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isacksteban · 11 months ago

Text

Before — 1 (out of 3? maybe)

Sick. That's how Bez felt. Whether it was from the ridiculous amount of alcohol he'd had since he crashed out - since Marc Marquez made him crash - or because of the anger bubbling under the surface he wasn't sure.

All he knew was that as soon as that microphone was in his hand all he wanted to do was bitch and moan about his shitty race.

The room was crowded, full of people celebrating as he shouted slurred words into the microphone by his lips.

"We're here..." He started, done talking to Digi's daughter. Now was his chance "I just wanted to say one thing today. Marquez made me crash." He stated plainly, pointing his finger at the camera in front of his face

"He wanted to say it" The man behind him slightly laughed as he spoke, it wasn't a joke. This was all Marc Marquez's fault.

"I wanted to say it." He echoed before moving on, unaware of just how much this comment was going to shape his night.

The broadcast eventually came to an end after ten minutes of Bez's rambling. He wasn't sure when he came to this conclusion but he decided he was going to confront Marquez.

He was stumbling, not because that dickhead hurt him, he's too strong to be hurt by such a pathetic rider. Maybe he was just a little too drunk to do anything straight.

He pounded on the door of the Spaniards motorhome, ready to tear into him as soon as his door swung open. What he wasn't ready for was for the shorter man to be in nothing but a white towel hanging loosely around his waist.

Bez's anger flared even more at the sight of Marc looking so unbothered, so relaxed, as if nothing had happened. The Spaniard raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Bezzecchi, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Marc's tone was mocking, his eyes glinting with amusement as his lips curled up into a Cheshire cat smile.

"You think this is funny?" Bez slurred, his fists clenching at his sides. "Vai a farti fottere. You made me crash!"

Marc leaned against the doorframe, his smirk widening. "Is that what you came here to tell me? You know, blaming others won't make you a better rider, Marco."

Bez took a step forward, his vision blurring slightly. "Shut up! You did it on purpose. You wanted me out of the race! Your race ended a few laps later as karma for you being a reckless dickhead."

Marc shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe you should focus more on your own skills rather than finding excuses."

The words cut deep, and Bez's anger turned into a fierce determination. He pushed Marc back into the motorhome, causing the Spaniard to stumble slightly. Marc's smirk faltered as he realized Bez wasn't just drunk — he was furious.

"You think you can just ruin my race with nk consequences?" Bez shouted, his voice loud, echoing off the walls of the small structure. "Mi stai sul cazzo."

Marc straightened up, his expression hardening. "You're drunk, Bez. Go sleep it off before you do something you'll regret."

But Bez was beyond reason. He swung a punch at Marc and missed, embarrassingly enough. The two men stood there, the tension between them palpable, neither of them felt like they could breathe in the small space.

"Do something I'll regret?" Bez barked. "The only thing I regret is not doing this sooner."

He lunged forward again, but this time Marc didn't move. Instead, he grabbed Bez's arms and held him in place, their faces inches apart, Marc controlling him as if he was some mutt the Spaniard had trained. Bez's breath was hot and heavy, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, the air thick with anger and something else neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

"You have no idea what you're doing," Marc whispered, his voice low, warning the pup.

"Maybe I don't," Bez replied, his voice equally low, a stark change from the volume he had just seconds before. "But I know what I want."

Without thinking, he closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Marc's in a rough, angry kiss. Marc resisted for a second, but then he was kissing Bez back just as fiercely, their mutual hatred and frustration pouring into the kiss.

It was a battle for dominance, their hands gripping each other's arms tightly, neither willing to give an inch. It was messy, all teeth and tongues and pent-up aggression. It could hardly be called a kiss, not in any romantic sense. It was at once filthy and violating, no teasing or buildup. Not altogether unpleasant, Marc noted once he recovered from the shock of the turn this interaction had taken, but still unwelcome. And so, in response, he took the first opportunity he had to bite down hard on Bez's bottom lip, blood bursting across his tongue just before the Italian jerked away.

He didn’t appear angry, though, not even as he spat excess blood and saliva on the floor. He laughed instead, his eye darker than Marc had ever seen it and glittering with the manic hunger he got before a race. He brought his hand up to Marc's throat then to his jaw, swiping his thumb across his lips and smearing the blood Marc had drawn across them. “Just when I thought I’d found a better use for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Marc slapped his hand away. “I’m glad we can agree at least one of us is pretty,” he grumbled, incapable of letting this end without getting one last jab in. He flicked out his tongue and still could taste copper at the corner of his mouth, and it was impossible to miss the way Bez followed the movement. “Although,” Marc continued in spite of his better judgment, watching as a trail of blood trickled from Bez's mouth down his chin, one valiant drop even climbing further down, outlining the column of his throat before disappearing into the collar of his shirt, “I think I’m starting to see the appeal.”

Later, Marc could rationalize this whole incident down to him being overworked and sorely needing a break, one that Bez had so conveniently stopped him fron having. But in truth, there was no rational explanation for why he proceeded to tangle his fingers in Bez's hair, or why Bez even allowed him to, before forcefully reeling him back in. Purely hindbrain base instinct, he mused, swiping his tongue across the impressions of his teeth cut into Bez’s lip, unadulterated desire, and the thrill of chasing something dangerous. A heady and addictive feeling he’d become more and more accustomed to as of late.

It was less making out than it was a battle on a smaller, intimate scale. All clashing tongues and teeth as each of them fought to set the pace to their preferences, resulting in something messy and frantic and not enough - not nearly enough - to satisfy.

Bez’s hand fumbled across Marc's chest, seeking out the towel still around his waist, and trying to focus on anything else besides the taste of metal and Marquez's spit in his mouth proved to be too much of a hassle, he brought his knee up to graze against Marc's groin, urging him to hasten things along. Almost immediately, he caught on and forced his leg back down, fingers digging deep into the meat of his thigh, just on the edge of being painful. “Impatient, aren’t we?” he laughed, pulling back to Bez's dismay. “Never thought I’d have to remind you to use your words. You were so eager to run your mouth and now you're ashamed?”

“Just get on with it!” Bez snapped, more on edge than he’d ever admit to.

Marc strolled casually to the side, putting on a show of untucking the towel from itsself and holding a corner away from his body, still covered. “Get on with what?” he asked nonchalantly.

“I’m sure you can use context clues.” Bez gestured between the two of them. At Marc's lack of reaction, he sighed, “Or maybe not. Maybe media literacy really is dead, you poor, pathetic idiot.”

Without warning, Marc was grabbed once again, Bez manhandling the Spaniard on top of him as he sat on the sofa placed in the corner of the room until he had them right where he wanted: Marc, astride his lap with his knees bracketing Bez's hips, making use of the slim space available between the armrests. Marc wanted to gloat - his needling had been successful after all - but he was all too aware of the precarious position he was now in, no longer being towered over but instead spread open as the towel atop of his olive skin risked slipping down. And the only thing keeping him steady was Bez's firm grip on his ass.

“The only thing pathetic around here is your pride getting in the way of asking for what you want. Is this,” Marc forced himself closer, grinding his hips against Bez's, “better?”

“Cazzo,” was all Bez could think to say as he lurched backwards with the motion and shut his eyes tight. “Fuck, fine, sì. Just don’t stop.”

Marc only laughed and rolled their hips against each other again. Bez bore down, chasing the friction he needed. Marc's mouth found his skin again, this time latching onto the bolt of his jaw before moving lower, biting and sucking along his throat and leaving harsh bruises that he would have no way of hiding over the next few days. He was sure he’d care about that later, but there were more pressing matters. Pressing insistently against the front of his jeans, in fact.

“If Valentino could see you now, his pet panting like a feral dog,” Marc remarked, bringing one hand around to pull at the collar of Bez's shirt to give him more access to unmarked skin.

“You want to know something - quit that, you’re going to stretch it out - something funny?” Marc made a curious noise as he nipped hard at Bez's collarbone. Bez inhaled sharply but took that as his cue to continue. “I don’t actually care all that much about his attention.”

Marc stilled, and Bez just barely refrained from whining. He pulled back, lips spit slick and quirked in an odd grin, as he let his hand wander, falling torturously slow down the length of Bez's torso. “Is that so?”

Bez moved his hands to grip on Marc's shoulders, refusing to squirm even as the Spaniards hand trailed past his abdomen, fingers teasing along the waistband of his jeans. He leaned in so his nose brushed against Marc's ear. “But I really enjoy how it gets under your skin.”

He felt the button of his jeans pop and Marc's knuckles graze the straining front of his boxers as he dragged the zipper down. “Looks like we’re even in that respect.”

“Not if you don’t…fucking…do something,” Bez panted into his neck as Marc cupped him through the fabric.

“Are you going to ask me, or should I use context clues again?” Marc teased, increasing the pressure slightly for the briefest of moments, just enough to leave Bez aching for more.

“Just touch me, Che cazzo!”

“Vague. And rude. But I’ll take it.” Wasting no more time, Marc freed his already leaking cock and grasped him firmly in his hand. The first few strokes were too rough and dry in his calloused hands by any measure, but the instant relief at just having anything sent waves of pleasure prickling up his spine. A low moan rattled free from somewhere deep in Bez's chest, and he bit down into the meat of Marc's shoulder to muffle it.

“None of that,” Marc said, bringing his other hand up to yank Bez back by his hair. “You’ve been very vocal; you don’t get to stop now.” Marc focused his attention on the tip, pressing his thumb into the slit and gathering the precum that had already started collecting to ease the glide back down.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Bez spluttered as Marc settled into a steady rhythm.

Marc laughed and flicked his wrist just so, sending Bez crying out. “La poesía.”

Bez thrusted shallowly into his fist, trying and failing to match the pace with what little leverage he had in this position. Marc released his grip on his hair and went back to rocking his hips until finally their uneven back and forth fell into sync.

“Asshole- you- ah..- merda- Motherfuck- God!” Speaking, at least coherently, became increasingly difficult as Marc worked him over almost mechanically, as if every weak point of his was somehow preprogrammed into his movements, and Bez hated it as much as he never wanted it to end.

“Go on,” Marc urged him. “Let’s see if we can make them hear you through that door. You wanted attention, right?” Another twist of his hand, and something strangled and pitiful clawed its way out of Bez's throat. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly shy now? I’d love for them to hear you scream.”

“Someone’s - hah - a little overconfident in their abilities, don’t you think?” Bez managed in between gasps.

“Oh, I’m sure I could figure it out,” Marc said, voice low and liquid smooth in a way that settled deep in the pooling warmth that had begun gathering in Bez's core. He suppressed a shiver. “With a little time, I bet I could have you on your knees and begging.” At that, Bez snatched Marc's wrist, stopping him mid-pump even as his dick throbbed in response. “Didn’t like that idea, huh?”

“On my knees, I can do,” Bez huffed, gathering himself. “But I have no intention of begging.”

“No one does,” Marc shot back cheekily. “But I’ll bite. What do you have in mind to keep yourself quiet?” Marc loosened his hold, allowing Bez to slip out from under hum, his legs tingling from bloodflow rushing back into them as Marc turned to sit facing the Italian. Ignoring the minor pain, he continued sinking further down, situating himself between Marc's thighs as he knelt on the floor. “I like where this is going,” He chuckled, moving things along by taking out his own cock - with far less teasing and ceremony he had subjected him to before, Bez noted with embarrassment - already hard and leaking.

Pausing only to meet Marc's eyes - watching hungrily from above, cast in shadow by the glow of the dim lights haloing his damp hair - before taking him in his mouth, drawing a groan from Marc's. He moved slowly at first, with short bobs of his head as he progressively took in inch after inch, using his hand to cover what he hadn’t yet with his mouth, adjusting to the weight on his tongue and swallowing down the salty, bitter taste of precome. Marc's hand found its way into his hair, mockingly tender. “You know,” he said, “from this angle, you’re actually not too bad.”

In place of the cutting response Bez would have given in any other circumstance, he dove his head down the furthest he’d done yet, then flattened his tongue against the underside of Marc's erection, bringing it to a point as he dragged it up to the head. “Mierda!” Marc cried out, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. The fingers threaded through Bez's curls tightened sharply as he continued teasing at the tip, and that was the only warning he got before his head was forced forward again, then pulled back.

Apart from a muffled noise of surprise, Bez didn’t fight against it, focusing instead on relaxing his throat so he wouldn’t give Marc the satisfaction of gagging and paving the way for more snide, derogatory remarks he was in no position to argue. Besides, he still had his hand, and much like Marc had before, he moved and twisted it just so at the base of his cock, picking up a momentum that could eventually tear Marc to pieces. Judging from his flushed face, his panting breaths, and his condescension growing more and more disjointed, Bez felt he was somewhere on the right track.

“Yes, like that. Fucking- Dios! It’s like you were made for this. If I had known this was all it took to shut you up…” Marc trailed off, laughing. His eye distractedly followed the drool running down Bez's chin before snapping back up to meet his gaze with a wicked grin. “Why don’t you go on and touch yourself, Marco? I think I’d like to see you fall apart wrapped around my cock.”

Tempting as that was, his arousal flushed and heavy between his legs, Bez instead reached back to tug at Marc's hand on his head. He sighed, disappointed, but released him anyway. Still, Bez took his time retreating, tracing a vein with his tongue and swirling it around the head before sliding off with a wet pop that had Marc gripping the armrests of the sofa dangerously. “If that’s what you’re after,” Bez told him, wiping at his chin with his sleeve, “you’re going to have to work a little harder for it.”

Marc leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, so that their faces were nearly level, hot breaths mingling in the scarce air between them. “You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?”

“Actually, I don’t believe I did. But glad to know you’ve finally figured out how to read between the lines.”

Marc's hand shot out to twist in Bez's shirt as he stood, dragging him to his feet along with him. “You are fucking terrible at saying anything actually important.”

“To you, maybe. We just happen to have different priorities.” Bez could only watch confhsed as Marc swiped his free arm across a desk in the corner of the room, sending everything in the workspace - the mouse, keyboard, documents and checklists, various caffeinated beverages - clattering to the floor. “What the hell are you doing?”

In response, Marc practically threw him against the desk. “Priorities,” he scoffed.

“Let me guess, you sit at the top of that list while us younger riders hover somewhere in the low hundreds.”

Marc rolled his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Marco.”

With sheer brute strength, Bez spun Marc around and forced him face down on the desk, braced by his elbows. He leaned over, covering Marc with his own body and bringing his mouth just behind Marc's ear. He could feel every armored edge of the Italians jeans rough against his bare skin, and more than that, Bez's erection jutting against the line of his ass through them.

“Impressive,” Marc praised sarcastically. “I’d say you have me pegged, but you forgot one thing.”

“Ugh,” Bez groaned at the tasteless choice in wording, “and what’s that?”

“Right now, I’d say one of my highest priorities is finding out exactly what kind of idiotic nonsense runs out of your mouth when you’re strung out and fucked senseless,” Marc replied, nipping briefly at the shell of Bez's ear before pulling away. “Any objections?” Without waiting for a reply, he yanked Bez's jeans down to his knees, exposing him fully to the open air.

“Do you think I’d even be in this position if I had any?”

Marc sighed. “Is a simple, one word answer too much to ask from you?”

“Maybe.”

Marc didn’t get a chance to retort before Bez finger pressed against his entrance, sinking in to the first knuckle. Marc bit his lip against a reedy noise in the back of his throat that came dangerously close to a whine as he acclimated to the intrusion before Bez pulled out again, catching on the rim, then pushed back in further. By the time Marc had adjusted his breathing to the rhythm of Bez'a finger pumping in and out, he introduced another. He couldn’t repress a shout at the initial sting of two fingers working him over, but the pain faded over time into a toe-curling stretch.

“Taking you- ngh- your time, I see,” Marc goaded, even as he rocked back to meet the thrust of Bez's hand. “Do you not wanna make me scream, Marco?”

“Don’t worry, that’s definitely still on the table.” To prove his point, Bez angled his fingers just so on the next push, nailing Marc's prostate and causing every nerve in his body to light up like fireworks. He didn’t scream, thank you very much, but it was a near thing, the sound scraping his throat raw and fighting to break past his gritted teeth. “But you’ll have to forgive me for assuming that you wished to retain your ability to walk tomorrow.”

“How considerate of you- oh.” A third finger joined the others, creating a delicious kind of burn as they dragged against his walls over and over until at last Bez was satisfied.

“That should do it,” he appraised, drawing his hand back. Marc swallowed a whimper at the sudden emptiness he was left with and took the opportunity to remove his glasses and sweep his now sweat-drenched chair out of his eyes in the brief calm before the storm.

For once, Bez didn’t leave him in anticipation, and a moment later Marc felt the blunt head of his cock lining up at his entrance before pushing in with a blissed out groan, filling Marc up inch by heavy inch with each movement of his hips, until there was scarcely enough room in him for the air in his lungs. The pleasure resided intimately by the pain, each providing kindling for the other until his own body became an echo chamber of conflicting desires: to lean into the sensation or to escape it, to tense against the feeling or relax around it. His head spun so much that he didn’t realize at first when Bez bottomed out, only noticing after a while that he had gone still apart from the labored rise and fall of his chest.

Tears pricked at the corners of Marc's eyes at the sheer fullness of it, the inescapable heat pressing against him. He felt spread too thin, a rubber band pulled to its limit before snapping, and still, after several seconds passed in this high-strung state, Bez did not offer him release. “Fucking…move already!” he choked out.

“Just enjoying the view,” Bez remarked, as coolly as if he were watching a sunset rather than buried to the hilt inside another person, if a little breathless. He did move, then, with extreme prejudice, gripping Marc's hips with bruising force as he pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back in, punching a rattling moan from Marc's chest.

He repeated this several more times, shifting slightly every few thrusts, some going deeper than others but no less forcefully, until Marc's arms shook and threatened to give out from the strain of holding himself up against the onslaught. Finally, Bez entered at an angle that grazed Marc's prostate again, sending him keening uncontrollably. Another adjustment, and he proceeded to hit that bundle of nerves near every time.

There weren’t words to describe the sensation. Marc was a walking encyclopedia, always having something smart-assy to say, yet all he could come up with were endless refrains of “more,” “harder,” “faster,” along with several obscenities that would embarrass a sailor. Distantly, he was aware of Bez behind him, growling something along the lines of, “Yes, fuck, so tight. Keep talking, tell me how much you need this.”

“Marco…” he began, but he wasn’t sure how to continue, even if his pride would let him. He was so close, teetering just at the edge but not pushed over just yet, and his scattered mind was useless in helping him figure out how to get there. He met Bez's thrusts, the lewd slap of skin against skin echoing in the room as he chased futilely after one final spark.

Then Bez moved one hand to reach around Marc's front and fist over his dick again, timing his movements there perfectly to that of his hips, and that was all it took. For several blissful seconds, Marc was suspended in ecstasy before his orgasm slammed into him with the force of an explosion, molten heat flooding out from his core to white out every other sensation, every other thought as he spilled over Bez's fingers and onto the floor.

Bez kept up the pace through Marc's release and beyond it, chasing furiously after his own. That feeling of not enough that had prevailed earlier suddenly switched to too much, wrung out and overstimulated as he was. Marc rested his head against the cool surface of the desk, burying broken moans against his fist, riding out the shuddering aftershocks dancing up his spine and letting the sparks skittering across his tired nerves wash over him.

With a grunt and a final stutter of his hips, Nez finished deep inside, bending over to cover Marc again as he moved them together to work him to the last drop. They stayed like that for a stretched out moment, breathing in the heady air thick with sweat and sex and satisfaction, before Marc pulled out, hiking his jeans and boxers back up immediately after. Grimacing, Marc forced himself to stand in spite of his shaky legs. By the time he turned back around, though, Bez had already tucked himself back in and started walking to the door.

He looked over his shoulder, voice still husky and breath short. “You might want to clean that up.”

“Asshole,” Marc hissed when he was gone, adjusting himself back to something semi-presentable. Pushing himself off the desk to force his body into motion, he made it one step, then two, then collapsed bonelessly onto his sofa, wincing as he landed. That was only going to become more unpleasant later, especially with the mess slowly creeping down his leg and drying there. He would clean everything up in a minute - just a minute - after settling in the afterglow and allowing himself to recover before his girlfriend made her way back. Before he had to sleep in the same bed as her knowing just how stretched out he was by his coworker just now. Before he pretended this never happened.

(next part)

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