#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. 

[rooooooossssssse]

FAVORITE WORST NIGHTMARE - rosquez - same age au - 10.2k

girl, so confusing but it’s dumb boys racing motorcycles in the 90s / early 00s who hook up one time and then never speak of it ever again 💕

[ inspired by THIS amazing post by motogp historian @batsplat! ]

excerpt:

And Valentino had watched as Marc Márquez, his bottom lip trickling blood where his teeth had split it in the crash, tilted his head back to smile up at the sky. All sharp edges. Bared teeth.

“I’m not sure how we met,” Marc says next to him now. A full decade later. “But was probably on track, no?”

read on ao3 here

[formulapookie]

:)

Under the cut to read on tumblr, here to read on Ao3 <3

I'll commit your every scar to my memory rosquez, 6k words

(set 2025)

Marc has been looking at himself in the mirror for twenty minutes now.

Inspecting for every micro feature which signaled he was getting older.

He doesn’t want to get older, he can’t.

All his career, his success had come when he was a kid and he had been nicknamed “alien” for it goddamnit.

youngest pole sitter, youngest podium finisher, youngest winner, youngest champion.

key word being young. 

he doesn't feel old, but older, god yes. Everyday.

A new source of pain coming out, an old one resurfacing, the fear of falling behind, of not fitting in anymore and of running out of time.

All present and heavy on his body, which took the hit every time.

Why he thinks that, he isn’t  sure.

But he feels like he must get everything now or it will all have been useless.

It’s been one year now since he and Vale reconciled, and nine months since they made their relationship official, but only to intimate friends and their families, since Marc was still a target in the paddock, and they both knew that having a gay relationship wasn’t exactly the greatest thing to share in a sport like theirs.

And while the respective families had reacted well (except for a bit of skepticism on Alex’s side) the Academy had been more bitter, especially Uccio, but it was to be expected since he is so obviously in love with Vale since the dawn of time.

The mirror in their room at the Ranch keeps reflecting his toned and muscled body, along with his freshly shaved face and regrowing curls.

If he has to be honest he isn’t the one who brought up the aging thing.

First Vale, at his birthday, after he was officially a Ducati factory rider for that year, telling him he was “growing up”, getting closer to 35.

And it terrified Marc.

Then his brother, joking about him retiring so that he could be the only Marquez on the grid “haste que tu y Mr doctor creéis un hijo con magia y aterroricen a MotoGP” (Until you and Mr Doctor will create a son with magic and terrorize MotoGP) 

And finally Bezzecchi two weeks ago.

He was talking to Celestino, to which he seemed glued to the hip, almost symbiotic, as if they only existed one attached to the other.

“Sta invecchiando comunque, magari Vale con i gusti per i più piccoli che ha se ne trova uno più giovane e meno sfasciato” (He’s aging by the way, maybe Vale with his taste for younger people will find a younger and less broken one) 

“Sei un coglione Marco dai” (Marco you’re a dickhead come on)

“Dico la verità, magari tra una settimana ci porta un ragazzetto di 20 anni che lo guarda con gli occhi a cuoricino e che non sia mezzo pieno di cicatrici” (I’m saying the truth, maybe in a week the he’ll come to us with a 20 year old boy who looks at him heart-eyed and who’s not half covered in scars)

“Immagini? Tanta fatica e poi se ne sbatte un altro”

(Can you imagine? So much trouble and he ends up fucking another guy)

“Sarebbe karma” (Would be karma)

Marc had been hidden behind the door throughout the whole conversation, and a wave of nausea and vomit overwhelmed him, causing him to rush silently to the toilet and throw up.

Maybe they were right. 

He was getting older, Vale had said that himself, joking about his smile lines.

He had started exercising even more, buying more products for skincare and trying to act like he was 20 again.

And suddenly he didn’t feel pretty anymore, he just wanted to ride a couple laps on the dirt track and forget about it.

He looks at himself one last time, not failing to notice the faint line of a wrinkle in the corner of his eyes staring right back at him, menacing.

He puts on his gear, ignoring everyone in the kitchen and heading straight for the track, grabbing the bike with the bright orange “93” plastered on front.

It’s the best way to shut his mind off, it’s just him and the track, the bike being a direct extension of his body.

He completes ten, twelve, fifteen laps then he slips, bike flying out of his hands and his body tumbling down in the dirt.

His arm hurts, but his brain aches more.

Finished finished finished.

He goes to grab the bike to climb on it again when he feels a pair of arms around his body. Vale.

“Are you ok Marc? Do I need to grab your painkillers? I’ll help you back on the bike if-” the older one gets cut off harshly by Marc, who has pain in his eyes

“I can still do things Valentino you know?”

He's angry, his tone bitter and his words harsh.

He’s not like that and Vale knows, he’s tender when they speak, they’ve hurt each other way too much already to be cruel to one another now.

Vale has a concerned expression painted on his face, his eyes quickly running to Marc’s right arm, then to his face again.

“Let me get up”

“Ok but-“

“I want to do some other laps let me do them” 

it’s not a plea, or a begging, his voice is resolute and firm.

Vale is visibly worried, but lets him.

He looks as Marc gets back on the bike and restarts, the corner of his eyes caught by Bezz and Celin giggling between themselves.

Marc gets off the bike after one hour, when his body cannot take it anymore and his brain is foggy enough with thoughts about breaking, turning, speeding.

He leaves the bike in the garage, stripping out of his leathers, the only clothing underneath a sleeveless adherent black top, half dirty from soil and grass.

And just when he was convinced to have sedated the thoughts for at least a good few hours his eyes trace the outline of his scar, dead tissue on his arm.

He goes to their bedroom bathroom quickly, to avoid more sensations to overwhelm him, getting into the shower and turning the hot water on, letting it rinse away scenarios where he’s not present in Vale’s future. He spends at least twenty minutes under the water, washing himself carefully and almost trying to clean away the scars littering his body, obviously without succeeding.

As he gets out of the bathroom he’s only wearing a towel around his hips, and he inevitably meets his reflection staring back at him from the mirror.

He wants so desperately to see the 20 year old wonderkid he used to be, but that’s his past. Marc knows time passes for everyone, it takes from you, sometimes more than it should, sometimes it’s harsher on your body and sometimes on your soul.

He isn’t fucking eighty he knows that but still. He’s grown. He’s not the starstruck kid Vale first met and with whom shared many nights during their rivalry.

He’s a grown man now, he looks different, he can see the tiredness in his own eyes, pain sometimes so much it eats his body whole, the same pain which has him stay awake some nights.

And he knows Vale is older than him but Vale is also Vale and no one in their right mind would ever question his capacities or greatness, not even if he was 90.

And like Bezzecchi said he had a taste for youngsters, full of life and ready to do whatever he said as if it was a command.

He used to be one of those, but now…

He hears his name getting called downstairs for dinner, yells back he’s getting dressed and will soon be there.

He avoids the mirror while changing, his body feels wrong every time he tries to look at it, his face transpires the worry sleeping in his chest.

They all eat together, Pecco is there too, he’s getting used to sharing spaces with his future teammate which is good, but Bezzecchi is there too, casting funny glances at his best friend making them both giggle while sometimes looking over at Marc. He speaks maybe four words during the whole dinner, his brain feeling like it’s underwater and needs to be saved from drowning into the abyss.

As they finish eating he helps clean up the table and when he’s proposed to stay and watch a movie he fakes a headache, heading upstairs and leaving the academy to enjoy their time. 

Not even two minutes later he’s in his boxers under the sheets, back turned to the glassy hell his mirror has become.

He hears the door opening and quiet steps making their way to him.

“Ei amore, everything ok?”

Vale’s tone is tender and caring, something which only surfaced once they reconciled, a side of Vale making him humane, not the cold and distant concept of a God Marc still had in the back of his mind.

It was good in a way, but on the other hand it made him feel weak, like he needed to be spoken softly otherwise he would’ve broken like glass. 

“Si, I’m a bit tired and have a headache, can we just…can we just sleep?”

It was the most obvious of the answers, the fakest one, and yet the only one he could give him at that moment.

Valentino nods, taking off his shirt and pants and climbing into bed, Marc laying his head on Vale’s stomach, feeling the man’s hand stroke his curls gently.

Valentino is tired too, he had to follow an event all day and close a contract for VR46, he falls asleep in a half hour, while Marc has his eyes wide open in the darkness of a night lightened only by a pale moon in the distant sky.

He hears his mind speaking again, telling him how he’s not himself anymore, he’s not what Vale wants and he’s not the best Vale can have, because afterall he is THE Valentino Rossi and everyone wants a piece of him and Vale could feel entitled to request a piece of every one just because of who he is.

You’re not the one Vale deserves.

He could have them younger, prettier, faster, better.

He could have someone he can be seen with, with someone he could bring to races and shit like it was normal to do.

He could have someone who didn’t try to fight him so hard back then.

A new rookie maybe, fast, magnetic, idolizing him.

Vale would have every right to just let him go to find someone who doesn’t look so broken, who doesn’t risk getting more and more broken every week.

Perhaps he wants children.

And well for how much you can adopt kids maybe, no surely, Vale wants his kid to look and be like him.

Marc doesn’t cry, but just because he’s too afraid of waking Vale up, and surely seeing him acting so pathetic would be the last straw Vale would need to leave him and go find someone else.

So he doesn’t, he cries a lot internally, he tries to trace every mole on Valenitno’s body because he’s so afraid that in a matter of time he’ll be unable to see him like this again.

or feel the heat of his body next to his own.

Afraid to wake up without the smell of his shampoo or go to sleep missing the pair of arms that are holding him at this moment.

He manages to fall asleep after more than an hour, thoughts feasting on his brain like worms on a carcass, the same word echoing endlessly in his mind.

useless

He wakes up to an empty bed, no sign of Valentino in the room whatsoever, and he imagines his life could become like this in a matter of time.

He doesn’t understand how those little comments managed to get under his skin so much, he had never been the one to take those things to heart because…

because he had never actually believed any of that shit talk before.

But now he’s the first one to think that, the first to indulge on it. 

He can feel a sense of inadequacy crawling in bed with him, wrapping his hands around his throat and slowly depriving him of the chance to breathe.

It’s burning and it hurts like hell, it’s ugly.

He scrambles to the bathroom, throwing up bent over the toilet, coughing and sniffing like during the worst hangover of his life.

He can make out rushed steps coming to the door, Valentino crouching down to level himself with Marc, stroking his hair and back, worry painted in his eyes.

“Marc, do you want me to get you something? Are you ok?”

Weak, undeserving, not enough

That fuckin voice doesn’t shut up goddamnit, it haunts his mind and poisons everything coming in close contact with him.

What if it can poison Vale?

What if by standing so close to Marc he’ll end up being corrupted by this voice?

No no no, he’d rather suffer alone and watch Vale be happy with someone else rather than seeing him hurting.

Because that’s what Marc is when it comes to who he loves.

Selfless, adoring and ready to let go, because he knows he’s not an easy person to put up with so he never pushes.

“No I’m ok I just didn’t digest dinner well that’s all”

“Marc”

“I told you it was yesterday’s dinner Vale, I’m already feeling better, see?”

And he smiles, the fake PR smile Vale has seen hundreds of times, he could recognise Marc’s true smile in a crowd full of people, his laugh in a room filled with clowns and most of all he could recognise Marc hurting in a massacre.

His eyes are lifeless, a veil of something trapping the joy and happiness inside, not letting them see the sun.

“Marc tell me what’s going on because you’re not ok and I am not letting you leave the room until you’ve told me what’s happening”

“I decide if I can get out of the room or not Vale, you’re not my mom, I told you i’m ok so let me go thank you”

Vale wants to stop him but he knows it would be worse, Marc would shut down and respond robotically to questions he dreads to know the real answer to.

“Marc. I won’t force you ok? But please tell me what’s going on, you look-”

“I know what I look like there’s no need to tell me”

Marc thinks of old, spent, expired, outdated. 

All different words to mean only one thing.

undesirable.

And weak.

He fucking threw up in front of Vale, he almost had tears in his eyes, he had to come up with his fake smile he knew Vale would recognise, he’s so fucking stupid god how can he act like that and hope to still have a chance in keeping Vale.

He gets past him, putting on a pair of joggers and a short sleeved shirt of his and walks out the room, grabbing his biker boots and protective jacket by the entrance and putting them on, ignoring the boys sitting in the living room looking at him with curiosity.

Probably he yelled before, and they heard him.

Amazing.

He slams the door shut behind him and goes to grab his street bike.

Once he’s put the helmet on he’s alone. 

Truly alone.

No other voices or sounds, not even the one in his head.

It’s quiet, like one of the earliest nights he remembers sharing with Valentino, the one in Aragon perhaps, or the many in between races when they could wander off in one of Vale’s secret spots and share everything, even the silence.

He starts the bike and goes for a ride, a long one, he didn’t bring his phone with him so he doesn't know how long precisely.

He comes back home once he’s hungry and beginning to feel tired.

Once again he doesn’t dwell on the academy boys watching him, he can only imagine what they’re saying.

He doesn’t let the thoughts come to him this time though, he just heads straight for the shower and gets ready for lunch.

Vale is an amazing cook, he prepared something that smells delicious, but Marc can’t eat more than half a plate before already feeling nauseous.

He eats everything anyway, he doesn’t want to upset Vale more, so he forces every fork until he clears the plate.

“Vale” it’s Bezzecchi’s voice, he has a strange tone to it “how’s Pedro? didn’t you say he should come to the ranch soon? To see what he’s capable of off track?”

Marc doesn’t want to suppose things, but the way he says the last sentence sends shivers down his spine

20, fast, starstruck by Vale, not half covered in scars.

Check, check, check, check.

The qualities Bezzecchi talked about a few weeks prior are all part of Pedro.

Marc excuses himself from the table for the second time in a row, feeling bad about doubting Vale but also not holding him responsible if that came up to be the case.

He had said it himself he was now the past of MotoGP, and Pedro the future.

Bezzecchi cackles from the table, Celestino elbows him in his ribcage, earning a harsh stare from his friend.

Vale just sits at the table, looking in the direction Marc had disappeared to, trying to understand what was going on with his boyfriend, because he truly has no idea and is scared something had happened outside of the peace of the Ranch, maybe someone finding out about them and threatening Marc to reveal their relationship to the public.

He decides to leave him alone for a while, maybe he’s just not used to having all these people around all the time and needs his space, a moment alone to quiet down his brain.

He spends the afternoon with the boys, racing around the track, checking and analyzing data and talking about Bezz’s newfound harmony with Aprilia.

The clock hits eight pm and they’re all hungry as hell, so the boys quickly make their way to the bedrooms to take their showers and change, since they also decided to go out tonight for a party held by one of Bezz’s DJ friends.

Meanwhile Marc had stayed in the room the whole time, spending half of it crying his eyes out because he couldn’t stop thinking about what if Valentino actually decided to break up with him again and the feeling of emptiness he would feel eventually.

The other half he spent it trying to understand how to make himself look younger for Vale, which clothes to wear, how to act, to talk, to lie when his arm hurt while they were having sex.

Fucking pathetic

He wishes he could tear his brain outside of his skull, anything not to hear that sharp voice commenting his every move and look, he just wants the world inside his mind to shut the hell up and leave him be, at least for a few hours, just that.

A few hours where he doesn’t have to worry about being abandoned by the one person he loves more than life.

A few hours where he can love himself again.

But his brain doesn’t concede him neither those few hours, it’s a machine programmed to drive him insane, unstoppable.

Vale knocks on the door, he recognises their passcode, never changed during all those years spent together.

“Dinner is in five minutes, are you coming?”

“Yes yes, just let me get dressed and I’ll be there”

“Ok, see you downstairs amore”

It cuts deep, the bug whispering in his ear the word amore is just a way to keep him close for need, not driven by real feelings.

He comes down two minutes later, a simple pair of shorts and a t-shirt he stole from Vale not so long ago, still smelling like him.

He smiles softly at the man, sitting beside him, across Pecco, who greets him with a nod.

The boys eat in a rush, not speaking a word, apparently they were supposed to meet some other guys by nine and they’re never going to make it on time.

They practically absorb their food and are out the door in twenty minutes, in Luca’s car off to the bar they set as a rendez-vous point.

And so he and Vale are left alone.

He doesn't know how long it’s been since the last time they were completely alone, not even that annoying guard dog of Uccio staining the environment.

“You’re really beautiful tonight amore”

Lie

“My shirt looks really pretty on you, makes you look smaller”

He doesn’t actually like it

“Want to go upstairs?”

He just needs a release, not you.

“Yeah sure” he’s convincing, Vale doesn’t seem to notice his body twitching when his fingers touch his arm.

They reach their bedroom, Vale guiding Marc towards the bed, hands running under the stolen shirt to go catch on his abs, fingers looking for a strong grip.

They share a sweet kiss, nothing like the ones shared after their battles on track, quick, charged and filled with need.

 Marc knows Vale wants those back, not these ones, too plain and domestic for him to ever like.

So he tries to pull the switch, biting at Vale’s lip, pressing himself against him, backing up until his body is caged between the wall and Valentino, who looks rather surprised at the sudden change of attitude.

“Fuck me Vale come on” it feels dirty, demanding, but that was exactly like he was back then, and he so desperately needs to feel like that again.

Vale’s lips are on his neck, biting and sucking hard, matching Marc’s tone.

It’s not what he wants, it’s what Vale wants.

And that is enough for him, he’ll just try to enjoy what was probably going to be one of the last nights together, and he didn’t want Valentino to resent him for it too.

He’ll just have to relax, think about Vale’s happiness and take it.

After one particularly harsh bite he winces, but so quickly Vale cannot register it while dragging him to bed.

The grip on his wrist is strong, possessive, needy.

It’s what Vale wants, stop being fucking selfish and let him have it.

The voice is right, he cannot be selfish and wish for Vale to stick around out of pity.

He needs to earn his lover back, who cares if he has to do things he doesn’t want to do?

In the end it’s all for love.

He lets Valentino undress him, sharp teeth attacking his nipple, making him moan loudly, he’s exaggerating a bit his actions but it’s for a good cause. 

He keeps repeating to himself this is ok to do, he really wants to please Vale, it’s not bad, he used to like the sharpness and rush of adrenaline that came with battling on track so why should this be different?

He feels Vale’s hand cupping him through his boxers and he thrusts his hips up, eyes closed and hands gripping both on Vale’s hair and back, keeping him there.

“You smell so good Marc, never going to let you go”

And that’s where Marc loses his battle with himself.

He tries to keep it in but a sob comes out anyway, a tear rolling out of his eye and ending up on the pillow underneath his head.

And Vale knows Marc. He knows the difference between a sob due to pleasure and this.

This is not Marc enjoying it so much he cries, this is Marc not enjoying it at all.

He stops, getting up and sitting in front of Marc who has his eyes closed, hands balled into fists and his mouth shut in a rigid and thin line.

He’s fucked it up, he let his own feelings ruin everything again.

He doesn’t want to look at Vale, to see the disappointment and displeasure which surely the older has in his eyes right now.

He can’t bear to see how pathetic he is in Valentino’s eyes.

You ruined it for him, good job.

His head echoes with this thought, he was almost there, so close to faking it perfectly but he had to fucking cry.

He didn’t even cry in front of Vale when he told the world he hated him and he should be off the sport, but he cries for this.

“Marc?” Valentino’s voice is filled with something, it sounds like concern, fear almost.

“Marc, would you open your eyes?” no he can’t he fucking can’t because they’re filled with tears that are just going to spill out if he does, he doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want Vale to see him weak and scarred and broken.

“Amore please, what’s going on? Did I hurt you? I’m sorry if I did just please open your eyes and tell me”

There, now Vale even thinks it’s his own fault, amazing, really fucking amazing, another step towards separation.

Vale is so fucking worried right now, Marc is practically crying in front of him, trying to hold his tears in to seem tough but his body is shivering and his lips already trembling.

If he seriously went overboard and hurt him he’s going to punch himself in the face, he would never want to wound Marc.

“Amore?” It sounds like a plea, and it is, he’s begging for an answer, because he has to know what he’s done wrong.

Was he too harsh? Too demanding? Did he hurt his arm? How many possible things may he have done wrong? 

Marc gathers what little forces he has left and props himself up, sitting on the bed and opening his eyes, but he doesn’t look at Vale.

He wouldn’t be able to see him even if he wanted to, tears clouding his vision and falling on the bed.

Vale grabs the shirt he discarded earlier on the bed, the one with a wrinkled 46 printed in front in a now not so bright yellow font.

“You’re shivering Marc put this on, you’ll get sick if you don’t” he lets Vale dress him, he feels like he doesn’t have control on his body and it makes him go insane.

He always needs to have control, otherwise how can he handle reality?

He finally manages to look up at Vale, and the man can see the pain rooted deep into his stare, and he aches.

He aches because how could he not notice how much Marc was truly hurting? His eyes look like the ones he had back in 2014, after the press conference where he first broke his heart.

God that stare, the haunted gaze he had that day, it will haunt him forever.

A kid, he was a kid and he managed to kill him.

And now he looks like that kid again. Confused, hurt, crushed and dead.

“I-I’m sorry I ruined it Vale, I didn’t mean to I-” he stops, a hiccup interrupting his words “I can’t I’m not what you need right now and I get it” What was he saying? What does he mean not what Vale needed? He is everything Vale needs and way more than what he deserves.

“I just…I thought I could at least still let you have this but I can’t even fucking bring myself to ignore myself for this while”

Vale is so confused right now, because he doesn’t understand. Why is Marc talking like he’s going to fucking die in a minute? Why should he ignore himself? 

He has so many questions but he cannot even pose one, his lips sealed by incredulity.

And Marc on the other hand feels like he isn’t even deserving of an answer, he wants to scream and cry and beg Vale for a chance, but he doesn’t.

Finally Vale manages to speak up, the feeling of instability being suppressed by the need to understand what was killing Marc’s mind.

“Marc, what are you saying? let me have what? you didn’t ruin everything and what’s with the 'I'm not what you need’ thing?”

It looks so real to Marc now, the concern and the preoccupation radiating from Vale.

You failed him, you just had to shut up and endured and you fai-

For the first time this week he manages to shut the voice up, sending it back to the hell it came from long enough to be aware of the fact Vale really cares about him.

He breaks down, crying in front of the man he loves for the first time.

It’s ugly and messy, and he’s fuckinging exhausted, he wants to hold Vale, he wants to be held by him, he needs to feel at home.

And even if he doesn’t say that explicitly Vale gets it, he throws his arms around the boy, keeping him there for a while, not bothering to check how long, he places him on his lap, Marc’s ruffled hair tickling his neck as he continues sobbing into his collarbone, shoulders shivering at every sound.

He gets his head up from Vale’s neck, and fixes his gaze on Vale’s.

“Please Vale promise me you won’t leave me for someone younger and prettier, because I know you could do that anytime if you wanted because you deserve it but please don’t, I know I’m not beautiful like before and that I’m broken now and that you should be with someone who doesn’t hurt himself every week and I know I can’t do what I did before in bed but I swear I’ll try to do it again, and and I get it you could have anyone because you’re you but I only want you please please I love you I can’t let you go I need to be with you I know it’s so pathetic and dumb but I beg of you don’t leave me”

He rushes his words out, one attached to the other not caring anymore if he sounds weak, his face is now completely wet with tears and Vale’s shirt is soaked as well, but he doesn’t care, it feels like he let go of an enormous weight and is finally free.

Vale's answer comes like a helping hand to a drowning person, the hand that grabs yours and drags you out of the angry waves keeping you underwater, your lungs burning.

“Marc I- I don’t even know where to start I mean…why would I ever leave you if you’re the best thing I ever got the chance to have in my life? Why would I need someone younger when I have you and how could I want someone prettier when no one’s more perfect than you?

You’re right you’re not as beautiful as before, you’re far more breathtaking now, and you’re everything but broken, do you think that just because you fell and injured yourself you aren’t attractive to me anymore? Those scars symbolize you never giving up. They are one of the most attractive things you have, amore.

Marc I don’t care if we cannot have that rushed sex we used to have when we raced together, I love what we do now, I adore it, I feel much more connected to you, back then it was adrenaline and desire, now it’s love and need, I wouldn’t trade it for any sum on money in the world you must know this, I would never want to hurt you or force you to have sex with me if it hurts you, ok?

And I don’t fucking care I am who I am, or the fact I could have anyone else because 

I. have. you. 

And you’re the only one I want or need or dream about sharing my life with, you get it?

I love you Marc Marquez and I’ll be damned if I let these thoughts get to you and make you act like that.

I’m never going to leave unless you want me to, because I already left once and I hurt you and myself and I cannot go through it again. 

It was the worst period of my life because I looked for you every night and you weren’t there, because of me.

I should be the on worrying about you leaving me because of what I did, never never never the opposite” 

And now Vale is crying too, his eyes holding onto Marc’s gaze like his life depends on it, like he needs an answer to breathe again, because he too feels like he’s drowning and being brought to safety by his lover.

“You still love me? You swear?” It sounds so feeble and desperate Vale wants to open his chest with his bare hands and gift Marc his heart as proof of his love, because the only way he could doubt his love for him would be Vale not showing it enough, not doing everything the boy needed to feel loved.

“Of course I still love you Marc, I never stopped, and I never will, I want to share my whole life with you, you are my star and I will never let you say those things about yourself again, got it?”

“Even if I’m older now? I’ve got scars and lines and I look-”

“You look perfect. Listen I know I said I don’t believe in therapy and all that shit but I just- it’s just I didn’t like what they told me there and I decided to shit on it, but it actually helped me realize I still loved you and if you need to go there to understand how much I love you I’ll pay for it, I’ll bring you to your appointments and I’ll accept whatever outcome you get from it”

It feels good now, to Marc. It’s like he got dragged out of a stormy ocean onto a tropical beach, sunny, warm, quiet and calm.

Quiet.

No wretched voice demonizing or belittling him, just Vale, the only other presence on his dream beach, so close to him he can feel their hearts beating in unison.

He locks his fingers with Vale’s, a soft smile forming on his lips.

“Yeah I- I want to go, because I don’t want to feel like this again, I need to free my mind. Do you understand me? It’s so full it feels like it’s going to explode”

Yes, Vale knows. He’s gone through it more than he likes to admit, and he just nods, pulling Marc even closer, pressing a sweet kiss on his forehead, feeling the boy relax under his touch.

Marc tilts his head, looking up at Vale, and goes to plant a soft kiss on the man’s lips.

No rush, no lust, nothing except deep love and trust, a feeling of peace hovering over the couple who drifts to sleep together, Marc being able to dream of a beautiful snippet of his life with Vale, them together at the Ranch, not worrying anymore about hiding because Marc is retired and nobody will say anything, Stitch and Shira running after a kid with big blue eyes in the garden, the academy boys discussing who’s the favorite uncle.

Marc and Valentino holding hands, Marc’s head on Vale’s shoulder as they look at the little  girl laughing, playing with the dogs and the grass.

It’s domestic, soft, and quiet.

So quiet.

The only sound being the laughter coming from their friends and families and the dogs panting behind the buzzing girl.

She looks like Vale.

She calls him and Marc picks her up, she smiles, they’re happy.

There’s no need to worry anymore, Vale never left him, Marc neither, they went through Marc’s insecurities together, they didn’t let go of eachother.

In the real world Valentino is smiling, putting Marc to bed, covering him with their sheets, dreaming of the same thing. 

A life, a future with Marc.

[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

[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.

[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…

[verstapdan]

writing rosquez is really hard when you’ve never perceived an italian…. much to think about…..

[stvrmhondss]

7.1k, charles/marc, (allegedly one-sided lestappen), explicit.

carlos does us all a solid and introduces charles to the absolute force of nature that is one marc márquez, feat. charles’ embarrassing yearning for max emilian, an equally smug and Tired carlos and a very bitter valentino rossi

excerpt:

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Marc hasn’t let go of his hand yet. “Carlos has told me quite a bit about you - Prince Perceval, no?”

Charles rolls his eyes in time with Carlos’ barking laughter. “Lord Perceval,” he says in the way he always does, smug and teasing. Charles takes up his designated role in their game, as always, huffing and rolling his eyes one more time just to demonstrate how tired he is of Carlos teasing him even though he isn’t the one with roughly 20 names on his birth certificate.

Marc only smiles at him before looking back and forth between them. “I think he’s more of a prince, don’t you?”

[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.

[v3lnys]

last night i saw @bezzplaining 's franky/mig posts and possibly got possessed D:

ebony tower — 1.2k words — smut/fluff

Andrea Migno/Franco Morbidelli

Mig threw his head back, groans tumbling out past his parted lips as Franky pushed into him all the way. The stretch was obscene and so, so addicting. It left Mig gasping and clinging to Franky's bicep to anchor himself.

He looked up and saw Franky's face, contorted into a frown from concentration and pleasure.

“You're so tight..” Franky gasped as he tried to move, Mig clenching around him, not yet adjusted enough. “Tell me when it's okay..”

Mig closed his mouth and tried to breathe through his nose, but that left him whimpering as he took deep breaths, shaky despite the effort.

His fingers dug into Franky's arm, the firm muscles and flesh dipping slightly under Mig's fingertips. It helped him ground himself, breathe better when he could feel Franky's solid frame under his palms.

Mig wasn't even that much shorter when you compared the actual numbers, but with the way Franky loomed over him, hands on each side of Mig's head, Mig felt infinitely smaller. Maybe he should've felt insecure, being small had its hardships, but he felt safe. Franky like a metaphorical shield, protecting Mig from the outside world, leaving them in their own bubble.

“Move…” Mig pleaded, wet eyes gazing up at Franky from where the smaller man laid amongst the mountain of pillows, legs bent and spread, accommodating Franky's bigger frame between them.

Franky placed his hand on the back of one of Mig's thighs, skin already damp with sweat and strong muscles tense under Franky's wide palm. “Fuck.. Mig..” he murmured hoarsely, hips drawing back the tiniest bit so he could push into Mig again.

It felt like fire inside of Mig's body, muscles tensing before he could tell himself to breathe, to make it easier for himself. Franky stopped again, gentle eyes raking over Mig's scrunched up face, the thick column of his neck as he threw his head back once more.

Mig tried to breathe again, whatever stupid technique that would make his body relax, not clench around Franky like he didn't want to let him go.

Franky's hand left a hot lingering trail over Mig's skin as it slid upwards, gently stroking Mig's side, feeling his muscles loosen slowly.

“Okay?” Franky asked, palm caressing Mig's skin all the way up to his ribs and down to his prominent hip bones.

Mig nodded, eyes still closed, and Franky thought he looked really beautiful like this. “Okay.”

Mig's body didn't protest anymore, the man breathing deep like he just finished an exercise. He took Franky willingly, relishing in the way it felt like he was being split into two and sewn back together each time Franky pushed in and out. In and out.

Franky's skin felt moist under Mig's fingertips, his whole body radiating warmth and blanketing Mig with a comforting presence. Secure.

The pace quickened, the slide slick and easy the more Franky stretched him out. Franky's movements were purposeful and calm, not quick and short like Franky was trying to nail Mig in place.

Mig opened his eyes and took in the sight of Franky above him, beautiful and strong, all tan skin and visible muscles. Mig really wanted to lick his chest, run his tongue flat across the salty skin, sink his teeth into the soft muscle. Later, he told himself.

Franky was looking back at him, eyes droopy and mouth agape. A breathy sound slipped past his parted lips and Mig knew it well, always deemed it as his favorite. A little high pitched and desperate, something so unique that Mig always tried to memorize it, wanted the sound to seep into his bones.

Mig released the death grip he had on Franky's bicep, his hand sliding upwards across the other's broad shoulders, up his neck until he could cradle the side of Franky's face. Mig pulled him down and he went willingly, lips connecting with Mig's in a messy, open-mouthed kiss.

Franky's hips kept moving, skin slapping together and he couldn't hold back whatever sounds were coming out, falling into the hot abyss of Mig's mouth.

It never felt like Mig was fragile under his touch, his muscled body taking him so well, accepting him like they were meant to be one, nevertheless Franky felt the need to protect Mig, handle him with so much love and care.

Just like the Ivory tower, Franky's body towered over Mig's shorter frame, guarding him from worldly affairs and any struggles, the only thought and sensation in Mig's mind – Franky, Franky, Franky…

In turn, all Franky could feel was his Mig. So beautiful and caring, devoted to him in these moments. Making the prettiest sounds, fingers grasping onto Franky's sweaty curls.

Franky broke the kiss, Mig trying to chase his lips as the other trailed them across Mig's cheekbones and down to his neck. He sucked lightly over his pulse point, tongue laving against the damp skin, eliciting a soft, pleased sound from Mig.

Franky buried his face in Mig's muscular neck, just breathing him in as he kept up his pace, one hand trailing down to take Mig into his hand, relieving some of the pressure from his achingly hard dick.

Mig made the prettiest, needy sound, arching up a little towards Franky. The latter kissed along the column of his neck, occasionally licking a greedy stripe up to the shell of his ear.

Franky tugged on Mig's dainty hoop earring with his teeth, his moans right up against the smaller man's ear, making him shudder. The grip around Mig tightened and he tensed up slightly, all of the sensations driving him insane.

A firm hand placed itself on Franky's nape, keeping him in place when he tried to trail his lips up to Mig's again. “Stay.. stay..” Mig whispered feverishly, grip on Franky's nape tightening as he felt teeth scrape his jugular.

“M’close..” Franky panted against Mig's skin, his big hand moving along Mig's shaft in the same rhythm as his thrusts.

“Yeah.. fuck.. me too,” Mig pressed out, sweat gathering on his forehead with the effort to stay collected, but it was infinitely harder when Franky was cleaving him open, thrusts powerful yet measured; although starting to get sloppy as Franky lost himself in the final moments before his orgasm.

Franky came with a groan, the sound vibrating against Mig's throat and seeping into every fiber of his being. Mig kept his head there, pressed somewhere along his trapezius, Franky still weakly kissing the sensitive skin, potential bruises from his lips latching on too hard.

A few more strokes and Mig felt everything tense up, spilling across his own stomach moments later. The hazy sensation of his orgasm and Franky's come inside him left him a little brainless, chest heaving and hand slowly unclasping from Franky's nape.

He distantly felt Franky pull out and gently kiss his temple, soothing Mig and cleaning him up with napkins for now.

Mig rolled over and curled up against Franky's strong chest, one arm draping over his waist to press up closer. Franky kissed him gently, muttering quiet praises against his lips, wide palm soothingly stroking Mig's back, drawing shapes on his hip.

A light sensation overtook both of them, the sense of security in each other's arms intoxicatingly soothing.

[hotmessmaxpress]

Thoughts about pack-omega Bezz (in my rosquez a/b/o au) and how the others fuck him. Also tw for pregnancy but not really bc no one actually gets pregnant.

Luca fucks Bezz respectfully, like a modern feminist

Cele fucks Bezz as if their designations don’t exist and they’re just Regular People

Pecco fucks Bezz as if it’s the 1960s and Bezz is his Hot Wife. He fucks him with every ounce of misogyny in him.

He tells Bezz things like “you’re such a beautiful little omega, baring his neck for me. You’re my little cum dump aren’t you? You are just begging to be bred the way you were born to be. You’re born to take my cum aren’t you, Bezz? Born to grow my pups.”

And then Bezz has a phantom pregnancy because he’s getting dicked down SO MUCH. Having Marc in the house just ramps up everyone’s hormones and like 5/7 other people in the house take that out on Bezz’s hole 🤷🏼‍♀️

Anyway phantom pregnancy means he knows he’s not pregnant because he’s on pretty strong contraceptives and he’s been through enough team gang bangs to know they work. But still, he’s bloated and cranky and his chest is swollen and tender? And also he’s been having weird cramps and throwing up in the morning and he bit the shit out of Luca for trying to casually touch his neck when Bezz was feeling weird.

And the doctors take pregnancy tests and do an ultrasound and Bezz is alone because, uh, pack omega, not mated, who the fuck would the dad be? Would his baby be tan skinned like Franky? Blonde like Luca? Annoying as fuck like Cele?

But the doctors are like “yeah bestie you are not knocked up!! It’s still literally impossible for that to happen but good on you for checking in ig. Maybe tell your pack to stop promising they’re going to knock you up, your instincts and your body are believing them”

So Bezz marches home, even pissier than before, and just BITES the absolute fuck out of Pecco.

“Ow! What the fuck, Bezz?”

“You have to stop telling me you’re going to put a baby in me because you’ve tricked my body into thinking you’re going to knock me up and my body is acting like I’m pregnant and I just cried through a pregnancy test and ultrasound for NOTHING. Unless you’re actually going to breed me (please don’t I want to keep my job) then stop running your mouth.”

And everyone is just sitting at the dinner table like 😦.

[graveltrapping]

Female Marc Marquez Fashion Part 1

Part 2 (I had too many photos so I had to split it:/)

Mar Marquez and her evolution of Personal and Championship style, inspired by this really great fashion post that you should check out. Its a fun and detailed read spanning over most of the riders, all of whom are women in their Au, and the fashion culture that's cultivated around the Championship Gala in their universe.

This one is focused on my Mar Marquez from my Debutant fic and the development of her championship and personal style over the years.

This was so much longer than it needed to be but I got invested.

Her mother used to dress her as a kid so she's very cutesy and stylish in baby/kid photos, frills and skirts and perfectly braided hair, but as she got further and further into racing and racing social circles, all clothes because less for expression and more for comfort and practicality.

Casually as a teenager she was a very jeans, hoodies, and her dad's t-shirts kind of person. Always in sneakers or comfy shoes and her shirts always seemed to just hang that tiny bit too loose on her where people are wondering had she just pilfered it from Alex closets cause he has one almost the exact same. Maybe spices something up with a graphic tee here or there but it's mostly football or team jerseys.

Her hair had has been extremely long when she was a kid as well, mostly at the insistence of her parents who adored it, but she got most of it cut off when she joined 125cc. Many people were devastated. It's grown out through the feeder series so when she gets to Motogp, it just about brushing her shoulders. Even still, her family were usually the ones to do anything with her hair. Braid it, curl it, cut it, her mom is the go to person. Alex after that, and then her dad. She can do everything herself if she wanted to but there's a level of comforting stability from her family helping her.

For Championship Ceremonies or galas/events, which aren't as big as Motogp ones, Mar can always rely on a pair of flat pumps (pretty sure they were a thing in the 2010s) with the same plain orange knee length dress she wore to the last one or some nice jeans and fancy blouse. While her effort is minimal, and basically all advice from her mother and manager over a stylist is ignored, she doesn't get as much flack for it as she would in the premier class because there simply isn't as many eyes on her. She can get away with loose hair, minimal makeup, because she still perceived as a girl half the time and less than a woman.

The silhouette of the dress that she wears for the feeder series galas is modest and quite plain, covering a lot of Mars physical aspects that she’s proud of but doesn’t want to show off (at the time). It’s long, simple, and doesn’t have a lot of personality besides the colour which really makes her skin seem golden. It’s Mar at her youngest and not most confident yet still uncaring in a way.

Her first two years at the MotoGP Championship Ceremony are her most tame in terms of dress and style. She’s still so young. Still figuring out her style, what she likes, what’s makes her feel like a woman while not performing for the sudden and new eyes that are fixated on her. She likes being a woman, being feminine, but she doesn't enjoy performing in a way that's not dictated by her. Her way, or no way at all really.

She keeps to the Honda kinda of orange but the cuts of the dresses are more mature, a bit tighter, or have a more adventurous fabric choice or texture that makes them more interesting and dynamic. It’s still not completely her but it’s a step in the right direction.

She upgrades herself from a pump to gradually taller heels until she could walk on stilts if she truly wanted. Her hair is usually down but styled in a very loose and natural way because her hair is so incredibly thick and stunning anyway. Even short, it's been styled in such a way its best described as a Monroe. Has a bit of length with loads of volume and texture from the curls.

Jewellery is simple and always gold. She didn't get her ears pierced until the 2014 summer break though.

The 2015 Championship Ceremony/Divorce Hearing is when Mar kind of had a moment of extreme perspective change, forced growing up, and also has no choice but to acknowledge the amount of eyes on her. She has to go on stage as a heavily ridiculed 22 year old woman. She has to go on stage alone, no friends or family, and stand beside Valentino Rossi, the man who has just shattered every perception she had of him, from every out on the open podium to every moment behind closed doors. She can't play it off as nothing because it wasn't nothing and people know that.

She's just on that precious of going from the Mar, two time champion, mindset to the undisputed and 8 time world champion mindset.

What does she ware for that moment? She can't ware the dress Vale got her.

Its simple, mature, and black.

So starkly different from basically everything she has ever worn that people notice the change, both physical and mentally. A visual representation of the switch from the last bits of full unfiltered girlhood to womanhood where she will be the best, be unbeatable and untouchable, where she will give no one a chance to bite her the way Vale did. The jewellery is extravagant, gold and pearls, while her hair has been styled in a very Diamonds are a Girls Best Friend/Dorothy Shaw way. She looks different. She looks new and gorgeous and suddenly so much more solid in who she is.

It's most commonly referred to as the Divorce/Revenge Dress.

Mar is a lot more cemented in herself as a person/woman/champion going into 2016 and onwards and that just shows through the confidence in how she acts and how she dresses. Her Championship Ceremony/Gala looks evolve with the confidence. Deep cuts showing off her chest and backless pieces showcases the length of her spine and the deep lines of muscle built up over the years. High leg slits, completely sleeveless pieces to show off her wide shoulders, statement ruffles/unique fabrics/bolder silhouettes or if she's really feeling it, a sharp suit. There's silk, velvet, sequins, brocade fabrics. Gold, pearls, rubies and diamond and crystal. She can wear it all.

She doesn't stick to team colours either, has a wider variety of deep an rich colours but red and black are the ones that suit her the best. They make her hair seem even darker, her skin seems golden, and just seem to encapsulate her whole person better than the brighter Honda orange that she used to almost hide behind.

Her hair grows out as well over the years, it had been cut short again in 2018 for various reasons, but now its long and bouncy and curls beautifully around her sharply cut face which is all tied together with more gold jewellery. Ears full of piercings, fingers and wrists stacked with rings and bangles that just glitter every time they move.

Thoughts continue on Part 2 (too many photos to upload lol)

[its-storminghere]

Relationships: Alex Marquez/Franco Morbidelli, Marc Marquez/Valentino Rossi Chpt. 2 Summary:

May God forgive him, but none of these thoughts occupy Alex’s mind like the man he met under the stars in the garden. Lord Franco Morbidelli, confidant of the Prince. Even thinking his name makes something shiver under Alex’s skin.

[danipedrosas-boatest]

if you're still accepting prompts from the kiss ask game, 22. in a rush of adrenaline for pedrenzo ❤️

If there was one thing Jorge loved the most about watching his husband train, it was always the kisses that came afterward.

Jorge watched as Dani, Marc, and David did laps around the track, rising into the air like they were riding gusts of wind. He felt exhilarated, watching his love take command of the hard dirt and sand like it was just another day to him. Two more laps passed before Dani came back in, sweaty and exhausted and with the biggest smile that practically split his face in two. He stalked over to Jorge and grabbed him by his shirt collar, yanking him down and urgently, desperately connecting his lips to his.

Jorge immediately wrapped his arms around Dani, leaning down and returning the kiss with just as much urgency, eager to taste the sweat on him. Marc and David were peacefully doing more laps, unaware of the kiss happening mere feet from them.

Dani chuckled into the kiss and gently disconnected from Jorge’s lips, making him pout. He gently cupped his face, tracing his thumb over his cheekbone.

“Te amo.” Dani whispered.

“Te amo mucho.”

[the-offside-rule]

Alonso Lopez (Speed Up) - Lights

Day 4 of Christmas

Prompt: Looking at Christmas lights

25 Days Of Christmas

The Moto2 season had wrapped up, and with the last race behind him, Alonso Lopez found himself craving a break. After a long season filled with adrenaline and competition, he was ready for some downtime. He decided to visit Y/N at her university, eager to spend time with her and escape the racing world for a little while. As Alonso stepped off the bus, he was greeted by the sight of Y/n waiting for him, her face lit up with excitement. She wore a cozy oversized sweater, and her cheeks were flushed from the crisp winter air. “There you are!” She exclaimed, running up to him and throwing her arms around his neck. He embraced her tightly, feeling the warmth of her presence amidst the cold. “I missed you.” He said, pulling back to look into her eyes. “How’s university treating you?”

“Busy, but good! You have to see the campus at night; it’s absolutely beautiful with all the Christmas lights up.” She said, her eyes sparkling. “Lead the way.” Alonso replied, grinning as he took her hand.

They wandered through the campus, where the trees were adorned with colorful lights, and the buildings glowed warmly against the dark sky. The campus was transformed into a winter wonderland, with snow dusting the rooftops and twinkling lights adorning every building. Y/n was excited to show Alonso around, and had been for ages as evident in her face lighting up as she led him through the cobblestone paths. Y/n pointed out the different decorations and told him about the holiday traditions the students had. “This place really knows how to get into the mood.” Alonso remarked, taking in the sights and sounds. The laughter of students and the smell of roasted chestnuts wafting through the air made him feel right at home. “Look at this!” She exclaimed, pointing toward a nearby square where a giant Christmas tree stood, its branches laden with colorful ornaments and shimmering lights. The scene felt magical, a perfect backdrop for their evening together.

“Now that is a Christmas tree.” He smiled, beaming down at her. “And this is just the beginning! There are more lights around the corner.” As they strolled, the scent of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon wafted through the air, enticing Alonso. Y/n noticed his gaze wandering and laughed. “Want to grab some mulled wine? It’s one of my favorites, especially this time of year.” She said, leading him inside the local college bar. The cozy atmosphere was welcoming, with soft music playing and the scent of spices filling the air.

They settled into a small booth, and Y/n ordered two mugs of mulled wine. When the drinks arrived, the steam rose into the air, and she took a tentative sip, closing her eyes in delight. “Okay, your turn!” She urged, handing him a mug. Alonso lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip, the warmth enveloping him. “It’s... different.” He said, furrowing his brow. “Different good or different bad?” Y/n teased, leaning in closer. “Just different. I’ll get used to it.” He said with a chuckle. As they chatted and laughed, Alonso slowly began to appreciate the drink. By the time they finished, he found himself enjoying the sweet, spiced flavors more than he expected.

“See? I told you it grows on you!” Y/n laughed, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes bright. “Maybe you were right for once.” He replied playfully, his heart warming at the sight of her joy.

After leaving the bar, they decided to walk back to her dorm. The snow had started to fall lightly, coating the ground in a soft white blanket. Alonso enjoyed the peacefulness of the night, the only sounds being their footsteps crunching in the snow and the occasional laughter from nearby students.

Suddenly, as they turned a corner, Alonso’s foot slipped on a patch of ice, sending him tumbling down into the snow with a surprised yelp. Y/n burst into laughter, unable to contain herself as she watched him flounder for a moment, trying to regain his balance. “Are you okay?” She asked between giggles, but instead of helping him up, she sat down beside him in the snow, her laughter echoing in the quiet night. Alonso looked over at her, smiling in disbelief. “Thanks for the help.” He said, smirking. “Hey, I thought you might like some company down here!” Sje shot back, sticking her tongue out playfully.

They both settled into the snow, watching as flakes drifted down from the sky, blanketing everything in a serene quietness. The world felt magical, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. “I’ve never done this before. Just sitting in the snow and watching it fall.” Alonso admitted, glancing at her. “Neither have I.” Y/n replied softly, the warmth of the her breath contrasting sharply with the crisp air “It’s peaceful though, isn’t it?”

“Very peaceful.” He agreed, feeling a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the mulled wine. They sat in comfortable silence, surrounded by the gentle snowfall, both lost in their thoughts. Y/n glanced at Alonso, the glow of the nearby lights reflecting in his eyes, and she couldn’t help but smile. “I’m glad you’re here.” She said quietly, breaking the silence. “Me too.” Alonso replied, turning to meet her gaze. The sincerity in his voice made her heart flutter. They shared a smile, the kind that held the promise of many more moments like this to come.