#motogp fic

[formulapookie]

🦂❤️

Keep your eyes on you beznaia, 5k words

Pecco is not usually a tease, he doesn’t get Bez jealous willingfully, it just happens sometimes that Bez doesn't like certain behaviors coming from his boyfriend. But today it was all done on purpose. When they woke up this morning Pecco just had the most erotic dream of his life probably, featuring Bez eating him out and making him come for God knows how many times, leaving him a complete mess.

So now he wants Bez to absolutely get him dumb, whether it’s fucking him or eating him out until he cries he doesn’t care, he just knows he needs his boyfriend like he needed him few times before. 

The only problem being they’re not home, but at the Ranch, and they’re supposed to think about training, not getting fucked dumb.

And he actually tries to calm himself down, while they have breakfast he tries not to look at Bez directly, or more precisely, he tries not to look at his hands, because those, God those have been around his throat more times that he can count, and those fingers made him come just as much.

He looks around, wanders his gaze on the room, closes out the words and jokes Bez makes, he builds up a sort of wall not to think about having a moment alone with his boyfriend just to get on his knees for him.

He’s ashamed, because he never really has wet dreams and he never actually feels like he needs Bez like he does now. Like yeah of course he likes sex and wants it and enjoys doing it with Bez but right now his skin feels itchy, it dreads for touch, his touch, Pecco feels like he either gets fucked by his boyfriend today or he’ll die.

He notices with the corner of his eyes Bez and Mig laughing, probably at the umpteenth sexual joke one of the two made, and Mig is just a bit too close for his liking, he knows Bez is not that funny to actually have Mig laughing while leaning on him, but no, he has to focus on something else, today he has to act like Bez doesn’t exist, at least push until the training’s over.

His plan fails miserably after only two hours, it’s barely 11 when he finds himself almost giving in to the need to go back in his room, lock the door and finger his pussy just at the thought of Bez. And it’s ridiculous really, his boyfriend hasn’t even done much, just riding along all the others, but when he took off his helmet his curls looked so good, and he was laughing, and Pecco loves that laugh, and then Bez had unzipped his leathers and he was in undersuit with the leathers pooled at his hips, and Pecco could see the glint of the nipple piercing and the vague form of the tattoo, and the hickeys he left around it the night before.

And the undersuit Bez has is sleeveless, and his arms look criminally good when he wears that, his forearm covered in ink just gets to him every time, and his hands, God why had he looked there, as Bez took off his gloves he saw the marked 12 on his ring finger and he really didn’t want to but the only thing he could think about was to have that inside of him.

He resists a whole three minutes before not being able to hold his thoughts back anymore, and he really does want to drag Bez to his, or actually now their room, but he also knows Bez wants to race, so he sits up and tells Franky he’s not feeling too well and he’s going to his room to rest for a while, and the older doesn’t think much of it, just tells him to get better quick because they have plans for the night.

Pecco is still in his leathers, making a run to get upstairs, once he’s there he opens the door and closes it behind him, immediately stripping off his clothes, getting on the bed and removing his underwear, which is fucking soaked how embarrassing. HE parts his legs and he feels his cunt fucking pulsing at the though of having something inside, and Pecco can’t wait anymore, just slipping two fingers inside, feeling how wet he already is just by thinking about Bez.

“Fuck” 

He barely lets it out, trying to bite at his lip to suppress the moans, no one should be in the building but he can’t risk it, him and Bez have already been walked in on a few times before, and he can’t have someone find out he went upstairs to finger himself instead of training.

He picks up the pace and pushes a third finger in, but it’s not enough, since he’s gotten together with Bez his own fingers are never enough anymore, he tries to do what Bez does, reach and touch the same spots, but it’s not like how he does it, it’s always a little less and right now he can’t settle for less.

He still doesn’t want to bother his boyfriend so he just reaches blindly for the bedside drawer, the third one, and immediately finds the little black box, taking it out and dumping it on the bed. He opens it and takes out the little toy, tt’s one of those egg vibes, that come with the little remote. Something they bought around three months ago because Bez wanted to see how effective a vibrator actually was on him. And God was it effective. And Bez had his huge chunk of fun the first time they tried it, because Pecco felt pleasure basically running all around his body and Bez played with the settings of speed and intensity watching Pecco struggle to keep himself in check.

He struggles to find the remote, but when he does he’s quick to push the toy inside and turn it on, immediately setting it at a medium speed and intensity, and it’s already so good, he covers his mouth with the hand not holding the remote to quiet down his moans, the loud engines of the bikes racing on track create a strange contraposition atmosphere.

He turn up the intensity and lets go of the remote, moving his hand lower, towards his pussy and he starts to tease at his clit, it’s a wonderful sensation, he just needs one thing more, but he’s currently not there, he’s on the track, completely unaware of what Pecco is doing thinking of him.

“Marco fuck, please, oh fuck”

He bites his lower lip, trying to keep quiet, his orgasm getting closer and closer every second that passes. He can imagine there’s Bez beside him, fidgeting with the remote, teasing him, telling him how good he looks, how good he sounds. He imagines Bez’s fingers touching him instead of his own, he wants him bad, so fucking bad.

“More more fuck more”

He removes the hand covering his mouth and takes the remote, increasing the speed by two levels, he shouldn’t even need to touch himself to come this way, and right when he’s moaning Bez’s name for the hundredth time the door swings open and then shut, a sweaty Bez right in front of his eyes as he looks for a sheet, a pillow, anything to cover himself up.

“Franky told me you went upstairs cause you didn’t feel good, and I came here to assure everything was good when I hear you moan” “Sorry I - didn’t want to bother you before and - ah fuck - and I just wanted this” “Oh but you don’t bother me if you ask me to fuck you Pecchino”

He desperately wants to turn the damn toy off now, because it’s really fucking embarrassing to be covering himself and speaking to Bez while that thing is vibrating like hell inside him.

“Don’t cover yourself amore, let me see”

Pecco feels so fucking stupid right now, on one hand he wants Bez to take that toy out and fuck him until the sun sets, on the other he wants to become invisible from shame. Bez is just staring at him, smirking, and slowly removing his leathers, climbing on the bed as he tries to bite his lip to keep quiet at least now.

“You look very pretty when you’re desperate you know?” “Marco please” “Aw look at you, you’re making a mess on the sheets” “Touch me please” “Ah here it is, before doing something I think I’m gonna have some fun yeah?”

Pecco wants to cry, as soon as Bez takes the remote in hand he lowers all the settings to a minimum, he lifts his head up just to see a mischievous grin forming on his boyfriend’s face, who’s playing with the remote as if it's some stress ball.

His finger hovers above the “plus” button but eventually he doesn’t press it, he just keeps looking at Pecco who is clearly desperate to have his release.

“You should’ve called me Pecchino, should’ve told me you needed me, and I would’ve left the bike and followed you and fucked you so so good”

He wets his lips, passing his tongue over them, turning the remote around in his hand, almost studying it. He stares at Pecco for a few seconds before eventually doing something, which is increasing both speed and intensity almost to the max, looking how responsive his boyfriend gets, enjoying the absolute mess he is right now. Pecco has to press his hand on his mouth, otherwise he’s sure the others would’ve heard him, and he is not having that.

Bez decreases the intensity, but not the speed, leaving Pecco with a sensation of almost that makes him mad. He needs to come, because he feels like he’ll go crazy if he doesn’t.

“Marco come on - please” “Mh, might think of it, but don’t think I’m fucking you immediately” “Whatever you want but please, you” “Aw you really are a slut eh? Taking whatever I give you”

Pecco moans his name once again, trying to touch himself, but his hand gets slapped by Bez who turns off the toy, making him whine, before pulling it out and throwing it right back in the box it was taken from. As soon as he does he parts Peco’s legs a bit, and without any warning he goes down on him, at first just licking his folds, teasing him more than he already did, and then actually pushing his tongue inside, getting Pecco to whimper pathetically at the move, as he closes his legs automatically, but Bez is quick to part his thighs again, spreading them once more and actually holding them down as he keeps eating him out.

Pecco feels overwhelmed, between the feeling inside him and the feeling of those hands on his body he doesn’t know how to behave normally, he just whines and whimpers, trying to get Bez’s name out, failing most of the time and just letting out sounds with no significance.

Bez is enjoying this like it’s some sort of funny ride at the carnival, moaning as he pushes his tongue in deeper, reaching a spot that gets Pecco crazy, making him almost cry. His pussy feels full already, but he wants more, and Bez probably reads his mind because he immediately thrusts two fingers in, along with his tongue, and from there it really is a matter of a few minutes until Pecco is coming, getting his release all over Bez’s fingers and dripping from his chin.

He cleans himself up, making Pecco wonder how long Bez could actually go on for if they had the opportunity, but now he just wants to get fucked, the way Bez likes more usually, fast, hard and loud.

Bez palms himself through his boxers, taking a look at Pecco’s pussy, now shiny from his release and still so so inviting. He wants to fuck him, sure, but the fact the vibrator is still so within reach makes him think of a few funnier ways of getting Pecco absolutely dumb, Pecco who’s looking at Bez with a pleading expression, almost begging to get fucked.

He doesn’t take off his briefs, instead moving up to be directly above Pecco’s face, lowering just to leave a few kisses on Pecco’s neck and collarbone, then brush his lips over his boyfriend’s.

“Marco” “Yes yes I know”

At this point he actually kisses him, distracting him from the fact he’s taking the vibrator again, moving his hand down towards his pussy, and once he’s there he slowly pushes the toy in, making Pecco squirm.

“No Marco please I need you please” “I swear you’ll have me amore, but you’re too pretty to look at when you’re helpless you know? And you seemed to be really enjoying yourself when I came in the room before”

Pecco sobs, he knows Bez will be an absolute bastard with the remote in hand, but he also knows he’ll probably come more times than he can hope. So it actually isn’t a bad situation to be in, not at all.

Bez picks the remote back, looking at the settings like they’re a complicated enigma when really they’re only intensity and speed on a scale 1-10.

“I give you the possibility to choose how to start, but from then on I decide everything, you ok with it?” “Yes yes it’s fine” “Ok so, you want me to start with a high speed or a high intensity?” “Speed high speed please” “Nice Franci, here you go”

Bez raises the speed of the toy to a 7, but keeps the intensity really low, Pecco doesn’t understand if he likes it or hates it, because it’s good but fuck he wants more. Bez takes a moment to observe his boyfriend’s body, how his abs twitch every time he brushes a finger over the remote buttons, how his gaze is fixated on him, how his pussy is fucking dripping already.

God is Pecco one hell of a sight, his chest is basically glistening with sweat and Bez wants to fucking lick it off him. He lowers himself on his chest and leaves kisses all over it, then he stops once he reaches his left nipple, he always thought he’d look incredibly good with a piercing like his, but Pecco never liked the idea of getting one. But damn would it be fun to play with it while Pecco is like this, completely gone and absorbed by pleasure.

He bites at the nipple anyways, it’s one of the most sensitive spots Pecco has, and judging by how quickly he moans at the action he did the right thing. He starts sucking on it and as soon as Pecco seems to be getting out of his head he raises the intensity of the vibrator to the max, making him yelp under him. Bez laughs at the reaction, getting Pecco to act so gone really makes his day, because he knows his boyfriends always tends to restrain himself, be it while having sex or in PDA but once he can crack that surface a little, or a lot like he’s doing right now, Pecco is someone else entirely. When he lets go of the stupid blocks he put in his mind, like “no moaning” or “not looking or acting desperate for sex” he allows himself to actually feel his body and how much pleasure it can give him, and that’s mostly thanks to Bez who slowly unlocked every door to his brain.

He lets go of the now raw nipple to switch to the other one, immediately going to suck on it, while Pecco just keeps moaning and whimpering under his touch. It really is an adrenaline kick for Bez, who just keeps sucking and biting at his boyfriend’s sensitive spot, starting to play with the speed button on the remote.

Before he knows it Pecco is coming, going tense and then completely melting on the mattress, but that doesn’t stop Bez from going on playing with the toy. He raises both speed and intensity to the max, and Pecco can barely catch his breath because it all feels so good and so perfect and so much.

Bez lets go of his nipple to move lower, he leaves a few hickeys on his lower belly, then he moves again and bites at PEcco’s thigh, the older’s hand now in Bez’s hair, making him moan a little. He sucks a few more hickeys on each thigh, leaving a few bites as well, just because he knows Pecco likes them, and because he himself loves to see them on his skin, he likes it when the others cast a glance at Pecco and they see him marked by him.

Pecco is basically begging Bez, he doesn’t know what for, but hearing Pecco say his name on repeat sounding so desperate is like adding fuel to a fire.

Once he finishes marking him up he starts kissing around the area Pecco wants him to touch more, ignoring it tho, building up the tension, and just when Pecco is about to actually beg him he starts sucking and licking his clit, which by now is fucking hypersensitive , and Pecco can only moan and sob at how good it feels to have Bez like that. He wraps his legs around Bez’s head, he’s basically caged there, but it’s not like he hates it, on the contrary, it’s pretty much the best place he could be at right now.

Pecco can’t even form proper sentences, he really is gone, the only thing that leaves his mouth is a string of “Marco” and curses and whines.

Overstimulation has always been something Pecco never thought about, because he knew it would get him like this, dumb and basically cockdrunk, and he never liked the idea of being at the mercy of whoever was in bed with him.

This was all before Bez tho, since he and Bez decided to finally label the messy hookups and jealousy stares exchanged whenever the other would bring someone in as their new partner he gave up everything.

The first time Bez proposed overstimulation he went red in the face and said “absolutely not” and Bez was ok with that.

But then one time his boyfriend made him come thrice in just one night and Pecco thought to himself how good it was, and brought up the topic again.

And from then on whenever there’s a chance he knows Bez will work hard to give him as many orgasms as he can. He likes to be at Bez’s mercy, to be completely subjugated by him, let him have complete control over everything.

Bez moaning as he sucks his clit brings him immediately back to reality, the bastard knows the effect he has on him, and of course he does it on purpose. He keeps basically torturing him until Pecco comes once again, com’è dripping from his chin like before.

He should be satisfied now, he came three times, but the more he looks at Bez the more he thinks about his god forsaken hand, and how hot that tattoo on his ring finger is.

“Marco” “Mh?” “Can you…I want your fingers, inside me please, I want - the tattoo Marco please” “The tattoo? What about it Franci come on tell me”

He’s clearly embarrassed by his desire, and Bez grinning because he knows exactly what he wants but refusing to act on it until asked, it's…intoxicating somehow.

“I want to see you, fingering me and I want to see the tattoo that - Marco please don’t make me ask for this” “Just for today I won’t because you’re really pretty and you’ve been very pretty while I made you come”

Bez turns off the vibrator, which was still buzzing inside of Pecco making his voice tremble, and slowly takes it out, making Pecco whine.

Bez is still in his boxers, Pecco can see how hard he is, he almost feels guilty asking him to fuck him with his finger instead of his dick, but Bez doesn’t seem upset by it, his eyes are basically shining at the request actually.

“Come on come here”

Bez moves to be almost at the edge of the bed and pats the spot right in front of him, where pecco almost crawls to, settling himself with his back pressed against Bez’s chest and his legs bent on the mattress, over Bez’s thighs. It’s not really comfortable but he doesn’t care, not when he’s got the mirror in front of himself where he can watch Bez take him apart completely.

“Look at yourself Franci, don’t turn your head ok?” “Yes” “If you look away from the mirror I’ll take longer to make you cum, and I don’t think you want that right?” “No no”

Bez smiles and leaves a kiss on his neck, rapidly making his way to Pecco’s collarbone and biting there lightly, just enough to leave a mark. Then he’s quick to spread his thighs a bit and move his hand to Pecco’s pussy, ignoring the whine coming from him.

He doesn’t make many ceremonies and promptly pushes two fingers in, and Pecco’s gaze is basically glued to that “12” tattooed on the ring finger, he watches it going in and out of his cunt like it’s some sort of enchanted tool, and well, is he’s honest with himself sometimes he does think it is judging by how fast it can make him come if he just thinks about it when he touches himself at night.

“Marco faster go faster”

Bez doesn’t even answer, he just complies to his request, speeding up the movement and smirking at the squelching and dirty sound coming from that, leaving other kisses all over Pecco’s collarbone, making sure from time to time he hasn’t looked away.

And Pecco really doesn’t think Bez would notice, the quick few seconds he looks away just to watch the fingers actually going in and out of his pussy, now shiny with his previous release. But oh does he notice.

“You looked away Franci, what did I tell you?” “No no it - just for a second I swear it wasn’t on purpose, I swear” “But you did it, so now I think I’ll go a bit slower, yes? But since I’m really really nice I’ll help you not to look away again ok?” “Please”

He does slow down the pace, which is unexpectedly better for Pecco, because he can actually see how the tattooed finger gets progressively more covered with his cum. The second best thing is the help that Bez offered him not to look away, which comes in the shape of a hand around his throat, forcing him to look only in the mirror.

“I love how pathetic you look when you’re overstimulated, you know? All blushy and sweaty, with your eyes glossy and unfocused and your lips parted, basically begging me with your eyes to make you come again, as if I didn’t make you come three times already, you get so so needy and you look so perfect”

Pecco lets out something between a moan and a sob, and Bez tightens the hand around his neck a bit, because he knows he likes it, when there's a bit less oxygen and he gets dizzy from it.

Bez picks the pace up again, he knows Pecco is close, he can always tell, and it would be strange if he wasn’t given he already came three times and he hasn’t given him half a break since getting here.

Pecco keeps watching those fingers getting coated in his release and wishes he could snap a picture at the sight he’s looking at in the mirror because he’ sure it’d be better than watching any kind of porn or pic that they send to each other to jerk off when they’re far from the other.

He can feel Bez’s dick pressing against the small of his back and that just get him more aroused. The fact Bez is ignoring his erection to do something for him it’s just too good for him.

He opens his mouth to tell he’s close when the hand wrapped around his throat lets him go, just to move in his curls and tug his head back a little, and god if the neck is a sensitive area of his, hair is playing another championship for sure.

He moans and immediately comes, he can’t yell Bez’s name because the other is quick to kiss him, taking his breath away and keep on making out with him until he finished coming, or, well, actually once he breaks away and looks at himself he sees how he didn’t just came but straight up fucking squirted.

And Bez seems to be enjoying this like a few times before, even if this is not something completely new for him Bez can’t help but feel proud of his work.

“Oh you liked it that much? Am I that good?” “Yeah”

He sounds and feels dumb, his thighs are shaking and he wants to sleep for like four hours now. Bez turns him around and pulls him in, but instead of kissing him he puts the two fingers he used to make him come in front of his mouth, eyes almost shining.

“You don’t want to leave me dirty like this right? Come on be a good boy and clan me up”

Pecco complies, because Bez looks so fucking hot and the idea of having those fingers in his mouth is just as hot. He sucks them clean, passing his tongue over the tattoo, not breaking eye contact with Bez, who’s smirking like a cat.

Pecco lets go of his fingers and Bez dries them on the mattress, finally pulling him in for a kiss, moaning in Pecco’s mouth because the bastard rolls his hips against his erection, but he perfectly knows PEcco doesn’t have the strength to get fucked right now.

“I’ll clean you up and then go get a shower, ok Franci?” “But you still have to cum” “Yeah but you’re too tired I’m not gonna fuck you” “I can suck you off” “I don’t want to take advantage of you all tired amore” “I want to. I want to suck you off and I want you to cum in my mouth” “Ok fuck - I love you you know?”

Pecco smiles and clubs down from his lap, while BEz takes off his boxers and lets out a moan, the older looking at him like a meal. Bez tosses the boxers aside, and Pecco takes his dick in hand, the head already covered in precum, and he can thee the one vein he likes to tease on there to make Bez go crazy

Bez is big. Not impressively so but Pecco has had a few experiences other than him and he can fairly say he’s the biggest he ever got with.

He likes mostly the stretch that comes when Bez fucks him, and he always struggles a bit at first when he sucks him off, and Bez likes it

He wraps his lips around the tip and slowly takes him in, Bez immediately getting his hand in his hair, making Pecco moan.

He wouldn’t feel so close already usually, but he’s been needing Pecco for almost one hour now, and he just really wants to cum, much more so down Pecco’s throat.

As always Pecco gags a little once he gets him whole, but he immediately composes himself and starts bobbing his head with a quick rhythm, passing his tongue over the vein and occasionally stopping when he reaches the tipo to push his tongue in the slit there, causing Bez to tighten his hold in his curls.

“Don’t tease too much Franci, I made you cum four times. It's not very nice of you is it?”

Pecco nods a bit and quickens his pace, getting Bez closer with every movement of his head. Bez begins bucking his hips a bit, and that’s how Pecco knows he really is close, together with the increasing volume of moans and curses he lets out. He wants Bez like this always, praising him, telling him how good he feels around him, getting him dumb from how much he makes him come, he wants this everyday

“Franci"

It’s all the warning he gets before Bez is coming down his throat, the bitter taste of the liquid making him scrunch his face for a second, but eventually he swallows it all, breaking away and making Bez look, taking out his tongue and showing his work.

“So good Franci god, I’d stay here all day but we've been gone for too long I think if we don’t get cleaned up and dressed again Vale is gonna have our heads” “Yeah I know I know, shower and then we go?” “Sounds good”

They spend another fifteen minutes in the shower making out and actually washing themselves before they’re ready to go downstairs again, where a pretty upset Vale is waiting for them, smacking Bez on the back of his head and telling him they gotta stop sneaking off like that during training.

Bez laughs and Pecco gets red in the face, but at least he gets to ride around with Bez a bit longer since Vale forced them to do an extra 30 laps around the track for their “inappropriate behavior”.

[verstapdan]

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

[kingofthecotas]

find tomorrow with you

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

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

–––

i. 

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

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

Not this time. They won’t let it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marc?” 

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

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

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

Marc laughs harder. “That was fun!”

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

Bez chokes on his giggle.

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

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

Marc laughs again. 

——

ii.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc groans in the back of his throat.

“You could go back to bed.”

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

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

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

“They are not even racing,” 

“They are explaining the strategy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to marry you,” he murmurs.

Silence. His stomach drops. 

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

——

iii.

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

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

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

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

“Everything okay?” Valentino asks.

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

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

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

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

Marc snorts. “Would that help?”

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

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

“Don’t frown. It will be okay.”

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

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

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

——

iv.

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

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

“Valentino—Valentino!”

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

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

Maybe Michael Laverty does ask stupid questions. 

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

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

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

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

——

v. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vale—” 

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

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

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

“Did you mean it?”

He knows what Marc means. “Yes.”

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

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

——

+1 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?”

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

“That was—close.”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

“You’re okay.” 

“If Bez didn’t turn—” 

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

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

“We should get married,” Marc says abruptly.

“I have been saying—”

“Seriously.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That was not a no.” 

Valentino takes his hand again.

[faster-faster-aster]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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

[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.”

[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?”

[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.

[formulapookie]

💛🦂

Seaside migbez, 2.2k words

The boys watch as Bez and Mig get ready to go out, they really can’t understand how they still have the energy to do anything or the physical capacity to ingest more alcohol after the few days they just had.

Pecco thinks he’s never been that drunk his entire life, Cele hasn’t been sober for more than one hour straight in two days, Luca has been sleeping for 12 hours now and Franky has collapsed like thrice already, and is now sleeping in the tub.

There's the smell of alcohol and weed all around the apartment they rented, a beautifully located one on the Spanish Coast. “One week of pure fun and freedom” had suggested Mig two months ago, when they began looking for an apartment which could host them all, and found one a bit secluded but still fairly close to the night life of that town, which was perfect, especially considering who they are, and they’ve been getting wasted two days straight since they arrived.

Tonight the others are not feeling it, so it’s just gonna be Bez and Mig, and all the others have their phone on and with their ringtone fully blasted, there’s a 99% probability they’re gonna get called by a police station nearby to go and retrieve the two, because they’re going alone to get wasted and no one really wants to know how much they can hold.

“Will you be back?” “Oh come on Pecco you’re too dramatic, when have me and Mig ever not come back from a night out?” “Uhm twice? Once we lost you at Cocoricò and found you at noon the day after, passed out on a beach in Rimini and the other time when we were in Amsterdam and you two disappeared for two days, we called the police and they found you both in a motel thirty kilometers from the city?” “Yeah ok but that doesn’t count, plus we were younger and shit, we’re more responsible now”

Pecco tries not to reply because the guy deeming himself to be “more responsible” got a tattoo yesterday on his lower hip with the writing “professional rider” so he’s fairly sure they’re gonna have to alert the police about their disappearance.

Mig and Bez basically fly out the door and start running towards their destination.

The only thing is they’re going anywhere but at a club or bar to drink and get wasted or party. Because it’s been two days of continuous space sharing with the others, two days where everyone was always in sight, two days of total hiding, two days of craving and desire that could only be communicated through texts and looks shared at the dinner table or at the club.

Bez thinks Luca has noticed by now, he thinks Luca knows that the “girls” he talks about are not really girls, he thinks he even knows that all those girls are just Mig, who’s basically moved in with him now. He thinks Luca saw how they were looking at each other this morning, both trying to hide their need to smash their lips against each other’s.

They don’t keep it secret because they’re scared of the others being homophobic or things like that, but they’re a group, and they don’t want the dynamics to fade, they don’t want to be a problem inside the group, they just like to be themselves when they’re alone and have the chance to do it.

It’s been two long years of hiding and loving and secrecy and maybe they’ll tell them, maybe not, who cares, the only thing they care about right now is getting where they want to be, a small and secluded beach they found when yesterday they were sober enough to take a walk along the beach.

When the others told them they weren't feeling it for today they were more than just happy, they knew this place was reserved enough to guarantee the two no one will walk in on them at 2 in the morning.

They get to the beach laughing, Bez dragging his boyfriend by his hand, they feel like teenagers ditching school to do stupid things, they really feel younger when they’re together, no expectations from anyone on their shoulders, the possibility of being just them making them feel at complete ease.

When they get their feet on the sand they’re already kissing, hands everywhere, under the shirt, in their hair, every centimeter of skin feels boiling hot under the other’s touch. Bez takes off Mig’s shirt first, breaking away from the kiss to leave small marks on his neck, as the older moans lightly, a hand in Bez’s hair and the other fumbling with his belt, trying to undo it.

“I couldn’t” Bez starts kissing Mig’s collarbone, helping him with his own belt, smiling the whole time “fucking resist another minute without kissing you” he yanks down his pants, then takes off his shirt, Mig unzips his pants and drops them on the sand, and presses his lips against Bez’s once again, he tastes like weed and fruity cocktails and happyness and it’s so good, he’s smiling more than Bez right now, as he gets dragged towards the sea, black as night right now, just the pale moon and millions of stars to light up the place.

They don’t really look at the trajectory they're taking and Bez trips on a small rock, ending up on the ground with Mig on top of him, but they don’t care, too far gone to think about the sand all over their bodies and in Bez’s messy hair.

They keep making out for minutes, Mig rolling his hips against Bez’s, making them both moan softly in the kisses they’re sharing, all charged with desire and love and passion, as Bez starts sitting up and pulling Mig in his lap, the soft sound of the calm waves being the only audible thing beside their heavy breathing.

“In the sea Andre, in the sea” “Yeah yeah”

They get up and take off their briefs, tossing them on the sand again, they didn’t really think of bringing a change of clothes, they just hope they won’t be too full of sand once they have to get dressed again.

They get in the water completely naked, still making out, almost tripping again once they’re in, they get to a point where Bez touches the bottom comfortably enough, and Mig jumps and wraps his legs around his waist, starting to kiss Bez’s neck, leaving bruises that won’t be covered too easily.

They’re both hard now, their dicks brushing against each other as they moan louder, both equally desperate to have the other somehow.

“Are you sure you prepped yourself Andre? I don’t want to hurt you” “Yes I promise, in the shower earlier, I did, now please just - if you don’t fuck me I’m going to go mad”

And Bez feels the same, he needs him now, even if it’s only been two days it’s two days too much, and not just for the sex, but for contact in any form, they haven’t even been able to sneak off and kiss or hold hands for a while because they were either in public or with their friends and Bez had to take care of drunk Cele more than the others since the younger is particularly close with him.

Mig gets his hands in Bez’s hair again, kissing him roughly, lifting his hips up to give Bez the space to align himself with his hole, then letting his boyfriend put a hand on his hip and guide him on his dick, slowly pushing in as Mig moans in the kiss together with him.

The logistics of having sex in the sea have always been a half mistery to both of them but they’re far too needy to even think properly, so Mig just starts moving, legs wrapped even tighter around Bez’s hips, and the younger at first just stands there, hands on Mig’s hip and back, helping his movements, moaning both for the feeling around his dick and the hands tugging at his hair, and also for how loud Mig is getting, because he’s pretty sure this is illegal and if by disgrace a police officer was to walk by he would for sure hear him.

He solves the problem by going back to kissing him, trying to meet his movements with his thrusts, but it’s fucking difficult, it’s not like doing this while the other is glued to a wall, but he somehow manages to get a good rhythm, moving both his hands to go grab and squeeze Mig’s ass, hoding him up as he fuck into him.

Bez is sucking hickeys all over his chest, he doesn’t care if tomorrow the others are gonna see them, and neither does Mig, he can just make up a story of some girl being particularly horny at the bar they supposedly went to, and Bez will do the same to explain the marks left on his neck 

It’s not like it would be the first time both of them come back looking like that, and no one, maybe except for Luca, have ever made many comments about it, so it’s not gonna be different this time.

Mig is whimpering right into his ear, and it only gets Bez more aroused than he already is, and it makes him think of the handprints he’s surely leaving on his ass, and to him Mig’s ass in not just perfect, it’s straight up out this world, the first time they fucked doggystyle he almost came in his briefs before doing anything, it just looked so perfect and actually looking at it as they fucked was something else, especially when he slapped it and he found out the skin on there is hypersensitive and gets marked at the slightest pressure or touch.

Mig is close, really fucking close right now, he just starts pleading and moaning out Bez’s name on loop, one hand staying in his hair as the other goes down, to play with Bez’s nipple piercing, making him moan and speed up his thrusts.

Bez moves away one of his hands from Mig’s ass to go wrap it around his dick, stroking it fast as he clashes their lips together once more, both moaning louder and louder in the kiss, only covered by the gentle sound of waves in the night, as they both come in unison, Mig unclasping his legs from around Bez’s waist and the younger gently letting him go, not breaking away from the kiss as he does.

They whisper to each other “I love you” as they slowly walk out the water, tired, wet, but so happy to be together. Mig might not be the smartest of them but at least he thought about bringing two towels along, one to dry themselves and one to lay on after they had sex, and that’s exactly what they do, as he goes to grab them and places one on the beach as he wraps both of them with the other, making them smile as they lay down on the first one.

Bez starts kissing him again, all over his face, and it makes Mig giggle, their bodies providing each other warmth, as they both look up at the night sky, Mig’s head resting on Bez’s chest,as the other strokes his hair mindlessly.

Mig wiggles an arm out of the towel and points to a set of stars, making Bez follow with his gaze the direction he’s pointing at.

“You see, that’s the Scorpio constellation and - oh that is Capricorn” “Sooo mine and yours” “Yeah, then that set of three stars, you see it?” “That one?” “Yeah that’s Orion’s belt, it’s -” “It’s aligned with the pyramids in Giza, I know it, you told me like three hundred times when we snuck off in the ranch’s backyard” “Sorry didn't mean to bore you” “No - Andre you don’t bore me, I love learning stuff like this, I’m just showing you I’ve been listening when you were telling me that” “Oh” “You couldn’t bore me even if you tried"

Mig looks up to find a smiling Bez leaving a kiss on his forehead, tucking him more against him, making him feel protected, in a way he never had felt before, not with his past boyfriend for sure, that guy had been a terrible partner in every aspect of his life, but Bez is completely the opposite, he makes him feel safe, loved, wanted, appreciated, all things that should be normal in a relationship but that weren’t in his previous one.

“Marco?” “Yes?” “I love you” “Love you too”

Bez is smiling again, he always does when he’s with Mig, either it’s while they talk or cuddle or simply while he watches his boyfriend being himself, he knows he’s lucky to have him, and that’s why he’s never gonna let him go, and he pulls him in closer.

They’ll think of getting back home later, right now they can be alone, Mig drifting to sleep and Bez following him immediately.

Bez thinks about their constellations, how pretty they would look tattooed on his skin, with their initials next to them. He must remember to phone Edo to book a tattoo, he never wants to forget how they’d look like as stars.

[kingofthecotas]

postscript | ao3

future fic | ~1.5k words

love writing post-reconciliation with no idea how they got there

——

Marc gets in three and a half hours after he was supposed to.

Storms in Japan meant a delayed flight out of Tokyo, a missed connection in Doha, and landing in Rimini just after two in the morning. By the time he collects his bag, finds his car, and makes the drive home, he’s ready to sleep for the next twelve hours.

The house is mostly dark when he opens the front door, holding his breath as if that’s going to make him any quieter, and gently slides his keys onto the hall table. There’s a light on in the living room, though, and he slips down the hallway, leaving his suitcase by the door.

He hasn’t had enough time here yet, caught in the winds of a busy season, but there’s traces of him: Ducati cap slung on the coatrack; a pair of cycling shoes under the stairs, the decorative glass jar filled with the peppered colours of Aragón stones—they’d given it to him on the podium along with his trophy, said this place is yours, and he’d had to bite back tears.

He throws his coat over the banisters, over a BMW WRT jacket, and follows the warm light down the hall.

Valentino is sitting up on the sofa—well, propped up by his loosely balled hand against his cheek, knuckles pressed into his face. The throw blanket, the one he hates, is twisted around his thighs; Marc had snagged it from the household section of some English supermarket, and Valentino likes to complain that it shits fluff everywhere, it’s all over my sofa, it’s all over my jeans, Marc. His eyes are closed, shadowed in the lamplight.

Marc swallows a fond smile and kicks his shoes off, leaving them in the middle of the rug, before he slides himself onto the sofa beside Valentino and pulls the blanket over his legs.

Valentino blinks out of his doze, heavy eyelids and scrunched expression, but it all softens when he finds Marc next to him. “You’re back.”

“Shit journey,” Marc whispers. “You didn’t have to wait.” He always waits.

Valentino shakes his head. “I fell asleep watching the, ah, IMSA. Actually.”

“Of course.” The TV is dark, no laptop in sight, but Marc lets him have it. “Must have been exciting.”

“Mm.” Valentino yawns. “You must be tired. Very hard to be a MotoGP rider these days. All these first-class flights.”

“Terrible, yes. I’m comfortable here, unless your back cannot handle it.”

A smile cracks. Victory. “I am fine.”

“Good,” Marc says, and stretches up to kiss him.

The first time they’d done this again, pressed their lips together after nearly ten years apart, Valentino had shoved him against the wall too hard, overeager, and Marc had nearly headbutted him in the nose and they’d had to laugh at themselves—Marc thinks he would have cried otherwise, at how apart they’d grown, how they’d forgotten how to move together.

No such problems now; they aren’t starving for each other, trying to breathe it in after years of suffocating. It’s—and Marc never thought he would say this about Valentino—easy.

Marc usually runs hot, Valentino cooler, in a way that makes Valentino roll away in the heat of summer nights, grumbling get the fuck away from me, and curl around him as soon as the temperature drops again. His feet, under the blanket, find Marc’s legs.

“Vale,” Marc hisses, because he may as well have pressed an ice cube against his ankles. It’s late October, and Valentino’s core temperature appears to be the same as that of their fridge.

“We can go to bed.”

“You said you were fine.”

“I am fine.”

“Put some fucking socks on.”

Valentino just laughs into the top of Marc’s head. “Ah, you are tired. We should go to bed, yes? You must be stiff from the plane.”

Because he’s laughing, Marc acquiesces, downs blades. “Fine.” His arm is sore, and from the way Valentino is rubbing it, it must be obvious.

They might play at sword-fighting, feints and jabs that are incomprehensible to anyone else—Pecco had watched them bickering in Misano, forehead pinched, until Valentino accepted defeat with a delighted laugh—but in the quiet, between duels, it’s gentle.

“I can get the hot water bottle,” Valentino offers, “or I put the electric blanket on the bed while you were away. Is it bad?”

“Not bad,” Marc whispers. Just hard airport seats and the autumn-night chill. He’s got the rest of his life to get used to it.

“Come on,” Valentino says, soft now. “Ducati will not be happy if I am not taking care of their rider. Plenty of rest before the next race. You know how it is.”

“Oh, but I thought you were watching the endurance race?”

“Probably for the best, you know.” Valentino lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I might sign up to race in another championship if I am not careful.”

“Give you something to do, no?”

“Ah,” Valentino says, “but who would wait up for you with the light on?”

“Not you, you fell asleep.”

Another huff of laughter. Vale lets him get away with a lot these days, silent apologies Marc has already accepted for transgressions long since forgiven. Valentino’s eyes had been huge the first time, uncomprehending, what do you mean okay?

Forgiveness had always come easy to Marc, relatively speaking, even with Valentino. Especially with Valentino.

They peel themselves off the sofa, untangle the blanket—Vale picks a thread of fluff from his jogging bottoms with a sigh, then bends down to scoop up Marc’s abandoned trainers and a long-forgotten wine glass. Marc folds the blanket, places it over the sofa arm, waits for Valentino to head towards the hallway so he can follow. Glass on the hall table: they can wash it tomorrow. Shoes under the stairs. Suitcase left by the door.

“Who has your trophy?”

“Someone in the team.” Marc shrugs. “It will get home somehow.”

“Too many this year for you to keep track of, hm?”

“One hundred and eight,” Marc reminds him, sing-song, and almost relishes the flash in Valentino’s eyes. There’s no danger in it, not anymore.

“I will have to make Pecco work harder, then. We are training on Wednesday.”

“Promise I won’t run him off the track.”

“You are getting soft,” Valentino says with a smile that’s all teeth, but holds the door to their bedroom open and flicks the light switch.

“Like you?”

“Maybe.” And he says it like he doesn’t mind. “Brush your teeth, you smell like you have been on a plane for twelve hours.”

“I have no idea why that is.”

“Mm.”

When Marc is finished in the bathroom, quick shower, teeth brushed, shivering a little as he dries off, he crawls into bed and can’t hold back a sigh at the warmth beneath his skin.

Valentino watches him, so fucking smug—Marc used to hate that expression, used to grit his teeth and lift his chin against it, but now it’s closer to satisfaction, that he was right, that Marc needed something and he got to give it.

“This is the best thing we ever bought,” Marc says with conviction. “My favourite thing in the whole world, maybe.” Álex can laugh at him for having an electric blanket, my God, you’re old, but the heat of it against his arm is heavenly.

“Your favourite, hm?” Valentino smiles again, easy as breathing. “I will remember this.”

There’s no prodding, no you said it wasn’t bad, no see, I told you, wasn’t I right? No knife sliding through the chink in the armour.

“Eh, you are up there as well. Maybe third on the list.”

“So high?” Valentino stretches out his leg, lets Marc move closer. “There must be at least ten bikes you like more than me, yes?”

“It is close,” Marc murmurs, “but you have a lot going in your favour.” His hands find Valentino’s waist, his stomach—still toned, racing GT cars is no walk in the park—and he presses his cheek against Valentino’s outstretched upper arm.

“Yes?”

“Well, you put the blanket on the bed.”

“Ah, yes.” Valentino lets him shift, shift again until he’s comfortable, without complaint, and offers him a tired smile. It’s one of Marc’s favourite smiles, because it’s one just for him. “This is okay?”

Marc closes his eyes, sighing at the brush of fingers on the back of his neck. His arm will be stiff tomorrow, but this will help, and he has ridden through worse. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Vale repeats, and his fingers curl through Marc’s hair. “I bought eggs for breakfast also.”

“You are getting soft,” Marc tells him, grinning loose and easy where it might have been sharp, once.

Valentino only smiles back, and the part of Marc that still gears up for a fight, buried deep but there, stands down. Three years of this do not erase everything that came before, but every minute they spend like this is another coat of paint over the bloody stain. That’s fine; he has time.

He’s got the rest of his life to get used to this.

[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 😦.

[fastandfictionalmen]

Is it casual now? (Fabio Quartararo fic)

Word count: 2.3k Fandom / characters / setting: motogp , Fabio Quartararo , Y/N Request: yes (private request. Theme: “Is it casual now” & a car smut scene) Pairing: Fabio Quartararo x Y/N Rating: Mature Genre / trope: smut, one shot Description: Fabio and Y/N define their relationship after having a steamy episode in the car.

We were on a drive back to Barcelona from Montmelo. Was I supposed to stop here? No. I barely knew where we even were, I knew what Google Maps was telling me on the phone and when I pulled over, I decided that this decision will just have to be one of the “say a prayer and hope for the best” ones. And I was most definitely not a “say a prayer and hope for the best” girl. I was a planning girl. A girl who didn’t do wild things. A girl who had schedules and timelines and checklists. But ever since first meeting Fabio, I had been dipping my toe into this other end of the spectrum. And that’s how I found myself here - turning the key and switching off the headlights of the car on a side road in a forest in pitch-black while my boyfriend…well, not boyfriend…situationship…lover ...we never defined it…had his hand in my panties. Me from a year ago would not recognise me now.

Fabio was charged after the test session today and also a bit tired, which is why I was behind the wheel of the rented BMW. In hindsight, maybe the wrong choice—because he got handsy as soon as we sat in the car. At first, I told myself—and him—to calm down. His hand on my thigh as I left the parking lot seemed innocent enough. Flirty, but nothing too much. But by the time we reached the first roundabout, his hand started drifting into X-rated territory. We were passing through the streets of Montmelo, with Google telling me to take a right turn in 200 meters, when his hand slipped beneath my skirt. He didn’t say a thing, just smirked as his fingers hooked into my panties, making me twitch.

“Fabio, god, please. I need to focus if we don’t want to cause an accident. We’ll be in the hotel soon, and then we can have fun,” I said playfully. His excitement and charged energy in the passenger seat was infectious.

“I know,” he replied, smiling, “but I want to do this now.” He emphasized his words by pulling on my panties hard.

“Fabio! I swear, if you continue this, I’ll run us off the road…and then we’ll never get back to the hotel.”

He laughed at my obvious mix of exasperation and playfulness. “Well then, I guess you focus on the road and let me focus on you.”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes—it’s hard to focus on anything when your hands are all over me.”

“Oh really? So you can only think of me now, huh?” His grin widened as his fingers moved more beneath my skirt. “How about now?”

I gasped as he found the sensitive spot he knew all too well. “Fabio,” I managed to breathe out, “someone could see us.”

We stopped at a red light, and I turned to him. His face was a mix of excitement and desire, and he was sporting a huge grin. He knew exactly what he was doing to me and he was far from done.

“How about you find us a side road?” he suggested with a smirk.

“I barely know where we are. I’m not sure how to…” I started, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. I’d never seen this side of him before—so playful, so touchy. This was new, but it was doing something to me. We hadn’t been seeing each other for long, and it had always been casual, fun, and hot. But tonight, he was hotter for me than ever, and it was intoxicating. 

“And what if someone sees us? …Sees you? It’s not like we’re somewhere where no one’s heard of racing,” I countered, my cautious mind in overdrive.

“They won't. Just drive towards the forest there—we’ll find something. And remember—focus on driving,” he finished with a smirk, his fingers continuing their teasing as the light turned green.

Thank god no one was behind us. I stepped on the gas, making the fun decision for once. I turned towards the forest, finding a random road that seemed to lead deeper into the darkness. Fabio didn’t stop, whispering provocative things in my ear as his fingers explored. I hit the brakes harder than necessary, barely turning off the car before he slipped a finger inside me.

“Fabio, oh god…”

“See? It wasn’t that hard,” he grinned.

“What are you doing to me? Are we really about to do this?”

“Oh, we’re definitely about to do something,” he teased back.

“Fuck it,” I laughed. “I brought us here, so might as well. But I swear, Fabio, if someone sees us, after I die from embarrassment, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“They won’t,” he said slowly, “and besides…you’ll be quick.”

“Me, huh?” My voice was barely a breath as his fingers continued moving between my legs.

“Oh yes,” he replied, his tone low and deliberate, “you.”

He shifted, unclipping my seatbelt. His own was already off as he motioned for me to come over to his lap in the passenger seat. He had already pushed his seat back and he grabbed my waist, helping me straddle him and move over the center console.

I looked directly into his eyes and burst out laughing. “Fabio…I’ve never done this. I have no clue…and we don’t have condoms.” The rational part of my brain was in overdrive and I couldn't escape the comedy of the situation: my rational half battling it out with me being so attracted to the man below me currently that I was throwing caution to the wind.

“Always the worrier,” he chuckled, “we won’t need them. Not yet. Don’t worry—have some fun. You’re tense, and I want to see you let go.” He smiled at me before kissing me.

I loved kissing him. He always started sweet, slow, his mouth firm and then adding intensity. His hands were low on my back, roaming upwards to my bra and below it. I could feel him in his joggers getting hard underneath me and I started slowly grinding on him while my hands were tangled in his hair.

He pulled out a hand from my shirt and grabbed my ponytail and pulled lightly so my head was tilted back breaking our kiss.

“Not so fast, miss. I want to focus on you now.”

He kissed down my neck, his lips hot and wet against my skin. “I want to see you cum,” he whispered into my ear before kissing me again. “I want to watch you let go.” His words sent a shiver down my spine, his fingers working their magic. It was the hottest thing I had ever heard a man say to me. He knew how to push my buttons and he knew how to push them right.

I started moving on him again, desperate for more, when he bunched up my skirt to my waist. Just touching him wasn’t enough. Feeling him hard against me through his joggers did something to me.

“Oh no…what did I tell you?” He playfully bit my collarbone. “Don’t tease me. I want to see you first.”

“Fabio, please…stop teasing with words and show me some actions,” I teased back. All thoughts of where we were—some random road in a dark forest—had faded into the background. All I could focus on was him beneath me.

“You want actions? Oh, I’ll give you actions,” he joked, his hand slipping into my panties for the second time tonight. He didn’t waste time, his fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and I gasped, my breath catching.

His kisses grew more intense, as he matched the rhythm of his fingers with my movements. I could barely get out his name between breaths, lost in the sensations he was creating. His finger slipped inside me, and I gasped hard.

“Fabio…oh…don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t gonna. Don’t worry. Now, I want you to let go. Come on…let go,” he urged. He kept up the rhythm, his fingers driving me to the edge. My hands roamed his torso, desperate to feel more of him.

It was too much. I leaned back, my hands gripping his knees for support, and looked at him. He was perfect—his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, promising so much. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he wasn’t stopping. His hands picked up speed, pushing me over the edge.

“Fabio…don’t stop. I’m so close, please…don’t stop,” I begged, my voice a whisper.

“Yes…come for me,” he murmured, his words a final push. “I want to see you come. I’ve been thinking about it all day, every time I saw you so tense, so focused on work. I just wanted to see you like this…to see you lose control.”

Fabio continued talking, but I could barely comprehend everything. His fingers, his hand, my movements alongside them, the feeling was getting too much and I was about to come. “Fabio I’m - “, and in that moment he suddenly sped up his fingers a bit more and it threw me off the edge without being able to finish my sentence.

The sensation crashed over me. I kissed him hard, barely breathing, lost in the moment.

“Oh, Fabio…that was…” I had no words.

“I know,” he smiled against my lips, kissing me again. He slowly removed his hand and hugged me close. I breathed in his scent. A crisp shower gel which I didn’t recognise and…just him. I was still slightly trembling, trying to catch my breath, and leaning my whole body on him, while his hands continued to run over my back in slow circles.

“That was…,” I moved to look him in his eyes.

“I know I know,” he smiled against my lips again.

“You’re stunning. That was so hot…all I could think about the entire day was seeing you like this, falling apart on me…because of me.”

I started to move, feeling him rock hard beneath me. “Fabio…how about we switch—now it’s your turn. I should only be fair and pay this back,” I joked, my hands wandering down his perfect abs. I wanted to taste him, to see him come undone because of me.

“Oh no, not now. I can wait. I wanted to see you like this…but me? You can pay it back in the hotel.” His smirk told me he was definitely up for a fun night, despite the long day. “And besides, you said it—we don’t have a condom, and I’m not sure I could contain myself after this,” he added quietly, his voice a bit rough. He looked into my eyes, and I saw a mix of pleasure, want and that typical Fabio twinkle I got so used to recently..

“So come on,” he lightly slapped my ass, “get to it, chauffeur. We still have a 20-minute drive out of this forest.”

“Funny. You know chauffeurs don’t really give you these benefits with their jobs, so I’d change that if you want a happy ending tonight.”

“Nah.” He laughed, helping me back into the driver’s seat. “Let’s get us untangled, my chauffeur with benefits.”

He adjusted himself in the passenger seat, clearly trying to get comfortable despite the obvious strain in his joggers. I tried to smooth out my skirt and buckle myself in.

“Hands above the belt for the ride back now—got it?” I warned him with mock seriousness.

“I would never do anything else. I’m all about safety. I’m a good boy,” he replied, holding his hands up innocently.

“You don’t fool me, Diablo,” I shot back, turning the car on. The windows were fogged up so I rolled them down quickly and blasted the AC to clear them up. We started slowly back down the road and back to Barcelona again.

“Oh, and one more thing…” I said, a mischievous smile playing on my lips. “I never said anything about my hands.”

I reached over and placed my hand on his crotch, I could feel him tense a bit under my hand and his abs shook as he let out a laugh..

“You’re gonna be the death of me. Remind me to never let you go.”

“Really? Never letting me go?” I teased, squeezing him lightly.

“I would be an idiot to do anything to fuck this up.”

“Oh…so we’re a ‘this’ now?” I teased again. “I thought we were just casual.” We initially started this all off very casual and we were having too much fun to put a label on it. I wanted to stay private, and our schedules were messy so we agreed on meet-ups on the down low when we had time, with no big expectations. I was fine with that. I enjoyed my time with him but also enjoyed not stressing it. We would slide into each other's DMs on Instagram when we were traveling and we’d meet up. Sometimes a date. Sometimes a hookup up. Usually both. Keeping it casual was keeping the pressure off from both of us. Like today. I was for the week in Barcelona on a short work abroad vacation to catch a bit of sun when he messaged me that he had a test going on close by and asked if I was down to meet up. So I drove up there, did some work from the motorhome and watched the test session with the unsaid agreement that we would definitely be spending the night together. I had an overnight bag in the trunk of my car ready in case it would be his hotel and not mine.

“Oh, we’re still casual, huh?” he said, smiling, but leaving the sentence hanging in the air.

“I just had you come on me in the passenger seat of a rented car in a Spanish forest, and you’re saying we’re casual?” he chuckled. “Damn, woman, you’re a tough one.”

“I mean…when you put it that way,” I conceded, laughing. He had a point. This was far from casual. I had always been a monogamous girl, not one to sleep with someone I didn’t care about or wasn't serious about. The casual was there to not stress about separation, living arrangements, meeting the family etc. Our physical aspect was way more than casual to me. I made an exception because of circumstances rather than not wanting to be more serious. but as I sat there, hand in his lap, the lines definitely felt more blurred now.

“Oh, we’re so not casual anymore,” he said lightly after another moment of my silence.

“I am deleting that from being associated with us. No ‘casual’ anymore. Only firm. Serious,” he continued, playful but there was an undercurrent of sincerity.

“I can definitely feel that,” I joked, giving him another squeeze. His breath hitched, and I could see him trying to adjust himself again.

“Yep—sooooo not casual.” He paused. “I might have to ask our hotel if they have a chapel when we get there if you keep this up,” he joked, making me burst into laughter.

This is getting serious, I thought to myself as I was driving, a warm feeling spreading through my chest. I was falling for this man on the passenger seat. And this casual thing was not something we should be discussing now but I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel warm and giddy from him initiating this line of conversation. I was so down bad. And it was so not casual for me anymore either.

I was falling for him, and this casual thing we’d agreed on was becoming something more—whether we admitted it or not.

“Yep. So not casual anymore, Fabio,” I finally said, breaking the silence.

“I love the sound of that,” he replied, taking the hand I had on him, intertwining our fingers, and kissing the back of my hand. My hand stayed in his for the rest of the ride.

He was right. So not casual anymore.

[v3lnys]

Sweet Addictions

Marco Bezzecchi/Celestino Vietti — 3.5k words — Fluff/Smut

The sight should've been more lame than anything, but Cele suddenly felt a little hot all over, imagination running wild. He imagined what it would be like having Bezz suck him off, if he would let Cele feed him his dick like he's doing with this stupid vape right now.

it's been up for a few days now, but i thought i'd share it here as well :) my first ever motogp fic and my contribution to the motogp kink meme

very lame very romantic :D u can find it 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.

[zheltoqsan]

Rosquez. Time travel AU

Marc travels back in time from 2024 to 2001. After adapting, he reintegrates into the MotoGP world as a sports psychologist. Ironically, considering he could use some psychological help himself. Before the season starts, the riders need to go through medical exams, including a psychological assessment. And that’s when he meets him…

Vale, on the other hand, is quite the character. His self-esteem is through the roof—confident, charismatic, and believing no one is better than him. Naturally, he doesn't care much about the sports psychologist until he sees him on a motorcycle. On Thursday, just before sunset, on the track, perfect laps, a champion's level. Who is this guy…?

Just an idea. I'm not good at writing, and I definitely didn't focus on accuracy here. I just imagined the interaction between Marc, worn out by time with a body and soul covered in scars, and the young Valentino.

[kingofthecotas]

twin skeletons | read on ao3

soulmate au, 2023 season | ~3k

it's uhhh kind of getting better but not really lads

——

Oberlungwitz, Germany 

The last thing Marc wants is to answer the phone. He’s sore, pissed off, and fucking humiliated.

But he answers, because Valentino had called after Mandalika. And he’d called about the fourth surgery, sounding almost guilty—as if, for the first time in years, Marc had said something and he’d listened. 

You didn’t call after Jerez.

He’s calling now. In fact, he won’t stop fucking calling.

“That bike is going to kill you.”

Marc sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t ask why do you care? because that answer is going to be more than he’s equipped to handle today. “It—it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? Marc.”

Despite it all, he’s never getting tired of this, of the sound of his name in Valentino’s mouth. It’s something, at least. 

“Whatever. It’s bad. Not a lot I can do about it.”

They haven’t been careful, haven’t crept around each other to figure out this new version of themselves. Valentino calls, tells Marc he’s an idiot, almost cracks the lid off the pressure cooker of the last eight years, and Marc will hang up before it gets too dangerous. 

And next time Valentino calls, he will answer.

This is an old argument, a well-worn path, one that’s hung between them since 2013. 

“Shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Marc mutters. “You run fucking Ducatis.” 

“Everyone can see the bike is bad,” Valentino says, pointed. 

“Fucking—obviously.” Because this is Marc’s circuit. He doesn’t like expecting things, but he should be head and shoulders above the rest. He should not be riding a bucking animal down the waterfall, feeling it writhe underneath him like it wants to leave him a smear on the asphalt. 

He should not be crashing five times at the Sachsenring. 

He didn’t race in Indonesia, in the end, and he’d told himself it was Álex that persuaded him. Maybe that was easier than remembering how his name sounded when Valentino called that first time. 

“I think I will not race,” he forces out, mirror-inverse of that conversation. “I might get hurt.”

Nothing. Just the silence to let him breathe. Marc’s grateful for it. 

“I’ll be in Misano,” Valentino says softly.

“Of course you will.”

“Marc.”

“This is not—” He doesn’t know what he wants to say. This is not me forgiving you, maybe. Except he probably already has. 

His arm aches, something deeper than his twice-broken bone, pulsing with his heartbeat. Valentino used to run his fingers over it, brushing the piece of his soul that lives under Marc’s skin over and over again. They used to—

Valentino used to curl his lip, used to act as if he thought Marc belonged to him. He doesn’t make the same demands he did back then, not since Mandalika, but they hover in the silence nonetheless. The worst thing is that Marc understands him now, understands why it scared him to have his life so intertwined with someone else’s. 

But they’re still not okay. 

Not for the first time, Marc wonders where they might be if he’d only lost the front in Indonesia, or if he’d only been flung over the handlebars, if his head hadn’t cracked against the asphalt. Not here, that’s for fucking sure. 

He doesn’t say that, because Valentino isn’t a hair trigger anymore but he’ll make a guilty little sound that twists Marc’s stomach. 

“I’ll see you in Italy,” he says instead, and the relief is visceral through the phone. 

——

Misano Adriatico, Italy

As promised, Valentino is in Misano.

Of course he would be. 

It doesn’t take him long to find Marc; he knows the place well, knows how to slip through the motorhome lot without being accosted. He knows just where to wait to catch Marc after his track walk, to beckon him with a tilt of his head.

Marc follows. Of course he does. 

It’s—

They’ve seen each other, looked each other in the face (refused a handshake), since they fell apart, since Valentino retired. Since Mandalika. They haven’t truly looked at each other for a very long time. 

He’s different, Marc realises. Older, yes, more stubble, curls winding out from beneath his cap, but more than that, he’s tired, mouth tight, eyes shadowed. 

“It was a, ah, scary moment in Germany,” Valentino offers to the silence between them.

“Which one?” Marc mutters, then, “Scary for you or for me?” Another jab. Maybe he just wants to see if the soft underbelly is still there. 

“Ah…” Valentino looks up, away, shrugs with his left shoulder. “Why are you—?” He stops. 

“Why what?” Valentino should not get to ask anything, really, but Marc had answered the phone. He keeps answering. Keeps cracking the door a little wider. 

He should stop. Probably. Maybe. 

Valentino finally meets his gaze, eyes blank—hiding—and tilts his chin at Marc’s arm, at the healed scars, the ruined skin, the mark hidden under his T-shirt sleeve. “Does it still hurt?”

“It’s been worse,” Marc says slowly. It had been worse after the surgeries. It had been worse after Sepang. 

Valentino half-reaches a hand out, eyes boring into Marc’s shoulder.

Marc swallows. “No.”

“Marc,” Valentino breathes, and before Marc can move away, there’s a hand on his right arm, a thumb brushing his mark.

It’s—

He closes his eyes, because then at least Valentino can’t see—but his body must give him away, must shudder as electricity snaps outwards from the contact. He doesn’t make a sound, thank God.

And then—he rips his arm free, slaps his hand over his mark, because Valentino does not get to do this. He was the one who didn’t want this, didn’t want them. He was the one who held Marc up in front of the world, in front of snapping jaws and hungry eyes, and said here, this one. 

He was the one who—

“Fuck you,” Marc manages, and his soulmark throbs with the echo of a kick. Inch given, mile taken. He won’t make that mistake again. (He’s made it so many times before.) “Don’t do that.” 

Valentino’s eyes are huge now, like he can’t understand—there’s the chink in the armour, Marc thinks with grim satisfaction. Except why is Valentino reaching out to him? 

They stay as they are for an excruciating moment—Marc covering his soulmark, Valentino’s arm still outstretched—before someone rides past on a scooter, too close to their hiding place, and the scene shatters. 

Valentino hasn’t touched his mark for nearly eight years. It had felt so good that Marc wants to throw up. 

He flees before he can think too hard about it. 

——

It must have been—

Here, Valentino was saying. Remember you belong to me. Remember I can do this. 

Right? 

I don’t want you, but we’re soulmates anyway. I hurt you. You can never really get away from me.

“Marc.” Álex’s voice makes him jump. “You’ve got the call in ten minutes, remember? Nadia and the team.”

“Yeah.” He stares at the kitchenette worktop, at Álex leaning over, at the part of himself on his brother’s wrist. 

“Are you okay?”

“Is this the right thing to do?” Marc whispers.

“It’s just a meeting.” But Álex knows him, knows what he means. “You can’t stay on that bike. It’s going to kill you.”

The echo of Valentino’s words—Marc snaps his gaze up to his brother’s face. “I thought Honda—I thought I’d be there forever.”

“Forever is a long time.”

It is. Marc didn’t understand that when he was twenty-one. 

“It’s just a phone call,” Álex continues. “No decision yet. You have some time to work it out, no? Remember your plan. You deserve to be on a fast bike.” Then he tilts his head. “What’s wrong?” 

“The team—” 

“Something else.” Of course Álex knows him better than anyone else.

(That’s what it should be like.) 

“Valentino’s here.” 

Álex makes a face. “It’s Misano.”

“He’s—he still calls me.”

Another face. “So?”

Marc rubs his right arm, an unconscious movement. 

“You know what—I won’t tell you what to do.” Álex twists his lips together. “But you know what I think.” 

“Yeah.” Marc taps a finger on his arm: skin, scar, soulmark. “But you—you felt it? When it happened?”

Álex’s expression twitches. “I felt it.”

——

He manages to avoid Valentino until Saturday morning; nowhere near long enough to gather his thoughts, but also—

It feels too long, somehow. He’s looking between motorhomes as he passes them, half-expecting to see the lanky figure waiting for him. He’s on his guard, that’s all it is. Can’t be caught unawares again. 

It’s a tightrope, a careful tread, and they could fall, they could plummet. Valentino could kick his feet out from under him. Again. 

Marc might believe it, if he didn’t know that Valentino has no need to: acts of self-sabotage well and truly over, he would never choose to reach for Marc again, would never pick up the phone, would never run his fingers over the imprint of himself unless he wanted to.

Maybe Marc hit his head so hard in Indonesia it knocked something loose in Valentino’s too. 

He’s not surprised when Valentino appears, waiting. And Marc moves towards him, thread-pull, caught on the line of his unreadable stare.

“I’m sorry,” Valentino says when he’s close enough.

“You’re sorry.”

“Yes.”

Marc controls his expression after a long moment, snaps his mouth shut. “Um. Thank—thank you.” 

“It was, ah, not right. To—” He makes a loose gesture. Can’t even say what he’s done, the line he’s crossed. 

And yet Marc would have given anything, once, to hear Valentino apologise to him. “It’s—fine. Don’t worry about it.”

There’s a flicker, not disappointment but something close, as if he were expecting more of a struggle. Marc is past fighting. 

His arm hurts and the bike is shit and he thinks—he thinks he’s going to Gresini. Giving up the fight. 

Ho turns and walks away. 

——

Valencia, Spain

He throws a bottle of water at the door once it’s closed behind Bezzecchi; it makes an unsatisfying thump, then a second one when it drops to the floor.

Fucking—kid. Holding Valentino’s grudges for him, so simplistic in his belief. Determined to make Marc’s shit day even worse. 

Then he wipes his eyes, crusted with an afternoon’s worth of tears, and collects the bottle, quietly embarrassed at himself.

Santi’s hands on his shoulders had been a weight like never before, and he’d sobbed like a child—that’s his team, his family. And he fucking left them. He couldn’t stay, but—

But. 

He scrubs underneath his nose, tries to sit in it just enough that he’ll be through it by tomorrow. Tomorrow means Gresini. Ducati. Start again.

There’s another knock on the door—not Álex, he wouldn’t bother—and if it’s Bezzecchi again, Marc is going to do something really stupid. 

It’s not. It’s—

Valentino has his lips twisted together, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He’s staring somewhere to the left of Marc. “Hello.”

“Fuck, Vale, not now.” A slip. Marc curses himself, but the vitriol quiets when Valentino looks at him, finally looks at him again. 

“I just wanted—” A long shrug. “It must be difficult. I—”

There’s no reason for him to be here—not a hard crash, not like in Germany or Indonesia, no reason for him to extend a hand again. It must be the same as Misano, as saying here I am, remember how we’re connected. 

And—fine.

If Valentino wants to play that game, if he wants to reach out and say look, I’m here, I’ll always be here, then—Marc lives under his skin as well. He’ll always be there. 

He steps to the side, stares at Valentino until he slips through the door, and makes sure to drag his gaze up Valentino’s arm, his shoulder, lingering on the piece of skin where both their soulmarks sit. 

Valentino notices, says, “Marc,” like he’s facing down a feral animal, and follows it up with, “You’re upset,” as if Marc is the one being unreasonable, as if Marc is the one who’s been unreasonable for the last eighteen fucking months. 

“No shit,” Marc hisses. The space between them may as well be an abyss. There’s a burning coal lodged in his sternum. 

Valentino solves half the problem for him, drifting around the end of the sofa and coming to a halt half a step away. Uncharacteristic of him, to be so off-kilter, so unsure of himself. 

Marc plunges in. His hand finds Valentino’s mark. 

It’s barely a second, a gulp of breath, a thread wound between them, and then Valentino pushes him back so hard he almost stumbles. Marc opens his eyes, the instinct of an apology forming on his tongue—

Valentino kisses him. 

It’s desperate-frantic-starving, teeth and gasps, hands in his hair, a grunt when his shoulder blades hit the motorhome wall. Finding his own hands useless at his sides, he blindly grabs at Valentino’s sleeve until he can touch it again. Familiar. As if it’s been minutes rather than years.

Valentino makes a noise like a groan, like he’s aching, and traces around the branch-twist of scars until he finds the mark. If Marc hadn’t been pressed against the wall, his legs would have given out when stars explode at the back of his skull.

They used to be so gentle, until they weren’t, until Marc rolled into the gravel or raced too hard or did something that made Valentino think of a future or a hundred other unconscious transgressions. They used to be so careful, except when they weren’t.

Marc grins, sharp against the corner of Valentino’s mouth, and curls his fingers into claws. 

This is what you wanted. He digs in, just a little. Remember? You wanted to tear me out. 

Another gasp, shuddering, and yeah, he can do it too. He’s still there. 

He expects retaliation; it’s not as if he hasn’t had worse, after all. Valentino used to get there first, used to fight with nails and teeth, and Marc would capitulate. He expects the same now: a scratch, a bite, have nothing on the lingering shadow of his boot. 

When Valentino says, “Marc,” he sounds like he did on the phone in the hospital in Lombok: the same wretched noise that meant stop, please, don’t hurt yourself; that made Marc listen when Álex told him not to ride; that meant you terrify me; that meant—

He swallows, relaxes his hand. Fucked it, maybe. 

Except Valentino noses around Marc’s jaw and whispers, “Bed?” Like he’s asking. Like it’s ten years ago. 

Like he cares what Marc wants.

For once, they want the same thing, so Marc twists his left arm and, impressing even himself, manages to open the bedroom door. There’s a huff into the crook of his neck, and he finds himself pushed backwards once again, going willingly this time because—

He doesn’t know why, and when Valentino drags his sleeve up, leans down, presses lips to his mark, it doesn’t matter. 

It could be nine, ten years ago. It could be Marc, twenty-one years old, biting back a desperate sob at the shivering heat, lightning arcing through sinew, and it’s not ten years ago and he’s not twenty-one but he wants, he wants, he wants. 

“Marc.” His name. Despite it all, he’s never getting tired of the sound of his name in Valentino’s mouth. “Marc—”

He tips his head back, allows himself to relax into it; his fingers wander through Valentino’s warm hair, gentle. An apology of sorts. 

Missed you, his brain hums, and when Valentino rubs his mark, he can almost pretend they’re thinking the same thing. 

Valentino’s hands move to his waist, to his jeans, careful now—he used to tug at Marc’s trousers, used to fumble the button in his eagerness, and this is foreign, delicate, so gentle. 

“Okay?” Asking again.

“Fuck’s sake—yes—”

Another laugh. Some kind of record, surely. It’s insane. They must be going insane together. 

He wishes he cared more. 

He kicks off his trousers and lets Valentino push him onto the bed, lets him trail kisses across his neck, like they’re something after all. He pulls back, searching, eyes darting side-to-side, wanting—

Marc almost slams the brakes, almost sends himself crashing to the ground, but he wants and Valentino wants and like it or not, the universe chained them together for a reason.

And they were good, before it burned to ash. Before Valentino dropped the struck match he’d been carrying since Laguna Seca. 

When Valentino rests his forehead against Marc’s shoulder and kisses his soulmark, Marc can almost believe it’s I’m sorry, I’m here. When he traces the outline of his soul on Valentino’s skin, he hopes it means I’m here, I’ll always be here, I didn’t leave you. 

——

When Marc wakes up—

He’s warm, sheets kicked around his ankles, solid heat against his back, and Valentino had been here, had let Marc scratch and snarl, had kissed his soulmark like it meant something. 

When Marc wakes up, there’s a hand on his arm, over his scars, over his mark, and it’s golden in his veins. For the first time in years, the bone-deep ache isn’t the only sensation in his right arm.

He doesn’t open his eyes. 

It’s not long before Valentino shifts, inhales sharply the way he always did—still does, apparently—when he’s falling out of sleep. He groans deep in his chest, and freezes. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing: no sound, no movement. Nothing, until Valentino extricates himself, moving as gently as if Marc is made of porcelain, and the warmth of his touch is gone from his mark. 

Marc can’t help the sound he makes, pitiful, when Valentino disappears and the familiar bruised ache is back. He’s carried it in his soulmark for so long he’s forgotten how it feels, how it should feel—

Valentino sighs. His footsteps, halfway around the room, halfway through collecting shoes and his shirt, pause. 

Marc does his best to smooth out his expression, to turn his face into the pillow like he’s still sleeping. If he opens his eyes, this will crack, splinter, collapse at his feet. 

Another exhale, and impossibly, the steps move closer again. Valentino brushes his hand over Marc’s forehead—pinched, despite himself, like it so often is—then rubs a thumb over his soulmark.

And fuck it—Marc can’t help that he sighs, that he relaxes, that it feels so good to have his soulmate touch him again. 

When Valentino says, “Marc,” on a breath, he sounds like he did at the start of them, in the hotel room in Monterey: reverent, careful, infinitely pained. The same way he used to say I love you. 

The hand disappears. The door opens, closes.

Marc opens his eyes.