#pecco's come out over the course of the weekend

[moonshynecybin]

14 and 12 hehe

12. Who do you think is the smartest on the grid?

top three ranking: luca, marc (not maybe the most booksmart but has the ability to focus somewhat psychotically plus. his racecraft and strategy are good), and then peccoooooo bc i DO think he has a deliberate sort of studiousness that means he'd do well in school. pecco and marc do also have the ability to be so fucking stupid though so luca takes the crown imo

14. already done!

[djangari]

I have to deal with this and all I get is a headache and a silver medal

~ 1616 words

“Third place? Hmm, do you remember who finished third in 2018?”, Marc jokes to the reporter and laughs as she answers that she doesn’t. “Me neither! So that's it.”

Pecco freezes, while the reporter joins in, and the video eventually restarts. He won’t like that. Hopefully, he will never see this or at least when he is not present- “What are you watching?”

A familiar figure leans over his shoulder and slowly he turns his head to look at his mentor, who suddenly appeared behind him. Whose smug grin got wiped out of his face, as he watches the video. How stupid he was to assume the other would need longer to join him in the trailer, of course he will visit him first to see how he handles the championship fight stress.

Vale laughs too. However, it's more of a pressed, dry, forced sound that is coming out of his mouth. So different from Marquez cheerful, honest sounding laugh.  In this moment, Pecco doesn’t dare to mirror it. Instead, he observes Valentinos mimic, how his eyebrows are pulled together, the wrinkles around his mouth disappeared, his eyes don’t agree with the act he is trying to play.

He taps on the screen, pauses the loop. Silence spreads in the room, while Pecco is waiting for Vale to do something. To speak, to react.

A few seconds go by and Vale hums. “He isn’t wrong. Do you remember who was third in 2008?” Pecco knows that the factually correct answer would be Pedrosa, but in this situation he would never speak it out loud. He rather shakes his head.

“See? Nothing to speak about. Let’s get Bez and eat pasta or something. We need to calm your nerves before your great weekend.” Vale straightens up again, already turning towards the door. “Come on, come on, I’ll pay.” Impatient as always, he already left the room before Pecco could protest.

Pecco quickly gets up from the couch and follows the older man. From behind he can still see the tension in his otherwise relaxed and flowing movements, can see the firm grip he has on his phone.

________

Later, when they finally found Bez and Vale nearly dragged him with them, they are half finished with their meals as Vales phone, which lies next to him on the table, screen clearly visible to everyone nearby, buzzes and lights up with a pop up notice. Vale unlocks it easily with the hand that isn’t holding the fork loaded with pasta and clicks on the message. Another video starts playing, just as Vale puts the fork into his mouth, and Marc’s voice is audible.

“The third place doesn’t matter at all!’

Vale instantly chokes on the noodles and begins coughing. Pecco exchanges a look with Bez and leans over to his left to slap Vale on the back so their mentor maybe would not die because of a meal when he has lived through over twenty years of riding a death machine for fun. Bez reaches him a glass of water, although he mirrors Pecco’s expression of desperation and can absolutely relate to being fed up with his behavior.

Who can blame him? The two of them should be cheering him up, motivating him and giving him the extra power to win. Now he is robbing him of his nerves instead of helping him to concentrate.

 “Who remembers who finished third in 2022 or 2015? I finished third, but no one remembers.”

And it gets worse again… Why did he have to mention 2015 again? Sometimes it seems like he is doing this on purpose- wait no he does. Sadly Pecco, besides to Luca of course, is the one who is mostly present to see Vale‘s reaction. Not Marc. Maybe he would stop if he sees the impact he has on the old man.

… Who is he trying to fool. He would do it even more. Pecco has been around for too long to still denial the painful obvious existence of their weird exhibition kink.

With a small sigh, Pecco reaches over the table and again pauses the video, pauses the sound of Marc’s laughter. Slowly Vale recovers and is able to breathe like a normal human being again. “Nothing to worry about!”, is the first thing he gets out of his mouth.

 Sure. Pecco suppresses the urge to bang his head on the table until he falls into a coma. This would look weird, especially in public. Rumors spread fast in this paddock. The press he would have to face, the mocking he would have to endure from his engineers, it ruins the whole experience. They would eat him alive if he did that, even more if he did it on this particular weekend. So, all he does is to roll his eyes and beg some higher power that this moment would soon be over.

The door falls shut and the whole cafeteria goes silent for a second. Pecco throws a small look over his shoulder, only to freeze in fear.

Anyhow someone heard him up there and decided he needed to feel even more miserable. Loosing the title apparently isn‘t enough. Please, please, please, let him at least not-

„You‘re okay?“ No. No. No. Keep your head up, keep your head up.

„Ah. Of course, of course!“ Suddenly, the relaxed Vale is back again. He can hear the chair scraping on the floor as he leans back. „No need to worry about a guy like me.“ Ok, this has gone surprisingly well- „If you couldn‘t kill me, pasta will never make it.“

Pecco‘s head falls towards the table. God damn it.

A kick against his shin saves him. He tries to kick back, but Bez already caught his glare. With another deep breath, he turns around to face the situation like an adult.

„Ciao“, he greets his future teammate, who is standing on the right side behind his chair. Never in the existence of the universe would he ask how the fuck he got into the cafeteria of the VR46 team, so instead he stays silent and waits for Marc to speak again.

The Spaniard looks relatively comfortable in this situation, or so it seems for outstanders.  For them his bright smile blends them enough to not see the signs. Only if you get close enough you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds his head high up and the inconspicuous foot tapping. Yet something… something in his eyes displays the same kind of hunger he often sees in Vales eyes after an especially good race. His smile just looks a little bit too sharp and too pleased.

„I wanted to come over and wish you luck for the weekend. You will need it.“, he says sweetish and blatantly ignores the indignant glare Vale shoots him. Pecco swallows what lies on his tongue and tries to put on a similar act. „Thanks. Good luck to you too, Enea won‘t give up that third place easily.“ Marc just laughs. „Don‘t know if you already heard it, I don‘t really care about that. Next week we will try out the bike together and that is what matters in the end.“ Pecco hears the threat that lies in those words, fights for his small smile to stay on his face. „Ah right, I am also curious how they have improved the machine for next year.“

He couldn’t have said clearer ˋThis bike was build for me and you need to look how you get along with her.´ A small twitch in his smile indicates Marc understood. „Ah I trust the engineers, I‘m sure it will be a great bike.“  They just stare at each other, playing the act of a friendly talk between soon to be coworkers. It's like time froze.

Someone somewhere in the cafeteria laughs loudly and the tension breaks. “Well, I should go and find Nadia, we need to meet up with Gigi.” Shortly he bowes down to mutter something over Valentinos shoulder, who flinces at the slight touch. “You wouldn’t dare to die before I get my ninth, would you?”

Pecco sees Bez's mouth falling open and how Valentino stiffens up. Marc also notices that and his smile gets even sharper. Lightly his fingertips run over the edges of Vale‘s collarbone, centimeters away from the soft skin of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Pecco observes the way Vale now holds the fork, knuckles bright red, fearing he will do something drastic. The question is, would he be able to stop him? Thankfully Marc leaves Vales personal space before something like that could happen.

With a tap on Pecco's shoulder, Marc signals his exit and turns around to walk away. None of them wants to torture themselves so they surely won’t stare after him, watching how he nearly hops out of the cafeteria. Instead, they stare at the table, everyone trying to recover in their own way. Bez continues eating, hoping to forget everything what he just witnessed. Vale damages the cutlery and mumbles some curses under his breath. Pecco, finally, gives in and slowly bangs his head against the table before resting it on the cold surface. Why can’t this weekend just end?

______

Sunday night, when Marc's speech is almost over, Pecco feels his phone vibrating. Quickly, he checks his messages and sees a new one from Bez.

ˋWe need to replace the tv downstairs. He threw a bottle against it and now he doesn’t talk ´

Pecco grabs Domi‘s hand and tries to relax. Someone has to remember him that he needs a soundproof room next year for the case Vale decides to visit Ducati.

[leoisstillalive]

1.1k word draft of a new fic i'm writing! it started as a one chapter fic with maybe 7k words but it has quickly spiralled out of my control.

[summary: it's mid-2025 and ducati want to do a weekend-long media event at vale's ranch to explore pecco's training grounds- but, to valentino's dismay, they want marc to be involved.]

"You're joking."

Valentino's face was pale, sickly and serious, brows tucked together in a stern line.

He had been loading the trunk of the car he would drive to the airport- a miserable twelve-hour flight to Japan awaiting him the next weekend- when his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. He had ignored it the first time, letting it ring out as he tucked his bags precariously atop one another. It was probably Uccio, anyway. He could wait.

The sun had been shining with the last of its heat before the midst of Autumn swept it away, and the doves cooed happily in the trees that lined the driveway with nought but the wind to disrupt them. Early mornings were always peaceful at the Ranch, far from main roads and the comings and goings of the town. That morning had been quiet as usual, but the serenity was shattered by another phone, that time it was his landline clanging from past the open door of the house.

He had huffed, lowered the door shut with a muted thonk and hurried indoors. When he had unhooked the phone, some Ducati media officer was on the other end, already sounding impatient.

After a rather hurried practice of textbook small talk- and Valentino spouting a poor excuse for why he ignored the first call- she had wasted no time stating her business, letting Valentino privy to a plan for a media visit to the Academy Ranch to explore where 'Pecco Bagnaia learns from the very best' (and Vale should have rolled his eyes over the flattery, but he always loved it, and that was probably what lulled him into that false security).

He had approved of the idea immediately, any excuse to show off his playground and get some good press- demonstrate how fine of a mentor he was, et cetera.

Then, just as he began to suggest that the week coming would likely be best as it was the final race of the European leg and it was in Misano- very close to the ranch itself- she interrupted him with some of the worst news he had ever been delivered.

"It would be very convenient if you could provide lodging-" She had started after he voiced his enthusiastic agreement to the plan.

"Sì, sì," He had cut her off, "Allora, I can set him up--"

"And for Márquez, of course."

That shut him up.

There had been a long, drawn-out silence on both ends of the line as Valentino processed her words. He had furrowed his brows and pursed his lips, searching the blank wall before him for the answers to his many questions. He had taken the sentence apart.

And. For Márquez. Of course.

"Marc Márquez?" He had clarified, and there was some cruel satisfaction in the woman's response- that's what he gets for not listening, he supposed.

"Why, of course."

Of course.

"What?" Valentino had needed her to backtrack a few minutes, "But you said it was media for Pecco."

"Well, yes, he will be there too. Gigi decided that it would be better to send both of them as they are teammates and only sending Bagnaia could suggest to the other teams that there's weakness in their partnership."

And there it was.

"You're joking."

"Will that be a problem, Mr. Rossi?" She knew it was.

He planted his hand upon his face, massaging the spontaneous strain in his temples. To have Marc Márquez constantly in his general vicinity had been unbearable for the last few months, accidentally bumping into him at the Ducati garage once and exchanging looks that were equally shocked, polite, and outraged.

There was never confrontation- God knows how Vale would have dealt with that, but Marc was not that sort of person. He was self-assured, but avoidant. When things went wrong, when war broke out, he retreated to his little fantasy world where nothing had changed. And if others then reacted to this avoidance with anger or upset, he would play dumb. It was childish.

That was not to say that Vale was perfect, for he said and did many immature things in an attempt to provoke Marc throughout their years of conflict, but Marc's pretence of nonchalance irked him to no end.

Nonetheless, the team had started erecting a divider to separate the two riders during the weekends- not through any arguments they suffered between themselves, but rather to quell the silently growing tension between Marc and Valentino.

Valentino felt it rather awkward, unsure who suggested the partition (though he had a sneaking suspicion it was Uccio) but was glad for an excuse to avoid Márquez when he could.

But to have Marc at the Ranch, on Valentino's home soil, filled him with a horrible rush of dread.

When he did not respond, the woman continued, "We understand you are not on amicable terms with Marc at the moment and so you are at liberty to refuse. But we implore you to put any past rivalries aside for the interests of the team."

"No way. Take them to a go-karting track, show them some childhood photos, there is no need to bring him here."

The line went silent again, and she must have wanted him to consider what he had just said, how ridiculous it sounded, but he would not. He was not the sort of man who wasted time on self-reflection.

"Alright, we will arrange other plans. If you change your mind get in contact, I'm sure Francesco would appreciate that."

She thanked him with a voice that offered no gratitude and Valentino was left alone with the dead air of his telephone. He slammed the receiver onto its hook and stormed down the hall, putting as much distance between himself and the phone as he could, pretending he had never answered it in the first place.

The kitchen was at the furthest end, a spacious area with many windows that filtered in the warm, natural daylight. The floors were tiled with sheets of terracotta, cold against his feet, and adorned with floral patterns painted azure. The countertops were mahogany with a glossy protective layer and complimented the rustic stone walls. It was quite a beautiful building, one that Vale could retreat to when his home became too large, too empty.

And that was exactly why Marc could not be allowed to visit, Vale thought as he marched to the room's corner and yanked open the door to the smallest of three fridges. It contained only alcohol- mostly beer, but some open bottles of champagne and rosé.

He swiped up a Peroni, hooked the cap on the corner of the kitchen island, and drove a furious palm down on the neck of the bottle. The cap popped off with a crack and the static circulation of bubbles.

Fucking Márquez, he met the lips of the bottle with his own.

[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?

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

cannot dream of returning to dust: marcnaia [m]

Marc dabs the corner of his mouth. It’s blood—stark, rusting, red.

He looks at Pecco. Startles after a disjointed moment like an old, whirring computer, too little hardware to contain the leaden software of his racing instincts and the bike data. And his soul too, but Pecco isn’t one for theatrics as much as he is for punishment.

“You alright?” He prods clumsily. He can’t not.

Marc shrugs—a disquieting thing to watch. Everything is half a second off, and his body jerks unevenly. “’s fine,” he spits, sharp, all at once. “Long day. But it is good.”

It was, technically.

He won.

Pecco doesn’t know how, exactly, but surely he’s long past asking that. Staring at Marc’s data is like staring at that little phial of fresh, millennia-old blood in the Naples Cathedral. And worse yet, if they tear the wiring out of Marc’s veins, Pecco thinks he’d still be Marc. Miraculous, except their kind isn’t in the business for that.

It’s not flattering. Being close to him at all isn’t flattering.

Marc keeps watching him. The whites of his eyes are too white. His fingers—carbon fiber, dented, dusted—spasm at his side, with a staticky hiss. There’s old blood on his upper lip.

“Here,” Pecco says, automatic. Hands him the towel wrapped around his neck.

One day, it won’t rake its nails through his nerves and sensors, the sheer fucking suffocating awkwardness of existing close him. Marc picks it up warily, wipes down his face twice. Pecco wants to twitch. The hardware embedded in his flesh feels like it’s groaning, overwhelmed, overheating.

“Thanks,” Marc mutters. Then: “I'm fine. You don't have to worry.”

Probably not. And probably impossible. Pecco huffs out a noise that can pass as a snort—reedy as it sounds. “Ok.”

It doesn’t settle anything.

Marc’s motorhome seems three sizes too small for them. Walls scraping against his shoulders, the ceiling too low, Marc everywhere he looks. Marc, Marc, Marc—distrusting, cagey like a kicked dog down to the hard line of his shoulders. Pecco picks at his cuticles until they bleed. The tips of his fingers ache, swollen.

The podium champagne is heavy in his stomach. He feels nauseous—faintly. Maybe they downloaded nervous puking along with his first riding augmentations.

Pecco crumbles on Marc’s sofa. He feels gritty, slow. Like there’s circuit rot in the hollow of his chest, melting his wires together and getting the signals to blur. Marc follows. Sits so close he might hear semantic errors piling up, the stutter of ram processors in overdrive.

He’s a pitiless thing through that—grabs Pecco’s hand and puts it on the crook of his elbow. The flesh one. When Pecco runs his fingers over the skin there, fragile, there’s only the faint knob of a sensor port, as familiar as the shape of his bones.

It’s too much, suddenly.

“You are excited for Sachsenring,” Pecco says. An abrupt, lumbering way out. Next weekend, more racing, easy stuff.

Marc barks out a laugh. Light, airy. “Of course.”

Of course.

“King of the ring. Right.”

It comes out—strained, maybe. Settles all under his skin with a red-hot kind of humiliation, of awe. The fans in this frenzied delirium. Ducati whispering among itself, that he’ll be splendid, glorious, like Pecco hadn’t been winning for them. As much as he humanly could, even.

The problem is that Marc might not be human—Valentino said it first, he remembers. After Argentina. That Marc is too much chromium and stainless steel and copper wirings and doesn’t care for the rest of them. There was a hanged cardboard robot in one of the Misanos, once.

Or he’s too human. The last great thing of real meat and real talent. A modern rider Agostini can admire. A rider from before the current, palatable bikes and the seamless lines of seamless implants.

“Pecco,” Marc says, urgent, gravelly.

When Pecco turns his head, Marc is right there, blinking up at him, looking miserable—pale, wan, cheeks gaunt—and handsome about it.

They’re both very good at miserable. In opposite directions.

Pecco doesn’t see it happening. It’s like an overtake—he only breathes out when it’s done and doesn’t ask questions. He curls his palm around the back of Marc’s head and kisses him. Chases the coppery bite pooling on his tongue with his own.

Marc makes a noise, hard, wanting. Then he’s on Pecco’s lap, wrangling him like a Ducati on the corners, all ten fingers digging into his shoulders. Those little flashes of pain scramble his thoughts, makes his systems fumble in every direction, frizzing.

“Can you,” Marc trails off, sighing against his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pecco mutters, halfway to delirious, the taste of blood and naked wires clinging to the insides of his cheeks.

He flips them around, presses Marc against the couch, boxing him with his knees. He knows what Marc wants—and doesn’t want to say why he knows. This is a terrible idea, but it was a terrible idea the last ten, eleven times too.

Pecco splays his thumb on the sharp cut of Marc’s cheek. He grins, waggles his eyebrows. It’s ridiculous. Doesn’t make it any less devastating when he turns his head to the side and sucks his finger into his mouth.

He tries to not think about spraying champagne on his face. Fails. Tries to not think about Marc, on his knees, lips spit shiny, and—

Fails too.

So Pecco kisses him again to stop himself, reckless, feverish, and Marc’s hands go under his shirt, the horrible red of it. He fucking hates it. The heat of Marc’s touch, how it flays him open. The mortification and amazement sizzling in his throat. The jealousy.

That Marc gets to be a mechanical haunting and still—still win. That he got bishops calling him a freak, and the Pope pleading sports to cease their fiddling into God’s own most beloved creatures, and Valentino branding him an enemy, and he just keeps going. Keeps winning. Godless twice over, and yet.

That Pecco—sleek carbon fiber, updated processors, the new deal—can replaced by an ugly, bleeding Frankenstein of wrong parts and outdated code.

“You are thinking,” Marc hums, face flushed pink and lovely, the bite of his prosthetic fingers unyielding on Pecco’s waist. It lilts like a question. “Francesco.”

“Hmmm,” he manages to pry out. He hates it a little less now. “About you.”

Marc laughs. “All bad things, I hope.”

And so Pecco laughs too—almost unwillingly. Chokes on it when Marc rocks up, grinds their cocks together.

That close to him, Pecco is washed out. Perfect, passionless.

But at least Marc is also less. There’s an electric hiss, and his entire body jolts. He’s in pain, probably. Parts two generations ahead of him and ancient wires misbehaving together.

If Pecco opened the panel on his back, he’d get to see what massacre of limits stripped and repeating signals is acting up, he thinks. What is hurting him.

Marc clings to pain like he’d cling to a naked razor, though—all maniac glee. When Pecco hesitates, hovering above him, he surges up for the kill. Bites down on his bottom lip, licks hotly into his open mouth. He’s fumbling—greedy and insistent—with his jeans.

“Marc,” Pecco tries protesting, tries slowing him.

The name breaks into a groan. Marc flattens his palm against his cock, eyebrows scrunched in concentration, his tongue between his teeth, sweat gathering along his forehead.

Fine.

Fucking fine.

He has to be in pain, and Pecco is—wired and nauseous and waiting for the moment when the spiral over second place will sharpen him. They are—it has been said—very good at their own types of torment.

Pecco gets to work on Marc’s pants, shoves his own down unceremoniously. He spits on his own palm and wraps it around both of them. It’s smooth, the good synth stuff over his ports and sensors—and, ha, isn’t that a win.

Marc relaxes a fraction. Lets out this tiny, breathy sound. He buries his face against the hollow of Pecco’s neck, his nose brushing against the small, closed panel there. His hips sway in odd lurches, rub them together anyway.

It’s good. Pecco would like to say he’s above liking it, but he isn’t. Can’t lie.

Christ.

His tongue is plastered to the roof of his mouth. He tightens his fist, sinks into the sensation of the head of his cock rubbing against the patch of rough hair between Marc’s legs. Into the absurdity of this, Marc quiet and wanting and greedy under him. Wide-eyed.

“Pecco,” he whispers, clumsily, and then cuts himself off. Kisses the wild flutter of his pulse on his neck rather than speaking.

“It’s fine,” Pecco shushes him, runs his thumb over the vein on Marc’s cock so he stops talking. He has no idea what else this could be.

Proof that they’re human, maybe. They act outside their code and don’t grind to a halt.

[batsplat]

I just listened to the podcast with frankie carchedi from earlier this season and one thing he mentions is that he is weak at qualifying. Seems like there is a lot of tiny reasons building up to a lot behind the qualifying issues, like trying to tune the bike to marc's riding (the brakes they mentioned fixing) + marc still trying to understand the bike (looks better and better everyday) + aligning with a satellite team's limitation of understanding and setting up a bike quickly over a weekend + not being able to use other's data due to the spec difference

Is it right then for us to expect marc to adapt to the gp25 quicker and be ready to go from race 2? since it would be a factory set up with extensive resources and data ( but then I look at enea's qualifying)

How much should we be hedging bets?

yeah like I said, I'm open to his current struggles being down to some combination of external factors. there clearly is something about their working process right now that's a little bit funky - though ofc there's also no rule that you automatically get a satellite qualifying tax, otherwise surely the current best qualifier wouldn't be in a satellite team. also, the reason I think it's worth highlighting the teammate comparison is...... well, a lot of these things will be true of his teammate too, yeah? idk, I think personally I don't quite find all the mitigating factors satisfactory, I do feel like his risk/reward calculation in those specific sessions feels a bit. meh... but also, like. who knows. as I said in that post, the entire problem is that a lot of time in motorsports, you don't know. marc's fans obviously pay the most attention to him, which makes them highly aware of any and all performance-affecting issues, but of course a lot of riders will from weekend to weekend be dealing with some kind of issue that's making their lives harder. from the outside, you sometimes have to throw up your hands and acknowledge you simply do not know

which is also true of next year. I don't think there's currently any reason to conclude that his qualifying won't be fixed. which, by the way, doesn't mean I'm not still interested in the h2h - pecco's a very strong qualifier, and it has just been a long long time since marc's had a competitive teammate in general. you'd expect the adaptation process to be quicker, but it's worth pointing out that marc still has to adapt to a new team, new crew chief and all that. broadly speaking I'd still expect a rider of his calibre in that situation to be ready to go from day one, however. it's not any cause for hedge betting (if your expectations for next season are 'marc will win the title', not 'marc will dominate the whole season and win the title by five million points'). and also like... luckily, qualifying still isn't the be all and end all in this sport... it's just worth keeping an eye on, y'know. bastianini is not a good point of reference lol, he's the one where realising he was on average qualifying worse than marc (and the two aprilias) made me go 'hm'. (despite his reputation for being a poor qualifier, I suppose his existence is useful in showing what a superb job jorge and pecco are doing in being extremely consistent with their qualifying.) with marc, he has a very strong track record as a qualifier so like... we know he can do it. but we still don't know whether he will do it. that's the joy of following sports live, sometimes you just have to take things as they come

[motorsportficexchange]

The gifts are ready to read :)

A huge thank you to everyone who took part (and to everyone who supported the writers)! There’s so many amazing new fics and it was lovely to see so many writers taking part :)

Enjoy ;D

All I want to do in the middle of the evening is hold you tight by fluffypenguinpower for formula1trash

Carlos/Max – Explicit

The one where Max and Carlos accidentally switch suitcases, Pierre laughs at Max's misery and Max and Carlos finally figure out they like each other.

and all above, a starcrossed love by TheFlirtMeister for theianitor

Jenson/Seb – Teen – (logged in ao3 users only)

“Shut up.” Sebastian says. “Jenson’s not my boyfriend.”

“No, you’ve just been hopelessly in love with him since first year.” Nico rolls his eyes. “Just cast a love spell on him. Or slip him a love potion. Or just snog him when you next see him.”

And just like that he knew by TheShhhSpot for Dr3amingInColour

Daniel/Seb – Gen

Soulmate AU where your soulmate's name appears on your right wrist (Left if you are left handed) and your greatest nemesis' name appears on your left one.

Daniel doesn’t remember when he started loving Sebastian. He just knows that when he realized he did, he stopped caring about who’s name would appear on his right wrist until it was too much to bear.

Don't Think Twice by Anonymous for TheFlirtMeister

James/Niki – Teen

Supernatural Elements, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Established Relationship.

go big or go home by montecarlos for anonissue

Andre/Jean-Eric, Sam/Jean-Eric – Teen

He is well known, due to his story, the one that seems to possess some level of disbelief. The drifting process has been interrupted and severed numerous times over the years that the Jaeger program has been in operation. Nobody had managed to control the Jaeger for more than one minute on their own. Jev had managed it for ten minutes. He’s a man who should be dead, or at least catastrophically brain damaged from the effects of piloting the Jaeger alone. “Yes, that Jean-Eric Vergne,”

(a Pacific Rim au)

Going Further by theianitor for CustardCreamies

Kimi/Seb, Valtteri/Kimi, Valtteri/Kimi/Seb – Mature

This thing between them had been going on for most of the season, and it always played out pretty much the same, but Valtteri hadn’t been sure they’d be continuing into the coming year. Being invited to Kimi’s during the winter break and finding Sebastian there though, he had been pretty sure. Pretty sure, but still not entirely so.

If only yesterday took place tomorrow by anonissue for nicorosberg

Andre/Jean-Eric – Explicit

May 2018's a bad month for André: Parix ePrix, he runs out of energy hitting Bird, Evans, Di Grassi in the process, and losing P2 in the last 200 meters of the race -- gets 10 grid place penalty for it. 6hr of Spa, the three car is DSQ after podiuming. Nürburgring, mechanical issues thrashed an otherwise solid performance in the car that should've podiumed for class. All he wants is a weekend in Nivelles alone to recharge and celebrate Mother's Day; Jev, of course, has other ideas.

More than Casual by Quagswagging for NicoTheFlammble

Nico/Kevin – Explicit

Kevin and Nico both suck at feelings, but that doesn't stop them from finding each other at night.

Then Nico can't do it anymore and pushes Kevin away, but Kevin won't let him go so easily.

Our Golden Days. by fearless_seas for xoxodelvidestruction

Marc/Dani – Teen

The first thing Marc does when he meets Dani is flirt with him; and the first thing that Dani thinks is that he is too old for him.

Overcoming Anxiety, One Marquez at a Time by xoxodelvidestruction for Ly__canthrope

Alex/Marc/Reader – Teen

When a World Champion believes in you, how can you not?

The Perfect Photo by F1_rabbit for TheShhhSpot

Marcus/Jolyon, Alex & Marcus, Kevin/Stoffel – Explicit

Jo's bored hanging around the paddock, so him and Dany come up with a bet, whoever finds Marcus sleeping in the strangest place is the winner. But it all gets a little out of hand...

Sleepover by AngelinaZebi for F1_rabbit

Esteban/Lance – Gen

Lance invites Esteban to his home watching movie.

Special Delivery! by writtenfripperies for LittleRookie

Marcus/Stoffel – Mature – (logged in ao3 users only)

Marcus receives a package he wasn't quite expecting.

Stay by NicoTheFlammble for writtenfripperies

Carlos/Max – Not Rated

Carlos has to get on a plane. Max is sleepy and stubborn. That's pretty much it.

Strength and courage when others would see you fall by CustardCreamies 

Sebastian/Mark – Gen

In a world where soulmates feel each others pain, Mark can feel the intense pain from the injury Sebastian does to his neck and wonders about the strength Sebastian has to keep going despite how much it hurts to do so.

Summer Camping by formula1trash for montecarlos

Pierre/Stoffel – Teen

When the summer break starts after the Hungarian Grand Prix, the drivers go on their annual Summer camp together. However, one of the drivers goes missing. Pierre and Stoffel go looking for him together, both completely unaware of their feelings for each other.

Surprise on Capri by LittleRookie for AngelinaZebi

Esteban/Lance, Pierre/Charles, Daniel/Max – Teen

Esteban is on holiday in Capri with Pierre and Charles. But on the island there is a surprise waiting for him.

Swapped by F1_rabbit for LittleRookie

Marcus/Kevin/Stoffel – Explicit

Everyone gets an hour to swap bodies with their soulmates, and they have time to collect clues to their soulmate's identity, but things aren't that simple for Stoffel...

take a sip from my secret potion (one taste and you'll be mine) by nicorosberg for fluffypenguinpower

Luca/Alex – Gen

“You idiot.” Uccio snaps. “You do realise that this is a really powerful truth potion, it’s not going to just wear off? Firstly, you couldn’t have used it on Marquez anyway, because it counts as a psychological advantage and as you full well know, we can’t use magic to our advantage in any competitive events. Secondly, this won’t wear off until Luca’s revealed his biggest fucking secret, and I doubt he even knows what that is, so it could take forever.”

Luca does know what his biggest secret is, but he’s not particularly willing to share his affection for another rider (especially the younger brother of Valentino’s biggest rival) in front of his brother, Uccio or Pecco, even if his team mate already knows.

“Ah, well that is slightly unfortunate.” Valentino gives Luca a guilty look. “My bad. I’ll fix it, Luca, I promise.”

“I’m going to kill you.” Luca tells him, deadpan.

Teach Me by Ly__canthrope for fearless_seas

Daniel/Seb – Gen

Daniel is horrible at speaking Italian and somehow he has roped Sebastian into teaching him.

Waking Up In Vegas by Dr3amingInColour for Quagswagging

Daniel/Max – Explicit – (logged in ao3 users only)

"'But to be somewhere so special with someone so special, I’ve never had this before.' Dan quickly confessed, cuddling closer to his boyfriend.

'I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Max whispered before falling back into Daniel’s hold, cuddling closer.'

(Or, the one where it's hotel rooms, and a little bit more.)

When Fate wants to have Fun by LittleRookie for F1_rabbit

Nico/Kevin, Marcus/Jolyon – Mature

Nico has a soulmark in an embarrassing place. And he can't read it. Kevin doesn't care about finding his soulmate. Until he meets Nico. But things aren't as easy as they want them to be. 

You can view the whole collection here :)

And don’t forget to show your love with comments and kudos <3

[batsplat]

maybe it's from the particularly acute disappointment of marc injuring himself at the sachsenring but this weekend (so far) has made me feel incredibly nervous for marc's future. like no guarantees of course but if marc was going to win anywhere this year (when the gap between the gp23 and gp24 is increasingly obvious, as you mentioned) it was going to be here. and i'm definitely overreacting because i'm emotional about it but it feels like him hurting himself here feels like a bad sign not just for this year but for the future at large. because it's a reminder that his body can't handle the riding style that used to take him so far. scary!

taking these two together ahahaa. this is truly the life of a sports fan huh

honestly with marc I've now swung so often and so far between 'it's so over' and 'we've never been more back' that I've gotten to an exciting point of. well. I suppose we'll have to see. I mean look, back in that jerez to catalunya stretch it did look like he might be able to be a serious title contender this season. at risk of making myself look like an idiot, I think we can pretty safely conclude that's not happening this year. but y'know, broadly what he needs to do is to figure his shit out for the rest of the year... like he kinda needs to just understand what this version of him can do under what circumstances. the thing about winning is that it's also a habit, it's something that becomes essentially muscle memory, you need to kinda have that reflexive understanding of how you've done it in the past - both in the context of races and titles. and it's still in there for him!! but he's just got to... take the rest of the season to chip away at the gap. currently, pecco and jorge don't just have the edge on him in pace, they have the edge on him in process. that's not just the bike, though it is also affected by marc being less familiar with the ducati. but pecco and jorge have just kind of gotten to the point where they know how to approach most weekends in a way where, more often or not, they will kinda maximise what was on offer for them that weekend. sometimes they chuck it down the road! but in terms of pure pace potential, right now they're getting to the point where they're there. marc is just a series of 'what ifs'. they're not all his fault, he's gotten unlucky, he's in a tough situation, he's still getting used to the new tracks on a ducati etc etc etc... but that's what this year is for. figure out the process, figure out how you actually go about getting wins in the current era - keeping your physical condition in mind - and take it from there

the physical stuff is the... yeah. the thing is, I do think he is capable of winning without all this crashing to figure out the limit. honestly, this approach of his made me deeply uneasy well well before what happened at jerez 2020. that injury and aborted comeback didn't feel like a fluke, it didn't feel like bad luck - in an awful way, it did feel like it had been a long time coming. that being said... well, y'know, marc was the only one who could win titles on the late 2010s honda, and part of the reason for that was that he figured out how to get a capricious bike just to the limit during races. you do not need to chuck the bike down the road fifty times per season to win the title on the ducati. pecco and jorge have very much shown that. sometimes it will just be dumb luck who gets injured or not! the sachsenring crash yesterday you can't really put down to marc being stupid or being irresponsible. he was hardly the only one who fell, weather conditions were tricky, shit does happen (not ideal that he tried to save the crash specifically because he knew his other bike had problems, plus the thing where he went out again before going to the medical centre, mind you). sometimes you fall a lot and you're fine, like marc for most of his prime. sometimes you crash at the start of the race and fall in front of the pack and your survival is up to fate. which is of course what happened last year to pecco, still one of the scariest crashes I've ever seen live in terms of crashes where you really do think you just got very very close to watching someone be killed in real time. this is the thing, right... at the end of the day, you can hope that marc finds an approach that relatively minimises the risk to his body - but also, you can only control so much. especially with where his body is at right now, there's only so many bad knocks you can take. you never know, you can only hope

overall, I have been thinking for a while that it's almost a bit... odd? how the physical stuff hasn't really featured at all in 2025-26 hot takes? I reckon people don't really want to think about it playing a big role, and also I suppose 'well one of them could get injured' is treated as just an underlying assumption of following motorcycle racing... but like we saw with catalunya last year, it's not just stuff that takes you out for ten races that can have big title race repercussions. especially given how marc traditionally went about winning titles, how big a part of that process it was for him. we've had such an incredible lucky streak from the start of the season until mugello that being afraid of injuries has almost... receded a little bit? in everyone's minds? after last year, in particular, where it just felt like you were always worrying about someone, it was just so relentless... and now injury worries have just come back with a vengeance these last few weeks and it is a little scary. a lot of this is scary. no real escaping it I'm afraid

but yes! anon! I agree with you! we'll get back to the smile and we'll get back to the optimism too.. at the end of the day, you can only do what you can do. we'll see what happens. if we're all massively underestimating just how much that sweet red bull cash can do and ktm comes out with a rocket ship next year and pedro wins the next ten titles, so be it. you never know