in his thirties, and can't bring himself to say it. “—That you shouldn’t still be careful. Pregnancy hormones can make you want to go at it like rabbits, but you need to be mindful of—”

Pecco shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and his gigantic belly jostles the table enough to knock over the sad vase of dead flowers he'd gotten Luca for Father's Day. He's spent approximately ten minutes in one position, so his back aches enough to make him want to scream. “I am not listening to this anymore.”

Valentino raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You think I wanted to be here?” He throws his hands up dramatically. “You think I enjoy this? But I’m responsible for both of you!”

“Vale,” Luca interrupts, desperate. “We get it. Be careful, use protection, don’t fuck up again. Lesson learned. Can we please never talk about this again?”

He squints at them for a long moment, weighing his options, then sighs, rubbing his temples. “Fine. But if I find out you’ve been reckless again,” he points an accusatory finger between them.

Luca glares. “What, you’ll ground us?” He gestures at Pecco's belly. “Bit late for that.”

Valentino pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am just trying to make sure you know how to have safe sex,” he sighs. “I don't want either of you to have to sacrifice more than you already have because of another—” he stops himself, just in time, but Pecco knows he was going to say, what he was going to call their baby. A mistake. He sees it reflected back in his eyes, in everyone’s eyes, lately. His skin crawls every time he visits the ranch, seeing Mig and Franky’s looks of pity. Nicolo’s barely-hidden derision. Bez hasn’t been able to look him in the eyes since he started showing for real, months ago.

The second Valentino finally leaves, after he gives them the dish of food from Stefania that he had come to deliver in the first place, an excruciating round of hugs, and a parting shot about prenatal vitamins, somehow managing to keep his set of keys in the rush to kick him out—Pecco lets his head thunk onto Luca's shoulder with a dramatic groan.

“I will never forgive you for giving him a key. We aren't having sex again until you get it back from him!”

Luca snorts, reaching over to place a warm palm over the silver of belly not covered by the tshirt. “You say that now, tesoro.”

Pecco lifts his head up, raising an eyebrow.

Luca smirks. “Where were we?”

[boxboxluckybird]

Bez's Gift

a marcmarc fic- Day one for my week of Valentine's Day fics

Prompt 28 Giving their s/o a valentine’s calendar

this is slight nsfw!! so be warned :3

Giving gifts was something that Bez was good at- It was how he started this entire relationship. Marco was also not the most confident in how much his partner liked him, physically that is. So he came up with a plan, one where it was fool-proof to prove that Marc did love Bez's body and was happy with him. Albeit this plan was created much like the one to get Marc into a relationship with him, it all started with him being drunk with the academy boys. But still it was going to be set into motion whether he liked it or not. 

    It was in honesty the simplest plan that they have come up with to date: Step one, figure out what to make; Step two, buy lingerie; Step three, take the "sexy" photos; Step four, make them into a calendar; Step five, give it as a gift to Marc; and the most crucial part, see if it leads to more sex. Each of the boys would get to choose a color and style that Bez was going to wear for this "sexy" calendar, or what Mig and Cele wanted to call it, "Bez's dick magnet 1000". 

Pecco and Luca were the only two that Bez whole-heartedly trusted in picking out some decent lingerie for him, they both went for simple colors- Pecco said a pale pink, and Luca chose white. Cele was the one where everyone knew what color was going to be picked out- it was light blue, conveniently the only color of lace panties Bez had. They were a gag gift from Cele when it was announced that Bez and Marc got into a relationship. 

Migno on the other hand, was the one who said to just take pictures in his full leathers, and one just in the helmet and "like boxers or something dude". However, after like six more shots, he suggested red. 

Franky said a simple black pair would look nice, after clarifying he had no interest in Bez, since Migno shot him a terrible look. 

It honestly was weird that his friends were telling him what panties to buy, Cele even suggested getting a bra, which made everyone still for a second. Were they wondering what Bez would look like in one? 

But Bez decided that he would make sure that each of them would get a copy of their respective color pick. 

It was a long wait for all the items to arrive and for the photographer to reserve him a date for the photo shoot. He also made sure to try on the items when they arrived at his apartment in Italy- also having to find a date that Marc was back in Spain and one of the boys could come over and tell him if the panties looked good on him. In the end he chose the two most honest of the group Domi and Marta, also just because they know how to put on the items they helped him order- 

The calendar itself was simple, so was the photo shoot, all he had to do was show up, get dressed and take the photos. The only difficult part of the process was which photo to go with the months. January got the leathers photo, since he didn't want to make it obvious what the calendar was of. The picking of the photos took around two hours or so, he had to call for backup from Domi and Marta again. They helped, but he of course was the deciding factor. 

It took so much confidence to give Marc this calendar, it was supposed to be an anniversary gift, then got pushed as a christmas gift, and now finally it was what he thought was the perfect time, Valentine's Day.

The wait for Marc to get back to the apartment was probably the most nauseating thing, it was sending him into a spiral about the reaction he would get. He also made sure to dress up nicely for Marc, the red (93) panties with a set of comfy MM93 hoodie and sweats on. 

The calendar that did inevitably end up with the name "Bez's dick magnet 1000: Marc's 12 month wank bank" was wrapped neatly on the counter. 

A knock and a set of keys jingling was what made Bez spring into action, it was time. He kissed Marc on his way into the door. 

"Happy Valentine's Day, Amore. I have something for you," Bez said, while removing himself from where he was wrapped around Marc.

"Oh?! Happy Valentine's Day to you too, mi Corazon." Marc responded, while being pulled to the couch. 

Bez was bouncing with nerves while he grabbed the calendar and handed it to Marc. "I hope you like it Amore."

Marc was handed the calendar and he unwrapped it slowly, to reveal a photo from last season of Bez on his bike, with the title "Bez's dick magnet 1000: Marc's 12 month wank bank". This title honestly made Marc burst out laughing; he was shocked by it. 

The laughter from the both of them died down when Marc opened to the first month, a picture of Bez on his bike with the leathers half way opened, his bare chest on display with his helmet still on. 

Flipping to February, this is when Marc started to realize the nature of this calendar. There in all of its glory, was Bez's ass, barely being covered with the smallest and tightest shorts they could find with *Marc* written on them. Blood was starting to rush south.

March was something even more. It was Bez all blushed up with the prettiest light pink panties on. Hiding practically nothing. 

April, he had a light blue matching set, of a bra and panties. 

May had him in the white set, he was on a bed, his hair splayed out around his face. He looked angelic which was perfect for him. 

There was more arousal pooling in Marc's stomach as he flipped through the months. 

November was no exception to the rest of the months that were just building the arousing nature of the calendar. This month was the special one- Bez's birthday month. It had the camera angled up where Bez was seen on his knees. A black lace bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination was hugging his body perfectly.

Rounding the calendar off had Bez in a red lace thong, with the numbers 93 on them. The photo was taken from the side, so Bez's ass and bulge were on display. So was a tiny detail that Marc seemed to have missed in all of the other pictures. A small 93 was added to his collection of tattoos

The calendar was thrown to the side as Bez was finally going to be proven that Marc thought he was the most beautiful man on the planet. 

Marc would get his last gift of the night, while unwrapping Bez. 

It was truly an amazing Valentine's Day after all. Everything worked out in the end.

[dittaturamonegasca]

would anyone be interested in reading a diary fic that covers the rosquez's journey from 2014 to 2015 from marc's perspective? 'm currently trying to understand if it could actually turn into something nice or if it's just a crappy idea 👀

[formulapookie]

Under the stars

rosquez

they aren't good, not even on speaking terms as of now, not been on fucking terms for a while, but the lingering presence of vale is something heavy to Marc right now.

Of all people it was his side of the garage the one glued to that neon yellow monstrosity of Bezzecchi's garage.

And Vale wasn't fucking shutting up, constantly talking to his rider and telling him how to correct or change a certain something in a certain corner.

He was sick of it, hearing that pointy voice on the other side of the thin wall and not being able to see him.

For how much of a shield or shell he ould build there would have always been a little crack that let Vale through his armour into his chest.

Nestled there like a virus, ready to attack.

He gets up and exits the garage, he needs space, air, quiet.

There's a place where he could go, and even if it is, was, their place it's not like Vale is going to go there.

They didn't even look at eachother earlier in the morning at breakfast.

Or well, Vale didn't look at him, Marc's eyes glued themselves to his curls more than once, always looking away before being spotted.

He breaths in the humid air of the ring, the smell of fuel and the sound of engines managing to calm his mind, untaunted by Vale's voice.

"Where you listening to my tips as well? Could benefit you after the stupid mistake you pulled yesterday in the sprint"

Oh fucking hell. Can't he just have ten minutes to himself?

"I think I manage well for myself Vale, I remind you I have eight Championships, how many does your kid have?"

"No need to insult my rider thank you"

Marc doesn't answer, he doesn't want to, they shouldn't even be talking, let alone discuss.

"You don't talk to me for two years and the first thing you tell me after all this time is an insult, what a way to do things Vale"

"More of a provocation than an insult"

"Oh fuck off Vale what do you want? Me not to fight your precious champion too much next year? To let him win if he wants? To gift him the championship like you think I did with Lorenzo?"

He shouldn't be like this on front of Vale, it's too much skin exposed, too many thoughts said.

He knows Vale compared him to a shark that bites harder if he smells blood, but right now Vale would be much more adequate to the metaphor than him.

"As I already said Pecco doesn't need you in the garage to show he's a Champion, so no, didn't come here to talk to you about him" "Then what do you want? I came here to not hear you talking and you managed to disturb me anyway" "You came here and didn't think that maybe I could come here too?"

Marc's heart skips a beat, a breath gets caught in his throat. Why does it have to happen to him? Why does Vale manage to always sting him when he's not prepared?

"I don't see why you would" "Don't act like an idiot Marc, you know why"

No he fucking doesn't, because Vale has not uttered a word to him for two whole years, they haven't woken up in a random motel together in a year and a half, so he doesn't fucking know why he would.

"No"

Vale scoffs, walking closer to him, now there's roughly a meter between them.

"It's our place no? You called it like this after the first time we came here, you told me we should've had an 'our place' in every track"

Marc didn't think he remembered, words spoken by a lovestruck kid between the sheets of Vale's motorhome, words that still cut too deep even now.

"I agreed that we should've because we couldn't spend too much time in my motorhome and not raise suspicions. And then we went there again for the whole weekend, you sat on that edge and told me you wanted to see the stars, so I shut off the lights on the building and you watched them"

Why is Vale doing this? Why is he talking about that night with that fondness in his voice? Marc doesn't like this, he hates it he - he can't hate it.

He's caught in a trap of lasers and blades and he doesn't know how to get out from the maze that is Valentino's speech.

"I still don't understand why you would come here"

Somehow Marc manages to keep a steady and neutral voice, despite his will is to cry at the memory Vale just revived.

"Because I knew you'd be here" it's the first time tonight, this year actually, that they make proper eye contact, staring into each other's souls for a seconds which seems and eternity.

Marc feels like drowning in the ocean Vale's eyes are, Vale feels like he's wondering in an ancient forest if he looks long enough.

"And I feel like I owe you an apology. Fuck ok more than just an apology, I owe you so much more"

After years. Years. He spent wondering if he would ever hear these words they're finally here.

"I was wrong. About a lot of things, especially those regurding you and your - you saying you were a fan of mine, that I was skeptical whether or not you had posters of me at your house, despite I went there and saw them. I was an asshole. I wanted to hurt you as much as I could and I said the most stupid and hurtful thing I could think of, I knew that if I publicly doubted of you then you would’ve let go”

“You’re apologising?”

Marc doesn’t believe it, can’t believe Vale is actually saying these words to him, in reality, right here right now.

“Yes. And don’t get me wrong, I’m still angry about the 10th, but I was a dickhead about it and a whole other bunch of things”

There’s a tension in the air, uneasiness between them.

It’s not normal to be in this situation, both vulnerable and bare in front of the other.

It’s like they’re saying “my heart is here, if you want to stab it do it now, i’m defenceless”

“Marc I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just needed to say I’m sorry because I’ve been sorry for a long time but I didn’t want to tell you. I was scared to look stupid or weak. I don’t care now, I just had to make sure next year there’s no resentment in the garage”

Marc has tears in his eyes.

He wants to let them all out, wants to curl up in a ball and let himself be consumed by years of torment and suffering.

“I was a kid Vale. I - fucking he’ll I was Celestino’s age. What would you do to someone if they did what you did to me to Celestino?”

“Probably I’d punch them. Probably I’d keep them as far as possible from him and tell him to never interact with them again. I am not an idiot Marc I know I have no right to expect you to forgive me. But I just ask for no resentment”

“I forgave you already. I forgave you the week after you said those things about me. A week after you called me a liar I had already forgiven you. I just wanted to hear these words back then”

Vale is honestly dumbfounded. Because yeah he knew Marc didn’t hold the type of grudge he held for him but.

Forgiving him after a week? That was just insane.

“You have really zero self preservation sense eh? That’s why you race like that still”

“I forgave you because I was in love with you Vale. I hoped that if I just loved you enough, that’d be good for the two of us, I thought I could love enough for both. Thought I could get over you going me those nasty looks and just calling me when you wanted to fuck. Because I had enough love for two”

And Vale didn’t think he could feel more shitty than he did when he had that mental trip months ago when he realised how actually cruel he had been, and how he had to apologise.

He hadn’t told Uccio, obviously.

Or Pecco. Or Luca. Or any of the people he knew.

“I thought you felt - ok not the same as me but I thought you hated me at least a little bit. I am sorry. Really. I know I should’ve apologised long ago, that this I’m doing now it’s basically useless but you had to hear it from me”

And now tears just can’t be held by Marc anymore.

He’s not crying desperately but tears stream down his face, quietly, like a mountain river.

“I know I should tell you to fuck off and go back to you garage and tell you I don’t give a fuck about your apologies”

Now Marc is breathing normally again, eyes locked with Vale’s, there’s not a layer of lies in it.

“But I just can’t. I want to be honest with you, I was - still am - hurt by what you said. But I am so fucking stupid and still love you so much and I forgive you”

Vale wants to cry too now, Marc hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still that lovestruck kid he fell in love with ten years ago. And it sickens him, because he can see who he hurt.

“Can” Marc’s voice gets interrupted by a sob, light now completely down at the track, just the moon making its appearance.

“Can we watch the stars Vale? I miss them”

“Si. Ill go turn the lights off, you stay here and we watch the stars ok?”

Marc nods, he’s scared, of course he’s scared.

He’s scared Vale will run away again, that he would leave him alone up there, that he will make fun of his helpless reaction with his friends.

But Vale takes 5 seconds to shut off the buildings lights, leaving just the many stars to light up in Marc’s eyes.

“Im sorry. I will go away if you want. When you want”

“No Vale no please. Please don’t go. Not again I don’t want you to go away again. Watch the stars with me”

And Vale does just that, sat beside Marc, heads touching, thousands of words still to say, millions of apologies still to be done.

But now, in this fragment, it’s just them.

Them and the stars.

[danipedrosas-boatest]

Podium Celebrations

or

In which Marc gets a well deserved reward after a hard fought podium

Pairing: Marc Márquez x Reader

Genre: Smut

A/N: reader is heavily implied to be female, softdom!Marc, use of Spanish and feminine endings (I’m not fully fluent so please let me know if I got anything wrong!) petnames, blowjob

“Oh, eres una buena chica para mí.”

Marc hadn’t even walked in two minutes ago and he was already tossing his head back, hands wrapped in your hair as you gave him little kitten licks. Your hands rested on the bruised leather on his thighs, keeping him up while his knees began to buckle. The arms of his leathers threatened to hit you every time you moved your head, but that was the least of your concerns right now. All that mattered was the man in front of you and the smile that hadn’t left his face since he got on that podium.

He started bucking his hips as you began to lightly suck on his head, fingers digging further into your scalp as you teased him. The saltiness on your tongue let you know he wasn’t going to be holding on for long, but you couldn’t help yourself. You thrived in the moment when you got to tease Marc as much as he teased you, but the way the man in front of you made your scalp start to sting may have other ideas.

“¿Estas tan ansiosa por mi no eres bebé?” He growled out, the pressure on your scalp lessening as he brushed the hair that had fallen in front of your face. You could hear the smirk decorating his face as you sunk further down onto him, opening your jaw as wide as you could to take all of him in.

His hands went to grip on the side of your head, thrusting in and out while you dragged your tongue on the underside of his cock as best as you could. Your moans vibrated around his cock, the wetness between your legs coating your thighs and pants as you started to grid against them. You could see the little bit of your panties peaking out of his leathers, having had you strip and give them to him as “good luck” before the race. You have a feeling you’re going to start doing that much more often after today.

The way you start to gag around his cock makes Marc moan, digging your hands further into his thighs as the grip on your face gets harsher and harsher. You start to move in time with his trusts, digging your nose against his pubic bone, your pants getting more and more soaked by the minute.

“Querida estoy-“ Marc moans out, releasing into your mouth. He holds you for a second before relaxing his grip, whimpering when he feels you continuing to lightly suck on him. Eventually you came off, a light string of cum connecting you to him.

“Abre a boca princesa.” Marc says, lightly tapping your jaw. You open up, letting him see you swallowed all of his cum, a wide smile breaking across his face. He tugs you up and brings you into his arms, pressing kisses all over your face as you giggle.

“Gracias princesa, eres tan buena conmigo.”

[muxas-world2]

It’s noisy in the garage—mechanics coming and going, tools clinking. He’s relaxing in his seat when he feels a tiny hand tap his leg.

“Pecooo… Oh, you’re not Pecco,” says a little girl, her big, wet eyes already starting to look teary. He definitely doesn’t want problems with that side of the garage, so he quickly tries to console her.

“Shhh, hey, princesa! Don’t worry, it’s fine,” he says gently. They play for a little while, her giggles easing the tension, until she looks up at him and asks, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Marc, nena. What’s yours?” he asks, twirling one of her curls.

“GUILIETTA! Where are you?”

Marc doesn’t even need to look to know who the voice belongs to. And honestly, he should’ve known sooner. The kid’s curls and eyes are a perfect copy of the man now standing in front of him..

“Here you are. I’m sorry, she’s…” The man’s voice trails off as his eyes land on Marc.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asks, tension rising, but before Marc can answer, the little girl pipes up.

“Dad, this is my friend Marc!”

He looks at Marc, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he sighs, turns to his daughter, and mutters a quiet “thank you” to Marc.

….“I’m taking the kid.”

“But Dad, I want to play!” she protests.

“Say bye. Come on,” he says firmly.

He leads her away, leaving Marc to watch them go…watching those same blue eyes while waving godbay…

[azulonso]

Good Luck

A Valentine's Day special with lesbian!rosquez (funny cause it's 15th already) AO3 ver.

It was late saturday night, several hours right after qualifying. Most riders and their teams had gone to their own motorhomes. But for some unknown reasons, Marcia found herself sitting alone outside, staring into the night sky. There was a race tomorrow, but she couldn't bring herself to rest, well she was about to before a familiar voice greeted her.

"Oh still here?"

It was Vale. Valentina. The Valentina Rossi. The Doctor. Her Idol? Her crush or whatever feeling Marcia couldn't sort out towards her. Not important right now anyways.

"Ah yes, I'm about to head back though," she replied.

Liar you would trade the world to have an alone moment with her.

Valentina looked at her and pulled a face, her typical expression, "Well then I'm not going to disturb your beautiful alone time right now so–"

"Wait no nevermind I can spare 10 minutes, or more." The words just slipped right through Marcia's tongue. What are you even thinking about.

The older rider's face above her brightened up and settled her position to sit right beside Marcia, leaving only a centimeter between their fingers now.

"Congratulations on the pole, by the way." said Valentina casually, gaze fixated on whatever is in front of them, Marcia didn't know, she was staring at the ground, thinking if she ever saved the world in her previous life in return to have Valentina congratulating her. It wasn't a special one actually, not a home race, just another race she determined to win.

"Thanks," that was all she could replied her with.

"Do you know what date today is?" Valentina tried to change the topic again.

"It's February 14th, Valentine's day yeah I know."

Well of course Marcia knew, Alex had promised her that she would spend the day with her since what else do you need a sibling for? But that was before her younger sister canceled their plan out from nowhere, unlikely from her but Marcia let her go anyway.

"Then are you not spending it with someone? A boyfriend perhaps? Or a girlfriend?" The Italian asked again, with more emphasis on the last three words. She was looking at Marcia now.

Well if I get to choose I would spend it with you idiot.

"I'm just... not in a relationship right now," she replied.

"Eh of course, the future world champion couldn't have anything bothering her way huh?"

"Learnt it from the best."

Her last response earned a chuckle from the other. Marcia had gathered enough courage to look back at Valentina now. She's really beautiful upclose. A little bit annoying on track but they shared that one trait.

"Would you be interested?" Valentina asked again.

"Sorry, in what?" Marcia was too lost in the ocean blue eyes in front of her.

"Being in a relationship, dating, I mean."

Before Marcia got the time to reply, Valentina stood up and started checking her pants' pocket, trying to find something. Then she pulled out something, kept it in her hand, so Marcia couldn't catch a hint.

She walked over a bit, stopped right in front of the younger rider, then crouched down to make them face to face. Marcia felt her face heating up, her heart started beating faster. What trick is Vale trying to play on her? Seriously.

"Give me your hand and close your eyes," she asked.

Confused, still Marcia followed her instructions. She could feel Vale's excitement buzzing and the warmth of her hand on hers. Valentina had put something on her hand, it was pretty light.

"You can open your eyes."

The first thing she saw was a four-leaf clover on her hand. That was why it felt so light. Cute. Cliche, just like Valentina. The second thing was the giver in question looking at her, waiting for a reaction.

"Oh thank you, where did u even find the time to get this?"

"I have my ways, thought it'll bring me some luck tomorrow but I think you need it more than me."

The Spaniard raised her eyebrow, amused.

"Or if you don't believe in those, take it as a valentine's gift from me. I'd be happy to afford more for someone who is as pretty as you but I came unprepared here," she continued.

Her crush Idol had called her pretty, Marcia could die happily right now. Wait nevermind, there is still a race to win. Another thing she realized was that Valentina did search up for her.

"Well I guess that was all I've got, I have to come back before Uccio gets my ass," she said as she stood up again.

"Wait–" Marcia grabbed Valentina's left hand, diverting the other's attention to her again. "–I just want to say thank you, again, and good luck for the race. It was nice, uh, talking to you."

"You know, you are a really interesting person," Valentina said as she moved her hand from Marcia's grasp, softly touching the younger's cheek with her palm, causing Marcia to raise her head more to look at her. The view was truly a sight to see from Valentina's eyes.

The next thing that got out of Valentina's mouth was unexpected for them both, not like they were not wanting and were practically waiting for it.

"May I kiss you?"

Valentina could see the surprised look from Marcia's eyes under her. She nodded slowly, "yes–, yes please," and that was all she had to say before Marcia stood as she felt Valentina's lips against hers, soft. The kiss deepened as Valentina worked her hands to wrap them around Marcia's waist.

She tasted weird, a mix of bubblegum, almost-expired-canned-beer, and others Marcia couldn't recognize. She tasted like– Valentina. And that felt right.

Their gazes were still on each other as they pulled apart, unsure of the next step to take. They knew that they don't want the night to just end here.

"Are you leaving already?" Marcia asked, hoping that Valentina would change her previous plan.

But how could she leave? When she had a literal goddess looking at her with such eagerness, in her arms.

"No I think I have a better plan for us. Say, my place and then I take you out for the most romantic breakfast ever in the morning?" Valentina suggested, as if it didn't mean they were going to eat a reheated pasta she had in her motorhome's fridge. Well Marcia would say yes to anything from her anyways. She nodded, "Then it's settled," said the Italian with a smile.

They walked towards Valentina's motorhome then, hand in hand. And as they headed to sleep, Marcia put the four-leaf clover on the bedstand beside her. Valentina noticed, "I think I have used all my life's luck already."

Marcia just grinned at her, "Well I can share mine with you, if you really worry about it." She laid on the bed as the older held her closer.

"The clover works then, I know you would believe me."

More like Marcia would believe in anything Valentina say, which probably can be applied for the opposite too.

"This might be the best Valentine's I've ever experienced, thank you Vale," Marcia said but she heard no response. Then she noticed that Valentina had drifted off to sleep. She's even more beautiful like this, Marcia planted a kiss on the other's forehead and pulled the blanket to cover them up nicely. Tonight is perfect.

[neptunescore]

We can make it so divine [m] | dovquez | 1.7k | part 1

Dovi finds the human as it's jumping off the bus; footsteps frantic– strides much too large for a body that small. It’s eyes are moving around erratically, looking around for god-knows-what while it's hands fumble with the, frankly, absurd amount of files it's carrying.

But honestly, Dovi muses, horrendous eye bags and jittery body aside, the human is quite pretty.

It doesn't take much more than that for him to slither his way across the pavement. His tendrils are already aching to feel the heat of this curious creature's skin.

—

His human calls itself Marc. His human is a him. His human… needs to get a grip.

It's been two days since the initial bonding, and as Dovi stares down at the pathetic heap of limbs laying limp atop the concrete floor, he realises he's had enough. This is the fifth time Marc has fully blacked-out in the past forty-eight hours, and while it is helpful for Dovi's daily hunts; the symbiote is quite concerned about the fact that Marc seems to consider these exhaustion-driven bouts of unconsciousness naps. This can not be healthy.

Nothing in Marc's life is healthy, actually. His apartment is a disgusting mess, his social life consists of only short technical conversations with his professors, and in the past two days that Dovi has been inhabiting him, the only thing Marc has consumed is four-and-a-half protein bars along with about seven cans of RedBull.

Dovi lets himself sink back into the shoulder he’d emerged from. Four-and-a-fucking-half. He’s going to have to do something.

—

It starts out small– well, no, that's a lie. The first thing Dovi does is give Marc’s abhorrent apartment a thorough cleanse. He lets himself seep out during another one of Marc's ‘naps’; forgoing the day's routinely hunt as he lets shimmering silver tendrils contort into five-fingered hands– dozens and dozens of them. They flitter through the apartment; picking at the hundreds of annotated fly-away pages littered about everywhere, sorting through dirty dishes and scrubbing at grime-filled plates, dumping much too over-worn clothes into the washing machine, folding up piled laundry, throwing away forgotten packets of nibbled on granola bars– Dovi does everything. He even gives the floor a scrub.

The symbiote is curled up into a little, pleased ball just below his host’s ribcage when Marc finally regains consciousness. Dovi hadn't really thought about Marc's reaction, had done everything in a sort of spur-of-the-moment decision. Shit, he feels a little wary now.

Marc stretches out, the soft blanket Dovi had placed on him falling off as his boy sits up; he yawns, his face scrunching and eyes slowly blinking open. The coffee table in front of him is clean of any dust or stain, a corner of it dedicated to all his textbooks and notes– neatly placed in small piles atop each other. Dovi might’ve gotten just a teeny bit carried away.

“Huh,” Marc blinks, “well, this is nice.”

He leans forward, rummaging through the papers Dovi had so meticulously collected before grinning and holding one up in delight, “Oh,” an exclamation, “I have been looking for this for ages now!” Then, his boy digs out a pencil from his pockets and starts scribbling furiously atop that very same page.

Dovi let's himself curl up again; why had he even worried.

—

After that, it really is very small things. Truly. Tiny little things to make sure Marc continues living and doesn't just drop dead.

Marc hasn't had a full meal the whole day? Dovi will twist around his stomach and squeeze periodically. Nothing too painful! Just light clenches that are uncomfortable enough for Marc to get up and actually eat something other than those dry flaky protein bars. Dovi has Marc on a proper sleeping schedule now too; lightly cocooning his brain— glittering tendrils hazing over Marc's thalamus as soon as the clock hits 9, soothing over the fleshy matter until the words in front of him start blurring together, eyelids drooping down and flicking back up repeatedly before finally laying shut.

Sometimes, when Dovi knows his boy has a particularly hard test coming up in the next few days, he lets Marc stay up just an hour or two more; forgoes the brain and, instead, quietly wraps himself around Marc's heart, let's himself feel soothed by the rhythmic lub-dub that remains ever present. To him, it is the body's way of telling Dovi that he’s doing well– that his boy is finally healthy and cared for. Because of him.

There are certain days though, where Dovi needs more– days where he cannot seem to let go of the deep sadness that comes with escaping a dying planet he had once loved and lived on. On those days, Dovi lets himself indulge a little extra; he finds and eats one more person than the regular daily quota, stays out to see the stars just a few minutes longer, and when he finally lets go control of Marc's body after tucking it up under the sheets properly; Dovi allows the silver of himself manifest through Marc's back and out into the open world, permits himself the rare comfort of completely blanketing the warm body he's come to care for. Forgets everything but the soothing heat of his boy's frame beneath him.

His pretty boy.

—

It's been three months and six days, when it finally happens.

Marc has just gotten off the bus, waving goodbye to the driver as he stumbles his way through the heaping snow and towards the familiar alleyways he needs to get past in order to reach their home. Dovi is resting right above Marc's pelvic– content and lazy. His boy's hands are stuffed into his coat, body shivering occasionally as a flush spreads over his cheeks.

Cute, Dovi thinks; letting himself fuse into Marc's bone just a little more, calmed by the slow vibrations of Marc's steps through the dark vennel. It's a slow day– late classes and no exams. Which is why Dovi isn't expecting it– unguarded of Marc's surroundings and feeling comfortable in his own.

“Ay!” A growl, “where’d you think you’re going, huh?”

Marc’s head whips around, an awkward giggle leaving his lips as he stares at the two men behind him, “just heading home, I, ah, I am not looking for any trouble.”

“Y'here that, Jeff?” The larger one snickers, “little boy's not looking for any trouble.” His friend — Jeff, apparently — smirks, walking forward towards Marc. Dovi lets himself pool upwards to Marc's chest. What the fuck did these guys want?

“Heard him loud and clear, Greg.”

Wow, Dovi muses, their parents must've really hated them huh.

“Now,” it's Greg this time, “we ain't lookin for no trouble either, so why don't you be a nice little boy and give us some of the cash in your pocket, hm?”

The thing is, Marc doesn't keep any cash in his pocket, uses that tap-tappy thing on his phone instead.

“Um, sorry, but I really have no money—”

And, suddenly, his boy is being pushed up against some disgusting wall by the lapels of his coat. Dovi bubbles closer to the skin, he's getting angry now.

“Y’wanna do this the hard way?” Jeff snarls, “cause I got no qualms dippin my hands into your pockets.”

Marc whimpers, “I'm so sorry, but I actually have no money, I swear, I swear, please—”

Three things happen at once after that. Marc let's out an anguished cry of pain as he is pushed to the ground, Greg pulls out a fucking gun, and Dovi gives up on any and all efforts to stay hidden as he lets himself encapsulate Marc entirely. Because enough is enough.

Who do these motherfuckers think they are anyway? Messing with his boy.

—

Marc comes back to himself sitting on top of his bed, a hot water-bottle pressed against his stomach, wearing the softest pair of nightees he's ever owned.

“Hello…?” He murmurs, “are you there?... Inside of me?”

He rubs slow circles against his chest, “come out, please,” slight demand colours his voice, “I know you are there now.”

Dovi hesitates, winds himself around the skull of Marc's head instead; Hello tesoro.

Marc flinches slightly, left hand reaching up to graze his head while the right one tightens it's grasp on the heated bottle, “Oh my god, I knew it,” he whispers, “I knew, I knew, I knew something was there!”

The symbiote lets Marc feels the rumble of his chuckle this time, you are not scared?

“No.” A statement, “There is no harm on me, and you are saving me just now. Why would I be scared?” He huffs, wringing his fingers together before tapping against his head, “can you come out now? I want to see who has been taking care of me.”

There is silence for a bit, after that. Marc worries his bottom lip between his teeth, maybe he had overstepped? Should he say something? Apologise and let the matter go? Maybe this isn't even real, just a fucked up trick his mind is playing on him and—

Oh.

His eyes widen, body shocked still as he watches silver tendrils emerge through the fabric over his stomach. They glisten like fallen stars; Beautiful, he thinks distantly, ethereal.

They slither up his neck, sticky ciruses brushing his face lightly, soothing against the skin before turning much more insistent– pressure against his jaw increasing as they forcefully hold his head in place.

Dovi lets himself form then. Face inches away from Marc's, moonlit eyes staring directly into his as sharpened teeth snap teasingly.

“Am I beautiful now, tesoro?” The hiss of his voice fills the silent room.

“Yes,” Marc breaths, entranced by the otherworld creature in front of him. His palms reach up to cradle his symbiote's face in return, “You are glorious.”

A pleased growl makes itself known as the tendrils against Marc’s face tighten. Dovi lets his mouth open wide, let's it stay that way for just a second before he lolls his tongue out– slides the lengthy flesh against the hands holding him, stopping only when he feels the hitch in Marc’s breath.

“Why…”

“Why what, piccola,” Dovi teases. Marc squirms beneath him, a small pout already forming on his face. “I want, I want…”

“What do you want, Marc?” He prompts, “You have to tell me.”

“More.” A whine, “Please. I want more.”

And well, Dovi's boy always gets what he wants, doesn't he?

[lagunaseca2013]

your omegaverse au idea literally masterpiece thinking thank u that was a great ride

ah!! hi anon thank youuuu. it’s been, uh, quite a long time since I’ve put my writing out there in the world! not that my feverish ramblings are like writing but yk what I mean lol

I’m so glad u liked it!! here’s another snippet :))

“I am only going to say this once, David,” Marc bites his lip. He’s still staring at the track, because he’s afraid that if he looks at the young alpha he’ll crumble. “You are a very good driver and I know you will make it to MotoGP, yes? You have a very, very long career ahead of you.” He pauses as Bezzecchi and Vietti walk by, their bright laughter matching the sun shining through the clouds over the track. It might be a dry race, yet.

“Marc?” David nudges him tentatively. It’s then, that Marc realizes he’d been holding his breath.

“You have long career ahead of you, David,” he says again, somehow even quieter this time. “And. . . .” He huffs, staring down at his hands. They’re trembling, so he shoves them quickly into the pockets of his jacket. The gresini colors still feel alien to him. He still looks down sometimes, expecting to see Honda orange where there’s Ducati red.

“It is very lonely, to be associated with me,” he says, finally. “I do not blame you if you want to, to seek other mentors,” he says, through gritted teeth. Twenty yards away, Matteo Gabarrini’s neon yellow bike slows down in front of them, the young driver swearing and gesticulating as he’s swarmed by his mechanics. The VR46 stares back. It is a branding, sure. But David knows what he really means.

Marc only has his brother and his team in the paddock. He could never give David a pack.