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le-chevalier-au-lion · 4 months ago

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always the same question, always the same answer: rosquez [t], part 2 of did you run here?

Even the cooling vest is sticking to him with sweat. It feels fucking sweltering inside his helmet, the air thick and soupy like a swamp. To Marc’s right, they’re sliding an icepack under Pecco’s leathers, handing him another bottle of Gatorade. He can barely see the sliver of skin around his eyes, but it’s easy to guess he’s miserable.

Ages ago, on a Saturday he barely remembers, people were worried about riders’ health in this kind of weather. He’s probably given interviews about it.

But Marc—

Marc forces himself to breathe, once, twice, his lungs expanding and contracting convulsively inside his ribcage. Strictly speaking, nothing that is going to happen in his immediate future is Pecco’s fault. The weight lingers at the bottom of his stomach, though. Heavy and poisonous like lead. Dizzy. He’s never disliked his teammate, exactly, but today, seeing him is a whipcrack on Marc’s back.

It’s always the heat that gets to him first—humid, suffocating. Like a shroud.

“Hey, hey.” One of his mechanics. Marc blinks, shudders. “Are you really sure about softs? They’re going to—race simulations are saying five or six laps before they just go.”

His smile is mostly reflex. It takes him a moment to realize nobody can see it.

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Marc says.

“Ah, alright—”

Marc shakes his head. “I don’t think the predicted drop-off is going to be a problem. We can expect especially the KTMs behind us to fall off around lap ten or so, and Fermín isn’t so confident with his breaking.” He sounds delirious, he realizes.

There’s a long, stunned glance, and things are jumbled, out of order. A kaleidoscope of explanations he’s given, again and again and again, losing coherency.

The pounding of blood in his ears rings deafeningly loud. Marc is pretty sure he’s about to have a migraine in a couple of hours, except—

Ha.

“I’m quite sure,” he repeats, scraped raw until there’s no charm left.

“If you’re confident.”

Confidence has nothing to do with knowing how things will happen. Marc laughs inside his helmet, a quiet, rotten thing, inaudible through the roar of bikes being set up and revved. He has twelve laps to—not save himself. It never works.

To have fun, maybe. One last ride before things fall apart.

But just thinking about it makes his stomach roll, revolting against him. Marc braces his weight on the bike, blood-red and ominous, his throat burning, eyes stinging.

What a joke.

His hands shake. Wet and clammy with sweat inside his gloves. It’s Valentino’s fault, he decides, justified in the spike of red-hot anger that surges through him. Things rarely go wrong in Sepang without Valentino somehow being behind it, especially since he got pulled into this shitshow. The pleasure of blaming him is petty, edged with thorns. Same as always, since 2015, since this started.

It hurts him more than it hurts Valentino.

Valentino who knocked him from his dying and rising routine. Valentino who refuses to answer his questions. Valentino who won't fucking apologize for once in his life.

The horn blows. Five minutes to start the race. His heart hammers, sick, heavy, edging towards something that might be panic. He keeps thinking about Álex. Hates, hates, hates that he's thinking about Álex at all, about shouting at him this morning because suddenly everything'd seemed too small, too grating.

Like the only way he'll get out of this loop is in a body bag.

But he's some twenty minutes away from, well, another show. T5, lap 12, as it usually is. The day will restart, everyone none the wiser about what happened to him. No pain to anyone but him.

The worst part are the ten hours after Marc dies—before the day restarts.

Valentino walks on leaden legs, like a zombie. Repetition has taught him with a whip to his back, so he walks away from the circuit.

Can’t bear to face Álex Márquez again. It feels too personal, like a razor blade lodged in his throat, to see him cry silently, hot, desperate tears into the crook of his arm, in the middle of the Gresini garage. Even knowing it isn't permanent. Even knowing he won't remember it tomorrow.

Poof, like a magic trick. Right now, though, before the reveal of a whole Marc Márquez, sleeping soundly in his hotel, there’s the nausea burning in his throat, the sickly, clammy fear of seeing disembodied legs.

A scream rings out through the circuit.

Valentino knows what it means.

Stops mid-walk to throw up into a trash can. It’s just stomach acid, no food.

He’s never hated Marc quite like this. Not in Phillip Island, not in Argentina, not every single time Marc gave an interview pretending that he was still his idol. Not even in Jerez, watching him kneel on the dust over the replays, his arm cradled close to his chest. A laugh—manic—rips out of him, and if he doesn’t keep moving, somebody is going to find him to tell him what happened.

But he wastes precious minutes trying to convince his chest to stop seizing up and his legs to start moving again. The sound of helicopter cuts through the lethal silence that hangs over the track now.

Emergency evac. Valentino crashes back into his own body.

And starts running back to the hotel as chaos descends over the circuit.

The next ten hours crawl by. Second by second by second, people knocking on his door, trying to call. Valentino is too tired to try and pull up footage from the crash, to try and divine what went wrong this time.

Nothing did, really.

Marc was fighting Pecco for the position, just an inch ahead. He lost the front, because he’s a maniac and chose a soft tire for the hottest race Sepang they’ve ever had. Had been running on soap for five or so laps. Pecco was too close. Had no room to react, though he tried.

Valentino has seen it happen before.

It’s easier to close his eyes, the hairdryer running in the bathroom. He doesn’t sleep. Just feels the time trickle past him, a barbed chain wrapped around his throat.

Just once, why can’t Marc stop fighting?

When the day restarts, Valentino can’t breathe through the anger tightening up the chain, spikes tearing into him.

Things jerk around him in flashes of color. Senseless. A kaleidoscope. Cinderella in reverse. He runs to Marc’s floor, takes the steps two at a minute.

He hammers against Marc’s door. It’s eleven minutes after midnight, five wasted trying to right himself after the universe tossed him back to ground zero, his knees giving out, his body cold and out of sync, something tugging inside him like a fishhook.

This is the soonest—

Marc yanks the door open. “Valentino?” Then: “What the fuck?”

It’s right there, locked behind his teeth, I hate you I hate you I hate you, but nothing comes out. He just stumbles into Marc’s hotel room, knocking past him. His skin is warm where Valentino touches, mostly by accident. Alive. Real. Fucking alive.

Any of these days, the clock is going to strike midnight, and Marc will still be dead.

Valentino claws at the skin of his wrist. It pours out of him, wretched, too true, and shame fills the space that the words emptied up, “Can you not race tomorrow?”

Marc blinks, sluggish. He’s leaning on the wall like it’s going to hold him up, eyes flickering between his hands and Valentino and the clock.

There is no offense at the suggestion, this time. Valentino has never done anything like this before.

Can’t predict Marc’s next move.

Except—

Marc looks—briefly—heavenward. Valentino hears himself scoff in this out of body dread, the clammy millisecond before he hits the asphalt and discovers if the crash is as bad as he thinks it’s going to be. There’s this look in Marc’s eyes, even in the dark. Hopeful. Hopeful enough to twist the knife in his stomach.

“How many times have you gone over today?”

Valentino smirks—like he has a knife tucked between his lips, joylessly, scraped raw. “Once or twice. It’s not like you ever take it seriously.”

His hand slams against his mouth. He hadn’t meant to—he hadn’t even had time to think—

Marc spits out a sound not unlike a snarl. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s shaking, shaking from head to toe, hands covering his face. When he rips them away, they are clenched at his sides. Valentino has never been afraid of being hit by him before.

“Why can’t you answer me?” He hisses. “Is it so fucking difficult? Once, just once, can’t you tell me one little truth? How many times have you gone over today?”

His scream echoes. Valentino facies it tears through like a gunshot. His ears ring.

The silence that follows is the quiet of a tomb.

“How many?” Marc asks again, because he can’t resist the pain, can’t resist forcing the broken bone until it splinters with no hope of salvaging anything. He’s still shouting. There’s this look in his eyes, dark and rabid, like he’s going to gnaw off a limb.

Valentino thinks he has frozen over.

“You know,” he whispers.

Marc runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck this,” he says emphatically.

“You know you’re going to die.” He sounds deliberate, calculated. Each time he opens his mouth, he isn’t sure it’s him speaking. “And you get on that bike anyway.”

“Christ,” Marc sighs, low and tired and—fuck him. “You have no idea what’s going on.”

Valentino laughs, three quarters reflex and a little vindication, the laugh he gave Uccio when he cornered him in Phillip Island, ten years ago, Marc’s weird telemetry being brandished like a knife. “I know that you apparently decided to die every day for months now.”

Marc bursts over. “I don’t decide to die!”

“Then why don’t you stop it?” He’s shouting too. Valentino hasn’t shouted in an argument in fucking years, loathes doing that. To speak is to fill himself with blood, the wound ever-flowing.

“Stop it?! What the fuck do you mean?”

“Don’t go out, don’t race, stay alive. Or are you so obsessed with wining and getting that ninth title that it never crossed your mind to lie down?”

It’s only five points between him and Pecco. He would try again and again to fix it on the bike—isn’t the one who has to go through those ten hours.

Marc pushes him, stumbles back himself. His teeth are wrenched, but a small, wretched sound still slips out. He sounds animalistic when he speaks, “Are so obsessed with your lost tenth that you can’t see I’ve tried? I don’t want to die!”

“Am I supposed to believe this?”

“Hell if I know the shit you tell yourself,” Marc snorts, an ugly thing. Valentino gags. “But go on. It’s not like I can stop you, and it’s not like I give a damn. I’m not the one who needs to deal with this.”

“Prove it to me,” Valentino grinds out. He barely hears himself.

Marc sits on the bed and starts laughing—starts cackling. Hysterical. Right until he starts choking on it, a noise that rakes over Valentino’s nerve endings. Everything suddenly aches. He wonders if the days restarting mean the exhaustion gets rolled back too. Doesn’t remember the last time he managed to sleep.

Every second is—

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Prove it to me,” he repeats. The words come up like bloody petals lodged in his chest. “Prove it to me that you’ve fucking tried to not die at least once.”

The mania bleeds out of Marc. He gets serious, suddenly. Stone-faced. Hollow.

Valentino has seen footage of it happening dozens, hundreds of time. The folded set of his hands, in front of his body. His wide, doll-like eyes. Sepang, Sepang, it’s always Sepang.

“Valentino,” he says, very calmly. He kicked me, “get out.”

#rosquez #marc marquez #valentino rossi #motogp #motogp rpf #rpf #chev fics #did you run here?#time loop au #IT LIVES #talking to people about this finally something click about this chapter #many thanks #i wrote maniacally like i was possessed so actively doubting my sanity but IT LIVES

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zketylers · 5 months ago

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Josh Hartnett for MARC O'POLO SS15 Fall/Winter Campaign (2015)

#GYAATTT DAMNNN #i love this campaign so bad. he looks so damn good ughhh #josh hartnett #jhartnettedit #j hartnett #josh #hartnett #photoshoot #marco polo #marc o' polo #2015 #marco polo campaign #fall/winter campaign #clothing #trap #trap 2024 #trap movie #cooper abbott #cooper adams

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fall0utmind · 8 months ago

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MEDICAL LEAK AU pt2

Part 1 here

Chapter 2 is up on ao3

🤍🤍

Please be advised of content warning for suicide - no descriptions but some cruel words - see ao3 for sections to skip and message me if you need to.

Feedback is always appreciated

Would you still love me if I told you my darkest secrets?

Ch 2-

~3k

They stumble through the doorway to the motorhome, Marc instantly collapsing onto the worn couch tucked into the corner. Alex has procured a blanket from somewhere and is busily tucking it around him, refusing to let Marc out of his sight. He bustles around the small kitchenette, busying himself with making some coffee.

Neither of their parents were able to attend the race this weekend. Marc doesn’t know if he is grateful for that, or not. They both knew, of course. It had been a testing time for the family, the fallout with Valentino, along with the public backlash, and Marc’s declining mental health had left him heartbroken and hopeless. After his first attempt, Marc returned to his room stripped bare. All signs of Valentino Rossi expunged whilst he was in a hospital bed; the only reminder was his broken heart. It had just made Marc cry harder at the time, Roser wrapped around him in his childhood bedroom. It had taken him many years to pick up the pieces after that, with several other falls along the way. But he takes comfort in the fact he is still here, life has beaten him down over and over; he has been kicked (literally), beaten, and spat out by both Vale and the media, but he always kept going. His family has made it out, they are safe, and he is safe. And really, that is all he can ask for.

Alex observes Marc with increasing concern. He has been on the sofa, swaddled in blankets, for 45 minutes with no signs of movement. His coffee mug is forgotten in his hands, as he stares blankly at the wall, no doubt revisiting the years that haunted them both. As much as Marc likes to pretend that he is unaffected, Alex knows that those years did lasting damage to his psyche; he has noticed in the way he acts around others, how he no longer trusts so easily, and how he seems to be acting around almost everyone except a select few people. He knows that his older brother harbours a lot of guilt for the past, thinking that he had done Alex some kind of disservice. Alex is just glad he still has an older brother.

At some point a Gresini representative knocks on the motorhome door, speaking to Alex in hushed tones. After they leave, Marc numbly listens to his brother relaying the extent of the damage. The media has found out about Marc’s suicide attempts in 2015, but no one knows the details, and it is hoped that it will stay that way. So far, no other records have been accessed, or at least not published. Legal is already working tirelessly to understand what has gone wrong, but for now there is nothing Marc can do. News has spread fast, and Marc does not doubt that by tomorrow the entire grid will know about how fucking pitiful he is. The thought makes his head hurt and his eyes water.

“You should try to get some sleep. The team are putting out a statement about respecting your privacy but for now there is nothing more we can do”.

Marc nods slowly, feeling adrift amongst all that has happened today. He rises unsteadily to his feet and shuffles to the bathroom. He flicks the switch and blinks heavily at the harsh lights which blind him. He almost doesn’t recognise the person in the reflection, with a pale face and hollow eyes. He shudders, it reminds him of a time when every mirror would render the same hideous portrait of despair every day. Marc pointedly avoids looking at his reflection again. He knows Alex won’t leave him alone tonight, fearful of the unhealed wounds the past has left which have once again been reopened. Instead, with a resigned sigh, Marc finishes in the bathroom and hauls himself into bed, Alex curling up on the other side. The position is so reminiscent of their younger years, filling him with a hollow kind of sadness. A heavy blanket of exhaustion weighs upon him, and that, alongside his brother's soothing presence, lulls him into a deep sleep.

Marc awakes to an empty bed and the sound of knocking on their motorhome door. He takes a moment to recentre himself. It must be around 8 am, given the way the light spills in from the window. It is Saturday morning in Misano and yesterday the entire MotoGP world discovered arguably his biggest secret. Marc isn’t sure good morning is appropriate.

The hushed whispers of two familiar voices filter in from the living area, clearly speaking softly to let Marc rest. He groans and blindly feels around for his phone, before remembering that Alex had taken it off him at some point yesterday. It was probably for the best that he didn’t know what the media were saying right now. Bastards.

He rolls out of bed, grabs a pair of sweats and the first t-shirt he sees (it is definitely Alex’s, given that it’s way too long for him) and stumbles into the kitchen, where a cup of coffee is already waiting on the counter. He has never been more grateful for his little brother and his worldly knowledge that 8 is too early for Marc. He’s a little shocked to see Aleix Espargaro sitting next to his brother on the sofa, both watching him with matching worried expressions. He would laugh at the sight of the two men mirroring each other in such a dad-coded way, if not for the current circumstances. Instead, he frowns back at them. Aleix rises to his feet, approaching Marc cautiously, giving him a chance to move away, before drawing him into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

The older man holds him for some time, Marc’s head tucked into his neck. As he pulls away, Aleix’s hands come to the side of his face, holding him gently.

“Promise me you will tell me if it happens again, I do not like the thought of you in so much pain. But now I see that you have already been through it. You should never have had to do it alone, Cariño.”

His eyes are anguished but sincere throughout his speech, observing Marc with undisguised worry and affection. Marc can’t stand it and looks away once Aleix has released him, worrying his lower lip. The older man takes this as his cue, thanking Alex for his coffee, and quietly making his way over to the door, not before shooting him a concerned glance.

“You will let me know if anyone gives you shit today, I will keep an eye out for you. Look after yourself, Marc.”

And with that, he’s gone, the quiet snick of the door behind him. Marc raises an eyebrow at Alex.

“What was that?”

Alex sighs, “He is concerned about you, hermano, he has always had a soft spot for you. He is annoyed at himself for not noticing sooner.”

“I hide it well”

“I know”

The rest of the morning is relatively normal. The people he interacts with are evidently unsure of the acceptable conduct for this situation; Marc finds it terribly amusing, in a dark kind of way. He has decided the best course of action is to pretend nothing has happened in the twisted hope that if he ignores it, everyone else will too. He’s sure his old therapist would be delighted. The security presence in the paddock appears to have suspiciously doubled overnight. People are staring, he can feel it in the way the back of his neck prickles, but no one approaches him. He doesn’t care if they must bring in the goddamn military if that’s what it takes to prevent another PR disaster.

He makes it to the pitlane in record time, dodging all signs of human life, taking the back alleys wherever possible. He enters the rear entrance of the Gresini garage, finding his crew to check in before qualifying. He is pleased with the bike set-up from yesterday, feeling confident in the pace this weekend. On the bad days, Marc thinks he will never know the feeling of winning again, that he will never experience a champagne shower from the top step of the podium, the world chanting his name. That he will fade into irrelevance, a has-been of the sport, once Valentino Rossi’s great rival, now just another name. But this year is the closest he has come in 3 years, and he is not willing to let go without a fight, because Marc Marquez is synonymous with winning, it is his purpose and his destiny. If he is not riding, if he is not winning, he does not know who he truly is.

He watches the junior categories warm up, reminiscing on those days of his career, before the pressure and before Valentino. He is glad to see David achieving so much this season. He sees a younger version of himself in the boy and it scares him, terrified that the young Columbian will get burnt in the same way that Marc did. He vows to do everything in his power to protect him but let him grow into the world champion he is destined to be. They already training together, and Marc can see the way he is rubbing off on the teenager, he just hopes that does not become a curse.

The second free practice of the weekend occurs without a hitch, landing both Alex and Marc into Q2, much to the chagrin of the Italian fans (and really, could people not let it go by now?). Marc is determined not to let the recent events hinder his performance. Despite this, he is increasingly aware of his rising anxiety about facing the others on the grid. His mind is consumed by thoughts of judgement and disgust, creating pictures of his colleagues deserting him, refusing to be seen with him as in 2015. No matter how hard he tries, even after his talk with Aleix this morning, he is frantic with worry, unable to sit still.

“You will wear a hole in the floor if you do not stop soon.”

Alex appears from around the corner, watching him pace.

“We need to get ready. Are you feeling okay?”

Marc can’t face the idea of putting the younger through even more pain because of him, so he simply nods in agreement, refusing to meet the unconvinced look Alex is no doubt giving him.

He already has his leathers on, so he grabs the rest of his kit, and starts towards his crew, Alex heading in the opposite direction. He shoves down his fear and greets the people waiting for him with a plethora of fist bumps and hugs. He is grateful that his team are treating him as usual, seemingly recovered from yesterday’s shock. Some had wrapped him in a hug earlier this morning, others laying comforting hands on his shoulders, unabashedly showing their support and filling him with warmth. He holds onto that feeling as he prepares to ride, knowing a few more people are fighting in his corner.

Marc feels alive. The bike is singing underneath him, so responsive to him. Every move is calculated to perfection, cornering on the edge of impossible - he’s probably giving the guys in the garage a heart attack every lap. But he feels like he’s flying, whipping around the track on a bike that loves him as much as he loves it. He knows he’s putting in good times, his pace almost matching the newer Ducati, something which is the talk of the paddock at the moment. The move to a different constructor has brought a new lease of life to his career, quieting the doubts and prompting the whispers: “Marc Marquez is back”.

By the time the checkered flag falls, Marc is on top of the world. His mind wiped clear of the media, Valentino, and 2015. He doesn’t know where he placed, and it isn’t until he looks up at the timing board and sees his 93 at the top of the list, that he allows himself to grin.

Marc rides back to the garage, tailed by Alex, still grinning under his helmet. He is greeted and is greeted with a warm reception from the team, cheering as he and his brother come to a halt. He is rained in congratulations from his team, hands slapping his back and wide smiles directed at him. It is then that he spots Dovi. His old friend is standing to the side, a proud smile face. Marc has no idea what he is doing here, but he isn’t about to complain, having missed the older man in recent years. Dovi was one of the few people who had his back all those years ago, for which he is endlessly grateful. He jumps off his bike and almost straight into Dovi’s arms, uncaring of the cameras trained on the pair.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ah, can I not come and see my friend outperform everyone in the sport that we both love?”

Marc huffs a laugh in response, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. He knows why Dovi is truly here, despite his friend’s bullshit, but he cannot bring himself to be annoyed about his obvious weakness. It is nice to have a friend who is not Alex around. He knows affection is rolling off him in waves but simply does not care -pleased at the ease that is quick to settle between them, despite the years.

“I will be with you in a few minutes, go annoy someone else whilst we debrief”

Dovi laughs at that, making Marc grin, all teeth, in return.

Debrief is a quick affair, the team are delighted with p1, and simply want to talk about the race set-up, as well the minute areas for improvement on track. They release Marc after 20 minutes, giving him proud smiles and comforting touches as he leaves. He is once again overwhelmed by his love for the team which has re-awoken his passion for the sport which has taken but also given him so much.

A quick scan of the garage tells him Dovi has found one Alex Marquez to annoy, much to Marc’s amusement. He grabs his phone off the table (he had regained possession of it from Alex earlier) and turns it on for the first time in 12 hours, desperate to check his messages since he has 5 minutes to himself. He scrolls through his notifications.

His manager and parents have messaged, the latter asking him to call them when he has a chance, although he’s sure they have probably spoken to Alex, explaining the lack of urgency. He has a message from Casey Stoner, telling him to keep his head up and to ignore the media, although his choice of words is a little stronger. Marc lets out a startled laugh, warmed by the unexpected gesture from the older man. The next text makes him stop in his tracks, confusion bubbling inside him. It’s from an unknown number, and simply reads “Stop playing games.” A sense of unease fills Marc as he deletes the message, unwilling to entertain whoever thinks they can hide behind a screen and say what they want, he should just forget about it. The final and most recent text is from Dani. It simply reads “Tell Dovi he’s a dick for stealing my thunder. Unfair advantage, he was already in the country. We’ll be there in a few hours.”

A hand lands on his shoulder from behind, and Dovi’s head follows. Nosy fucker. He lets out a cackle at the text, pulling away to laugh even harder. Marc very much feels like he’s missed a joke, and he has no clue who “we” refers to. He simply replies to the chat with a thumbs up and accepts his fate of being coddled by the older riders for the rest of the weekend.

The pole position high doesn’t last very long. Marc and Dovi are walking back towards the motorhomes when he comes crashing back down to earth. Saturdays are always a bit chaotic at the track. But today, it feels worse than usual, with people staring and murmuring as they pass. Some of the comments are less than pleasant. Marc tries not to let it affect him, portraying a persona of indifference, no matter how much the words sting. Dovi talks lowly as they walk, his presence reassuring amidst the harsh whispers washing over them, swelling in a crescendo of cruelty.

“-he should have taken more pills”

“-can’t believe he actually did it”

“How selfish-”

“Have you seen the articles? I read that-”

From the limited information he has been given, or overheard, Marc gathers that the public reaction to the news has been mixed, to say the least. Some people are outraged by the leak and the subsequent media frenzy, destroying any sense of privacy left in Marc’s life. Others have been senselessly cruel, spewing hatred online about his mental health or even going as far as suggesting that he deserves it. Marc swallows the bile in the back of his throat, unwilling to break now. He knows he can’t let the public see his defences crumble, it will only give them more opportunity to kick him when he’s down. He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice who they’re walking towards, until it’s too late.

Marc hears Valentino before he sees him, talking to Pecco in hushed tones. His rapid-fire Italian is so familiar, yet also a distant memory. He feels the way his companion stiffens as they approach the pair and senses their eyes burning into him in return. No doubt Pecco has already told the older all about Marc’s breakdown yesterday. The reminder that Valentino is once more witnessing his life falling apart is nauseating. Marc steadfastly ignores them as Dovi steers them in the right direction. A confrontation is not what he needs right now.

He doesn’t register anything is off until someone careens straight into their path, sending Marc stumbling backwards in shock. He flinches at the look of pure hatred on the fan’s face.

“You should have done it properly; you couldn’t even kill yourself correctly. The world would be a better place without you.”

Marc chokes on his breath, his eyes burning, rapidly blinking as he tries to parse the scathing words. Dovi is frozen in shock, horrified that anyone would utter such a thing. Time freezes as the people close enough to have overheard all turn to look in their direction, willing a response from Marc. Ironically, it’s Pecco who breaks the moment, face like thunder as he storms over. Marc watches in a haze as Pecco reaches them, breathing heavily and shooting a look at Dovi, prompting him to drag the Spaniard to safety. Marc distantly registers Valentino frowning over at them, a flash of unreadable emotion in his eyes as he watches Dovi tugging him away.

Marc doesn’t look back, mind too preoccupied with the stewing self-loathing in his gut and the cloud of dark thoughts in his head. As such, he doesn’t see Pecco looming over the man who spat such vicious words at him, gesturing at security for him to be removed and permanently banned. He doesn’t see the older Italian glaring at Marc and Dovi’s retreating forms, a mixture of resentment and jealousy staining his features. He does, however, hear Valentino whispering that it’s not worth it, leading a distraught Pecco away, cracking Marc’s heart clean in two, once again.

#rosquez #motogp #marc marquez #motogp rpf #my fics #marcs medical records getting leaked #medical leak au #bit of a heartbreaking one sorry #but also DOVI #anddddd we get dovquez fluff next time :)

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alternativerunway · 6 months ago

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Marc Jacobs Fall 2015

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moonshynecybin · 8 months ago

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fascinating how on migbabol vale was like "let me tell you in granular detail about how marc acted in 2015 and how that made me realize forever that he was AN EVIL MAN" but marc is like yeah we were pretty much cool until 2018... a) who is lying and b) if it's vale, why did he re-write history and erase 2018 from his marc narrative completely

I KNOW im just so fascinated by how they narrativize all of it to themselves... like marc NOW says the relationship initially fell apart at the ranch in 2014, and then that they actually stopped speaking in 2018, but if you look at contemporary behavior they actually talk pretty cordially in presscons throughout 2017 and 2019 before injury and covid kinda keep em separate. while VALE always keeps his retrospective monologues confined to the pure emotion of the 2015 season, either sepang or assen or argentina. and i dont even know if theyre LYING (although i think its hard to deny that argentina was a nadir), i think its more of a reflection of the emotional realities that theyve had to convince themselves of? if that makes sense?

like for vale, it all has to come back to that initial perceived betrayal for everything else to make sense. marc didnt want vale to win more titles, and everything stems from that. he needs to concieve of it as spite or it all falls apart (which imo doesnt quite work for argentina cuz marc was fairly indiscriminate in his murder spree). so thats why he divebombed him in argentina, thats why he was a sore loser in assen, thats why he battled with him in australia, and thats why he engineered sepang to land vale with a penalty. its all one long, concentrated effort to fuck him over. and vale DOES think that marc has the same motivation throughout that entire year, even if he thinks that he maybe couldnt recognize it as it was happening, and i think he NEEDS that narrative to kind of wash away any of the other emotions he was feeling and kind of. make sense of their relationship, in a way. that delusion and resentment NEEDS to be the most important, otherwise hes just being kinda fucking crazy (which is NUTS cuz i think marc's argentina 2018 behavior is a VERY valid arena of criticism, especially for vale and his injury/crashing concerns!!! but as much as vale cares about safety, ego is gonna be numero uno ALWAYS. so instead its gotta be 2015)

meanwhile i think for marc living through vale's emotional peaks and valleys was a DEEPLY CONFUSING experience until argentina, and then after the postrace hes like ah. well this guy is just gonna hate me forever no matter what. awesome. i mean directly post sepang, hes basically like well time heals all wounds ! to the press and determinedly saying ciao to vale every chance he gets for multiple years. in 2016 hes like WAR IS OVERRRRR.... he just doesnt think its the end for them! not until vale decides to stop speaking to him altogether, and thats when he kind of internalizes it imo. anyways anybody else out here living in half agony half hope for most of their mid twenties while winning multiple world championships? just marc? okay

#tldr: marc fucked over more than one person at argentina and vale thinks sepang was just about HIM. as a direct act of SPITE #fr other people get involved in their feud and hes like well that doesnt really matter lets talk about US. kind of funny #vale is NO LONGER excluding marc from his rivalry narratives lets pop some bottles i say. as if i dont want to HIT HIM....#callie speaks #asks #rosquez #mgp

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thewriters-world · 1 year ago

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Omg yes!! I saw a poll on what would be a better Hollywood movie rosquez or brocedes

And I was like hands down brocedes, because that's Monaco & Ibiza, a neat little story of growing up, growing apart, giving up on shared dreams. All the glitz and glamour. The way Nico keeps saying nice things and Lewis keeping his silence. A bit of modicum.

Rosquez however could never be Hollywood, they are unhinged, they are gritty, down & dirty, blunt fingernails scrambling to hold on in dark alleyways, it's being on top of the world and seeing your end approaching you wrapped up in smooth golden muscle and a mouth that never ends, it's touching legends, getting on that pedestal and then being isolated on there by the very hands that welcomed you in, it's European art film that is full of shadows and long silences, things never said and hands reaching out too late, it's his voice whispering everytime you fall, it's seeing him in every rider, knowing he would be crazier, faster, fiercer.

Brocedes could have survived if they were less ambitious/less greedy/less driven than they were, Rosquez never had an option because the things that drew them together are the things that they despise about each other.

OP YOUR VISION!

You've described rosquez so perfectly. They're like ruined somehow. Like Marc has his claws in Valentino and Valentino has his claws in Marc and yh they've let go but their bodies, brains HEARTS are still bloody and bruised. Lewis and Nico are healing but will Marc and Valentino ever heal? Idk Valentino says it'll take him 30 years to get over this and Marc says reconciliation is not upto him. So will they be tainted with marks of each other for 30 years? Does everything become more sullied when you remember that Marc had hung posters of Valentino on his bedroom wall and was buying replica bikes until 2015? Is it more cruel that Valentino knew all of this and not only did he do what he did to Marc when he was 22, he denied Marc a concrete part of his personality by saying he doesn't belive Marc had those posters (it's been documented you senile old man!). He basically said I don't know you, I never knew you. Is this all way more horrid when you consider that Marc thought getting into motogp with his idol would mean that Valentino actually KNEW him and they could be friends and then Valentino throws it right back into his face 'I want to see those posters' (I've never known you, I've never looked at those pictures of young you with my motorbikes, I've never paid attention, whilst you devoted your whole life to my life, your life was simply a speck in the grand scheme of events that is my life). Obviously its not true, it's a way to hurt Marc (we all know Valentino actually LIKED marc). But doesn't that make it all the more cruel, you treated someone you actually had affection for like this. Also is it more hurtful when you remember that Valentino told Marc ill protect you from these people if they're mean to you just let me know (not verbatim) but you're the meanie Valentino so now who does Marc go to. The people you turned against him?

Brocedes is way more tame bcs there was no idolisation, sure there was friendship, affection and childlike hope, but never once did Nico and Lewis decide that they didn't have what they had. Nico doesn't denounce the time they sat in hotel rooms and ate frosties, Lewis doesn't hide the fact that karting with Nico provided him joy as a child. Lewis can say Nico isn't his friend, but he hasn't ever said 'I've never known Nico' even when Nico acts a fool whilst commentating on races just to get his attention Lewis wouldn't be so cruel to deny ever having a relationship with Nico. Nico and Lewis are connected in a more concrete and wholesome way (Lewis gives Nico's daughters gifts). Marc and Valentino are connected in a more brutal way (they still have the bruises, the bleeding wounds of whatever they had with one another, friendship, affection companionship idk). That's the only similarity, they are still connected, their legacies are interspersed with one another. Something about how Lewis was there for nicos first and last podium. Something about how everywhere Marc goes, he is haunted by how Valentino has painted him to other people. Even in the one similarity between brocedes and rosquez you can see the abject dirtiness of rosqiez and the wholesomeness of brocedes.

#motogp rpf #valentino rossi #marc marquez #rosquez #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

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ray935sworld · 6 months ago

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What if he had been honest? (Chapter 1: Cuddles)

Established rosquez

What if SPN Motogp AU

27.12 winter writing

This is technically a WHAT IF AU to Valentino Rossi's academy of supernatural riders, but it is not necessary to have read the first part (I mean I'm happy if you do/ did but you're gonna get the story without it) The main difference is that Vale told Marc about him being a werewolf during his ranch visit in 2014 which caused their fallout to never happen.

A scratch on the door made Marc turn his eyes from his phone to the door. He watched it slide open but no one entered. At least no visible person but he heard steps.

4 at a time.

He grinned, when only a second later the big head of a wolf appeared infront of him.

"Hello my love" the Spaniard said as he petted the space next to him. He watched the large wolf quickly jump next to him on the bed and made his way over to him.

He stepped in between his legs and let himself fall down, which caused Marc to laugh. The wolf then dropped his head on Marc chest, squeezing his body around his laps. The weight felt like a blanket. The man immediately reached for his boyfriend and started to caress his head.

He was just typing a message to Alex, telling him about their weekend plans before sending a quick good might message. He knew his boyfriend well enough that he was knew that it wasn't good when Vale turned into a wolf to get cuddled.

Especially now that it got close between him and Lorenzo for the 2015 championship.

As soon as he was finished he put his mobile to the side and layed down flat on the bed. Both his hands went around his head and started to pet him. Vale had put his head on chest and had taken his place on top of him.

He closed his eyes when Marc kissed his forehead. "Hey my sweet, sweet love" he whispered. He felt him shiver. He heard him whine as he pressed closer. He was clearly in distress. He wasn't alright.

Slightly scared, Marc pulled him closer. It felt like he was cuddling an oversized puppy rather than a wolf that had been deemed dangerous by any others mind.

"You know how much I love you, right?" he asked slightly pulling his head up. He made Vale look at him. Not because he actually needed to look at him but because Vale had to look at him. He had to look at Marc's eyes and see that there was no anger or hate. There was only love.

"Please... I love you so much, Vale... There's no one beside you that could came even close to you... So no matter what's going on, I know we can deal with it. We will manage. Okay? You're amazing. You're the most perfect human on -"

A whine interrupted him. Long and loud. Deep and clean. Hurt. Marc knew since the ranch visit 2014 about his boyfriends secret. Since then he had been pretty good at detaching and understanding the signs he showed him as a wolf. That was clearly hurt.

He froze and stared at him for a moment. He needed a few seconds to recall the situation. He was talking. He had tried to comfort him, shower him in love. What had triggered his hurt? But there was nothing, except maybe...

Oh.

Human.

"Wait is... Oh Vale" he hugged him closer and pressed another kiss to his forehead. "I don't give a fuck if you're a wolf or a human or whatever. I love you regardless. And I love your whole bunch of kids with weird tricks even if they sometimes scare the living shit out of me"

He felt Vale puff. It was like a mixture between a laugh and being offended. Marc decided that was a food sign.

"I'm being serious. I love you too much to care. Even if you'd be a wolf forever with no trace of humanity left, I would still do anything to keep you safe and I'd love you for the rest of my life. I'd make you the perfect forest and make sure you're always fed and warm... I'd get the boys to visit you and I'd be there to play with you whenever I'm around."

He slide more on the matratze and was now laying completly on his back, scratching Vale's ear as he spoke.

"You're the love of my life. I would let you go if that's what'd make you happy as a wolf and I would make this house wolf proof if you want to stay... And I would let you change me if you want to-"

He couldn't continue when a wolf tongue was dragged across his face. He couldn't help but laugh. He had already expected something like this. Marc knew that changining him was something he refused to do.

He didn't want him to be a werewolf. Vale wanted him to be safe from hunters and those that attacked the non humans. He wanted him to never feel the pain of a change or the twitch of tbe wolf underneath the skin in your every day life. He didn't want to risk anything separating Marc and Alex. Not when he knew how difficult it could be.

But Marc would do it. For him. If it meant being with him, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Yeah..." he agreed with the wolves protest. "Yes I know. I know, Vale you don't like the idea. But please understand... I can't - I will always want to be as close to you as somehow possible. Even if that means being a wolf. No, actually being a wolf seems like a small price if that means I can be with you."

Vale gave him another wolves kiss. "I know... I love you too" soon after that, they fell asleep

#motogp #marc marquez #valentino rossi #ray's writing #winter writing #rosquez #Werewolf AU #Motogp spn

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ren-the3rd · 11 months ago

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Okay Marcmarc badly explained lol

Marco Bezzecchi is part of the VR46 Academy, created by THE Valentino Rossi. Valentino and THE Marc Marquez had a huuuge falling out in 2015 when Valentino accused Marc of helping Jorge Lorenzo win the championship, followed by another falling out in 2018 when Marc, frankly, lost his mind in Argentina and crashed several people out including Vale, who said Marc was dangerous and ruining the sport. Up until 2015 Bezz had liked 300? of his Instagram posts but after that he published some hateful stuff in support of Vale. Fast forward to Valencia of last year, Bezz crashed out of the race because of Marc (who was later crashed out on his last race with Honda by Jorge Martin), he apparently went to Marc's motorhome and screamed at him (we don't know what, and we probably will never know, but the rumors are not nice) AND THEN, during Pecco's championship celebration he got drunk, picked the SkyITA mic and said live, in several occasions, that Marc had crashed him out of the race. He also said that Marc was the dirtiest rider in MotoGP.

Fast forward he called Marc maestro live during an interview with Sky lol

lmaooo thanks a lot, this is wild

motogp truly is a gift that keeps on giving

#marco bezzecchi #marc marquez #marcmarc #bezquez

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toni-peperoni · 1 year ago

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Once again waisting every waking thought on a Rosquez soulmates!AU in which you actually get bruises and physical aches, when your soulmate says something bad about you with the intend to harm.

This is also how Marc realises, that he and Vale are actually soulmates, because as if everything isn't shit enough already after Sepang 2015 it just gets worse and worse, because everyday there is a new bruise, reminding him, that his soulmate hates him.

Marc spends most of his life with aches and bruises after that time, until they become somewhat civil again between 2016-2018 Argentina and there is only the occasional bruise, all forming somewhere during the day, never late at night. After that it gets even worse than it was in 2015. His entire body is covered at some point, making him weak and keeping him from training.

Alex is worried out of his mind of course and demands to know who is doing that to him. But as stubborn as Marc is, he won't tell and anyways, Marc knows, that Alex has a good guess. Whenever he sees a new bruise on his brother now, Alex searches through Valentino's recent interviews. More often than not, he finds something.

Marc knows, that Alex knows, but he also knows that his brother knows, that it is probably a lost cause to go to Vale and ask him to stop.

Valentino never found a bruise on himself that 'didn't belong'. That's why he's so sure, that Marc isn't his soulmate. Because surely, there would have been things said. Surely.

That's also why he is so shocked, when a completly livid, but also desperate looking Alex Marquez one day storms into the VR46 garage falls onto his knees and nothing but begs him: "Honestly stop. You are killing him."

#rosquez #mm93 #vr46 #am73 #fic ideas #soulmate au (but the hurtful kind)#mine

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books4ever03 · 6 months ago

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It's Oh So Sweet (18+ Rosquez)

Tags: 18+, public blowjob, Marc is a menace, protective Marc, revenge sex

Minors do not interact!

Wordcount: 2.6k

After 1.043 days Marc finally wins a race again. At home in Spain no less. But what happens when he finds out that his brother got taken out by one of Rossi's pupils?

Put that together with some old resentment and anger towards the Italian and mix in Marc winning in Italy the week after as well as a meeting and you get this. Whatever this is.

English isn't my first language.

Find me on ao3: Booklover03

@eternalsams

________________________________________________

He did it. He fucking did it. After two years, ten months, one week and six days Marc has won a race again. And it feels absolutely fantastic. As he crosses the finish line he doesn’t hide his pride. His excitement. So much hard work, so much pain and errors he had to endure. But it was all worth it. Every damn second. Marc feels unstoppable as he pulls into parc ferme. His team and family are already waiting for him with big smiles and cheers. Jumping off the bike as soon as he can he sprints towards them, falling into their arms and letting the pats and punches wash over him. He looks around for Alex, last time he saw his baby brother was third and Marc can’t wait to share another podium with him. To share his joy. His brows furrow in confusion when he spots Jorge and Pedro pull in behind him. Turning back to his team he sees a familiar figure out of his leathers and disappointment in his eyes, even though he tries to hide it with a big smile. But Marc knows his brother better than that. Pulling him into a tight hug he demands, “Tell me what happened.” Because he knows that Alex didn’t crash on his own. Not with the way his entire body is tense and the entire team goes silent as they watch their exchange. Something happened and they don’t want to tell him. Wrong decision.

Marc takes his brother’s face and gives him that look where the younger man knows there’s no way for him to escape before he answers. “It was Bagnaia. Rossi’s perfect little soldier.” But it’s not Alex who says it, even though the younger man’s eyes flash dangerously at the mention of a certain Italian. Marc slowly turns to look at their mother whose expression can only be described as thunderous as he processes what she just said. Ever since 2015 his mother has disliked the man who had hurt her boy. And that dislike had only grown with every instance that happened after that. When 2019 happened she had refused to speak his name or even acknowledge his existence. Marc has no doubt that if she were to run across him, they’d have to bail her out of the local police station holding cell. He’d take her out to one of her favourite restaurants right after and spoil her rotten for days but that’s a completely different story. Right now he’s looking at Alex whose jaw is clenched so hard he worries the younger’s teeth will shatter any minute. There is a fury in his eyes that awakens something deep inside of Marc. A similar feeling though much older. It had been years since he had last waisted any drop of emotion on the Italian, finally deciding that the man was not worthy of his thoughts. But here he was again. Wesleying his way back into Marc’s head and using not only his protege to do it but also Alex. The person Marc loves more than anyone else in the world.

He’d go to war for his brother who had to endure far too much already from the Italian and his people with his only crime being that he’s Marc’s little brother. “I will not stand for this. He’s taken things too far once again,” Marc says in a low voice and while his mother gives him a small but feral smile, his father just looks at him with tired eyes. It makes him look older, that look of disappointment and disapproval and it doesn’t sit right with Marc. But he can’t stand by while his baby brother gets caught in the crossfire. With a silent plea to understand directed at his father Marc squeezes Alex’s neck one last time before he’s being pulled away by an official for his interview. Before he knows it he’s up on the top step of the podium, the masses screaming his name while he’s being sprayed by Jorge and Pedro. He lets himself enjoy it while he can. He’ll deal with Pecco and the Italian later. Now he’ll let himself be celebrated like a hero who has just returned home after years of absence. And it is glorious.

As soon as he’s off the podium and manages to persuade his team to let him go take a shower he makes a b-line for the motorhome of his future teammate. He doesn’t bother changing out of his leathers. That can wait. First he needs to have a little chat with Bagnaia. He’s seen the footage of the crash and yes, while it could have been avoided, it was a racing incident. Both riders saw a line, an opportunity and went for it, neither of them baking down. That’s racing. Even if some people will never look at it like that. Marc knows this better than anyone. He doesn’t have to wait long after knocking for the door to open and a very exhausted looking Bagnaia standing in front of him. The younger man’s shoulders drop as soon as he sees just who’s come knocking and Marc can see that he’s bracing himself for a verbal lashing. Well, he’ll have to disappoint him.

“Are you okay?” He asks instead and watches with amusement as confusion takes over the rider’s face. “Some bruising. All okay. Alex?” Marc gives him a small smile, hoping that it will distract from the way he knows his eyes are burning. “He is the same. Maybe wait until next weekend to talk to him. You are going to talk to him, yes?” It feels more like an accusation than he means to but it does the job. The young Italian stands up taller and determination so similar to someone else fills his eyes. “Of course,” Bagnaia replies before nervously scratching the back of his neck when Marc stays silent. “I am sorry that it happened, of course. I hope we are okay?” It comes out hesitant and for a split second Marc sees the real Pecco. Not the golden boy protege persona he puts on for the media. For him. Marc looks him up and down, deciding the best way to approach this. “We are,” he says and watches the other rider visibly relax. “Counter to someone’s beliefs I am not looking for trouble. Especially not with a future teammate.”

The younger man doesn’t show it but Marc knows they both know who he means. Taking a step closer he smiles when the other doesn’t retreat. It’s going to be fun to see just how far the two of them will push each other next season, he thinks. “I want you to give him a message for me, yes? Tell him,” he says, breaking off for a moment just to see the younger man squirm a bit at the proximity. “Tell him that he can say about me whatever he wants. That he can even put his little lap dog and pupils on me on and off track. But-,” Another pause. “Keep Alex out of it. My brother has done nothing to him and still suffered for my - no, for our - mistakes. He has lost more than enough because of it all And I will not stand for it a single moment longer.” With a slightly feral smile Marc pulls back, letting the poor boy breathe again. “You will tell him, yes? Please? I would really appreciate it.” And with a pat on the younger man’s shoulder, he turns around and goes back to his own motorhome for a long awaited shower before he heads out to the club to celebrate some more. He did just win a race at home after all.

Even a week later the euphoria is still there and there’s a kick in his step as he walks through the paddock. He’s in enemy territory which always gives him that extra thrill. But today is special. Not only is he on pole - again - with Bagnaia starting a few positions behind him - again - but today is special. Because a certain curly haired Italian is in the paddock, only two garages down from his. And if that knowledge doesn’t send a tingle down Marc’s spine. He can hardly keep his grin in check as he makes his way onto the grid where his team is already waiting with the bike.

Part of him really hopes that Bagnaia passed on his message. It would be such a shame if he didn’t. But judging from the glares Bezzecchi keeps sending him all weekend, Marc has a pretty strong feeling that his message was passed on to someone. Speaking of the devil, the younger rider glares at him as he passes and Marc can’t help but mess with him, sending him a wink with a cheeky grin. If he does a questionable motion with his hand and tongue too no one needs to know. But he does throw his head back with a laugh at the deep red blush creeping up Bezzecchi’s neck as he remembers their encounter in the club’s bathroom the week before. Oh yeah, Marc’s going to enjoy teasing him about that. But first, he has a race to win.

There’s a comfortable gap between him and Bagnaia and Bezzecchi so after one last look over his shoulder he leans back on the bike, crossing his arms in front of his chest. No one can see it but he’s grinning under his helmet. And he knows if he looks into a mirror right now his gaze would be predatory. Because he already knows that he’ll be getting a visit later. And if that isn’t exciting. Once again he celebrates with the team, does the interview and makes his way up to the podium. But this time he’s flanked by two Italians in front of their home crowd. You could cut the tension with a knife. As soon as the last note of the Spanish anthem ends he’s sprayed with Prosecco from both sides before he gets even. Marc takes his time with Bezzecchi, making sure to aim right at his face and mouth, daring him to open it and swallow. But the younger man is stubborn as ever causing Marc to grin at him cheekily, sending him a wink before he turns his attention to his team.

He’s still on the high of his win when he walks back to his motorhome, still in his leathers that are now drenched in sweat and Prosecco. When he walks up to it, he sees a familiar figure leaning against the side of it in the shadows. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss him completely. But Marc knows him. He knows it every time that the other man is in his vicinity. A smug expression settles on Marc’s face but he quickly scolds it as he gets closer. Let the man think he’s the one with all the control. Let him believe that he still has power of Marc. For a moment he acts like he doesn’t see the man and just keeps walking when a hand shoots out from the shadows and wraps itself around his wrist in a tight grip. The Spaniard suppresses a smug grin. The game has officially begun. And he doesn’t plan on losing. He’s on a winning streak after all. It’s showtime. Feigning surprise he lets himself be pulled into the shadows and caged against the wall of his motorhome. He lets out a small curse that sounds like he just got scared. “Marc.” Taking a shuddering breath he swallows hard before replying. “Rossi."

Because he’s no longer Vale - not even Valentino - to him. No, that was a long time ago. And he won’t give in just yet. Make the Italian work for it a little bit. “It was a good race.” Marc wets his lips and a thrill shoots up his spine when he sees the older man’s eyes tracking the movement. So he does it again just to feel the way the hand around his wrist tightens just the tiniest bit. “It was,” he says, playing up the breathiness of his voice. “Why are you here, Vale? Why are you doing this? Why now?” He asks, breathless and makes a show of flickering his attention from the Italian’s lips to his eyes and back. Marc doesn’t miss the way the older man’s breath catches at the use of his nickname, his piercing eyes trained on the Spaniard’s lips as they form each letter. “Vale?” It comes out a bit whiny, just the way Marc knows he likes it.

He watches with satisfaction as the Italian’s control seems to waver with every passing second. Rossi curses under his breath. “I wanted to talk to you,” the older rider says while simultaneously leaning closer. Now their bodies are touching from head to toe and Marc can feel the way it’s affecting the Italian. Marc isn’t unaffected about this either, his leathers growing tighter. “Pecco told me your message.” The Spaniard hums, tipping his head back to look up at the man with heavy lidded eyes. “Is that all?” He asks and sneaks his hands down until they rest on the Italian’s waist. “I also wanted to congratulate you. For the win in Spain,” Rossi says, though his voice is rough and no louder than a whisper. Feeling daring, Marc brings his face closer, so close that their lips are slightly brushing against each other as he says, “Then congratulate me. Show me what I deserve for winning again.” It’s a dare, a dangerous one and for a moment he’s not sure if he just pushed too far and ruined everything.

But those worries disappear as quickly as Rossi sinks to his knees, opening Marc’s leathers as he goes down. The Spaniard watches him like a hawk, not wanting to miss even a single second, not even taking his eyes off the man when his cock is suddenly enveloped in wet heat. Letting out a slight hiss, he quickly buries his hand in the familiar curls, just resting there. Because he knows as soon as he pushes or tries to set a pace this game is over. Because as much as Rossi loves a dick in his mouth, he doesn’t like being told how to do it. So Marc just watches, groaning and moaning as the other man sinks down deeper on his cock, his throat fluttering around it. It’s nearly embarrassing how fast Rossi can still get him to the edge but right now Marc doesn’t care. All he cares about is that he has the Valentino Rossi on his knees for him, with his dick in his mouth and hungry for his cum. And who is Marc to deny him that?

Without a warning he thrusts his hips forward while simultaneously pushing the Italian’s head down, forcing himself as deep as possible as he crashes over the edge. Both of them are panting when Rossi slowly pulls off Marc’s spent cock, a string of cum breaking only when the older man flicks out his tongue. The Spaniard regards him for a moment, taking in the picture he makes with his hair all messy and face flushed. Not waiting for Rossi to get back up from his knees, Marc tugs himself away and zips his leathers back up just enough to be deemed decent. Looking down at the man who was once his idol, his hero, his friend and even his lover, he tilts his head and hums. “You should talk to little Marco. You could learn a thing or two from him.” And off he goes, leaving the Italian on his knees, stunned and confused, still hard in his trousers and cum dribbling down his chin.

#rosquez #marc marquez #valentino rossi #fanfic #i will never be normal about them #poor pecco being caught in the middle of them #marc being a menace #they are my roman empire

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fall0utmind · 8 months ago

Text

MEDICAL LEAK AU PT 5 UP NOW

AO3 here

Gonna link pt 1-4 below tomorrow (I need to sleep) but for now, find them on my medical leak au tag on my page :)

I am so fucking sorry for the delay!!

Work has been manic, I basically rewrote this whole thing cause I hated it and now I am sick - woooooo

Anyways, I hope you enjoy it, I'm actually proud of this one, after the long rewrite.

Please, please, please come talk to me about what you think and what you wanna see!!! I need motivation to finish this.

Normal tags and warnings apply :)

(Tw/ suicidal thoughts, overdoses)

Alex had warned them that this is how Marc deals with things. He bottles it up until he can’t anymore, and then he goes somewhere private where he can lick his wounds and let himself fall apart. Watching Marc be so vulnerable, his usual mask of untouchable indifference falling away, is devastating. Jorge holds Marc closer as he trembles, small tremors wracking his frame. He looks incredibly young, curled up in between the older riders. Marc is completely lost in his thoughts now, distress radiating off him. He has been mostly silent, apart from the occasional miserable noises. Now though, he begins to cry, his face moving to press into Jorge’s shoulder as his body shakes with the force of his sobs, uncaring of who he’s clinging to. Marc and Jorge have never been that close, but the older man feels protective of him, in part because the 2015 fallout centred so much around his championship win, but also because of Dani’s soft spot for Marc. Jorge knows it was a big sign of trust for Marc to allow him to stay and witness this, especially from a man who is usually so guarded.

It’s unclear what Marc is imagining in the depths of his mind, but he has begun to slur words in between his sobs. Most of the words are incoherent, but Valentino’s and Alex’s names are clear, alongside the interchanging wrecked pleas to both end his suffering and let him live. Seeing so clearly the devastation Marc has suffered is horrific for them all, but Alex most of all looks gutted, like his heart has been shattered. He has heard those pleas before, back in 2015 when he found Marc and when he had saved his life.

It is this that prompts Jorge to gently shake Marc to awareness, knowing the pain is too much, too dark. Once the medication wears off, he will be ashamed of his weakness. It does not matter how natural or understandable his reaction is, especially after all the shit he has had to deal with; he hates vulnerability. The only thing his friends can do is sit with him during the fallout.

“Marc”

The younger man stirs slightly, choking on a breath as he sobs. He clutches at Jorge weakly, trying to catch his breath in between his cries.

“Cazzo, Marc, you’re ok, you’re ok.”

Marc returns to his body with a pounding head and a sore throat, which only ever occurs when he has cried himself dry. He’s a mess; the memories which assaulted him are still at the forefront of his mind, making him feel sick to the stomach. He is in the weird stage where the medicine is wearing off but still making him feel hazy; everything is soft around the edges. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out. He rubs at his face and notices his cheeks are wet. He would usually be mortified by the idea of crying in front of everyone, but he can't bring himself to care in the circumstances. He feels wrung out and over-tired. He knows his eyes will be red and his face blotchy and he frowns at the thought. Dani breaks the silence first, handing Marc some water.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, but also somehow better. I’m sorry for losing it like that-”

Dovi interrupts him before he can finish that thought, fury simmering in his voice.

“Don’t you dare apologise. I don’t care what he taught you about having to hide away, but you don’t have to with us. We know you’re strong, but you don’t have to be strong right now. Not here, not with us.”

Marc gulps back more tears and instead smiles sadly at Dovi, unwilling to touch upon the reference to Valentino. Instead, he turns to look at his younger brother, who looks distraught; it makes him frown slightly. He hates the thought of causing his brother’s sadness. In Marc’s opinions, it is the worst thing he can do, and he has done it often in the last few years. Guilt spikes through him. Alex catches his eyes and shakes his head, knowing exactly what Marc is thinking, as fine-tuned as they are to each other's emotions.

“It’s not your fault, germà. I would take all your pain if I could.”

It makes Marc’s heart break a little. He addresses all of them, his little group of friends, of protectors. These people have seen him at his worst; they have refused to leave when Marc was on rock bottom, and they stuck with him when the world hurled abuse at him. Without them, he would be unmoored in the ocean, drowned by the waves.

“Thank you for staying.”

It’s Jorge who answers.

“Of course.”

The waning effects of the medication become clear as the bruises splashed across Marc’s body begin to ache. His shoulder is sore, and the muscles surrounding the joint are tight and stiff, causing him to shift uncomfortably. Alex catches his brother’s poorly concealed winces and hands Marc the rest of his approved dose without a comment. Marc tries to protest; the thought of having more drugs, of needing more, makes him feel queasy. Marc’s relationship with the medication is still rocky. It makes him feel weak and defenceless. It reminds him of dependence, hospital visits, and overdoses. Every time he has those little white pills in his hands, he sees Alex’s blurry face hovering over him, shouting his name, his panic choking him. He hates it. But he knows that if he wants to sleep tonight, he needs to take the stronger stuff that he is prescribed. After Jerez and his arm, normal ibuprofen doesn’t do much for his pain. Alex's eyes are pleading, desperately attempting to convey that Marc is safe here. That he can be vulnerable; he doesn’t have to sit with the pain. The others watch on sadly. Dani feels guilt clawing at him that he didn't notice in 2015 and beyond. When they were still teammates, Marc wouldn’t take the pain medication he was given. Dani always thought it was some weird pleasure of the pain that came from racing and crashing. And then later, perhaps a sick self-punishment for making a mistake. Although he now realises the latter is partially true, he is kicking himself for not digging up a further meaning. He’s not the first to notice Marc’s aversion to medication; it had been a weekly fight with Honda between 2015 and 2020. Nobody was aware of the reason. Why Marc went from hating the sight of the tablets to taking as many as he possibly could after Jerez was less of a mystery. For Marc Marquez, when choosing between not riding or traumatic memories, he’ll always choose the emotional anguish. He swallows the pills.

Alex smiles gently at him, pushing a container of pre-prepared food towards him. Marc turns up his nose; he had already eaten something earlier.

“Eat, you’ll be high as hell if you don’t”

“Not hungry”

Marc pouts, and Christ Alex forgot how obstinate and immature his brother could be, especially after taking his medication. The image of 31-year-old Marc behaving like a toddler makes Dovi chuckle in amusement.

“Marc, you have to eat something-”

“No.”

“Marc, for God’s sake, you can’t just not eat.”

“But I don’t want that. I’ll have a protein bar.”

Their fight is interrupted by a loud knock at the door and a voice calling from outside.

“Marc?”

Anxiety grips Marc, argument forgotten. Instead, he imagines another fervent Rossi fan clawing at their door. Alex jumps to his feet, freezing as the voice speaks again.

“Marc, come on, I know you’re in there, the lights are on.”

Confusion engulfs Alex as he approaches the front of the motorhome, trying to place the somewhat familiar voice. He cautiously unlocks the door and peeks outside, blinking against the darkness. Shock colours his features, his eyes widening as he stares before he comes to his senses and attempts to slam the door shut. The only thing keeping it from closing completely is the foot of their surprise visitor.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Alex practically growls

“Is Marc here? I want to talk to him. Please.”

Dani joins him at the door, ready to help if things get out of hand. Pecco glances between the two Spanish men before letting out a melancholy sigh. Bez is fidgeting behind the world champion, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Alex definitely fancies slamming the door then, even more unimpressed by the sight of the younger Italian.

“I hate that all of this has happened, and I hate even more that we’ve been pitted against each other for no reason. I just want to talk; please can I come in?”

Pecco looks so forlorn standing outside their motorhome, his face open and honest. Marc must recognise the voice more than Alex does, as he calls out to his brother.

“Let him in, Alex.”

Marc is most likely not thinking clearly, and Alex is on the verge of saying no. Instead, with a disgruntled sigh, he steps aside to let Pecco in, looks at Bez, and then grudgingly concedes that he cannot tell him to fuck off. After shooting an exasperated look at Dani, he follows him back to the group of athletes lounging on their couches.

It turns out 7 fully grown adults are a few too many in the cramped space. Pecco takes the empty seat next to where Alex has sat back down, Bez awkwardly squeezing next to him. Marc stares with wide, clouded eyes, his hackles raised; he wasn’t expecting Bez. Although his relationship with Pecco is fairly neutral (probably due to his ambivalence to the whole Valentino situation) Bez and Marc have never been on good terms, the younger always jumping at the opportunity to defend his mentor. Marc frowns at them, untrusting, while his friends protectively shift closer to him. Clearly, from their baffled expressions, Bezzecchi and Bagnaia did not expect to see Marc huddled with Andrea Dovizioso and Jorge Lorenzo on the sofa.

Pecco is trying his hardest to comprehend the scene before him; he had not anticipated meeting the three retired riders alongside the brothers. He tilts his head slightly, examining the way Jorge and Dovi appear exasperated but pleased to have a clingy Marc Marquez sprawled on them. Marc himself looks pretty content at their proximity, which is strange; he didn’t think Marc was that close to either of them. Bez and he have clearly intruded, obvious from the disarray of everyone in the room. Marc has been crying, which is surprising in and of itself. Additionally, he appears to have taken some pretty strong painkillers – unsurprising after his crash but surprising after the most recent news reports. He turns towards Alex to voice this, but the younger Marquez beats him to it.

“He doesn’t need supervision these days, but if he is bad or, you know, unhappy, I keep his medication and watch over his dosing. He’s fine.”

Pecco nods in understanding, some of his concern lessening. An awkward kind of quiet falls over the group, no one knowing what to say. Strangely, Marc cannot guess the meaning for their visit, too used to other riders only turning up to pick a fight. Pecco is not one for dramatics, preferring to reign in his emotions, unlike his mentor and his friend. Marc breaks the silence first, curiosity beating pride.

“What are you here for, Bagnaia?”

That earns him a wry smile.

“I want to know if you’re okay.”

“Why do you care?”

The others tense in anticipation as Pecco visibly steals himself. He has found the last 24 hours difficult, fighting an internal battle of morality versus loyalty ever since the fateful press conference.

“I don’t hate you, Marc, and I don’t want to. Honestly, I think with time, maybe next year, we could be friends. I respect your talent, and yes, of course, sometimes I think you ride like a maniac, you take risks, and you are brutal on the track. But that is what makes you so good, so impressive. It is why you have 8 championships; I would be a fool to disregard that. Not only that but you love fiercely. I have seen the way you treat your friends and family, and I admire that.”

Marc thinks he might be dreaming; he pinches himself to be sure. Jorge notices and pushes his hand away with a scowl.

“Don’t lie. You all hate me because of him and his lies. I do not need you messing with my head as well. I see the way your academy copies him, echoing his venom, believing every word and taking his side. My life was hell back then, and you weren’t there to witness it. He ruined my life and tore everything from me. I know he thinks that I ruined his career and whatever other poison the man he calls a best friend fed him. I know he was angry and upset. But I was so young. It has been a decade. He won’t leave me alone. Don’t you understand? I raced to die; I risked it all in a passive attempt to not return to the pits. I just wanted him to look back at me; I wanted my hero to forgive me. Then after Jerez, when he didn’t even say anything and I gave up hope, I just took medication to cope. But Valentino and your precious academy can’t see that. No, instead I am reckless and selfish, only thinking of myself. It is not fair; none of it is fair.”

He feels Jorge tense underneath him and that revelation and knows that he has shared too much, but it is too late now. Pecco is observing him with sad eyes and Bezzecchi looks horrified.

“No, Marc, I do not hate you. I am sorry for the loathing you have felt. People like to push Valentino’s legacy onto me. We are not the same person. This is not my battle, and I refuse to be sucked into Vale’s fights from before I was even on the track. It is stupid.”

His eyes are glazed over and wet as he looks directly into Marc's. The anguish in them makes Marc flinch.

“My sister fought similar battles; it was the hardest time of my life.”

He meets Alex’s eyes, sharing a look of understanding at their joint hurt.

“I know you don’t believe me; I see that you have been hurt before. I hate that you have experienced such awful things, and I hate even more how you are being treated for it now. I am sure Alex feels how I do about Carola; it was the worst pain in the world. I would have given my life ten times over for her. It still hurts you and maybe it will always be raw, but I wish it was not like this.”

Bez lays a hand on Pecco’s shoulder, a show of silent support, prompting Marc to turn towards the youngest Italian.

“And you, Bezzecchi? I know you hate me; you have made that abundantly clear, so why are you here?”

Bez looks away at the accusation, guilt filling him. It is not in his nature to question someone he is loyal to.

“I- I realised I maybe took too much at face value. It is true that I did not like you, or more so the way you ride. But I also didn’t understand you or what you were going through. I guess that I want to make amends for that. And I did not want to leave Franci alone.”

Marc hums, considering Bez’s offer, before he nods, too exhausted and intoxicated to give it any more thought. Whatever, if Bezzecchi wants to be here, then fine, so long as he doesn’t cause any more pain. Rather, Marc returns his attention to Pecco with genuineness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry about your sister. It is difficult. I hope she’s in a better place now.”

Pecco’s eyes widen in shock, and Marc huffs out a laugh.

“She’s doing better now, thank you. I think you will get on with her well next year; she comes to all the races with me and the team.”

The Italian smiles tentatively, and Marc smiles back, quietly pleased about this admission from his future teammate. Bez glances between them with a frown, still unsure about the tentative truce they have formed. Instead, he turns towards Dovi, who is still eyeing him suspiciously, and shoots him his very best puppy eyes. The older man rolls his eyes at the display before roping Bez and Pecco into a conversation in rapid Italian about the season so far. Dani and Jorge are whispering quietly, the latter still petting Marc’s hair gently. The atmosphere has returned to its tranquil state, once more lulling Marc into a hazy headspace.

Concern is vibrating through Alex as he watches his brother doze. He can’t help but feel like this has all been a little bit too easy. The boys had looked flustered when they turned up, like they had hurried over, as if something had happened just beforehand. He tries to shake off the feeling, standing up and heading into the kitchenette. He grabs a protein bar from the cupboards and chucks it at Marc when he re-enters the main room, causing his brother to startle and glare at him. Dovi snickers at their antics; of course Alex had not forgotten about their previous scrap, much to Marc’s annoyance.

“Eat it.”

Marc scowls but dutifully rips open the packet and starts munching the bar, not before sticking his tongue out at his brother.

“So mature, Marc.”

This prompts a fit of giggles from the older as he continues to eat. Bez and Pecco look on in bewilderment at this version of Marc, the drugs making him more relaxed than they have ever seen. They are shuffling awkwardly as if they’d be kicked out at any minute, feeling a sensation of imposition at seeing the soft person in front of them. Marc rolls his eyes, looking strung out but content.

“Stay?”

And that settles it.

In all his stubborn glory, Marc refuses to move off his friends, citing comfort and fatigue as justifications. Alex grumbles good-naturedly about his perpetual clinginess on pain medication, prompting Marc to snuggle closer to Jorge, rubbing his face into the older man’s shoulder and startling a laugh out of him. Pecco looks at Dovi questioningly, his forehead furrowed into a frown, looking for any indication of jealousy in the older Italian but not detecting any. Jorge instantly notices and does not attempt to conceal his laughter laughter.

“Do not worry about it. Dovi hogs Marc the rest of the time; I am allowed him now whilst he is still high as a kite”

Marc pulls away to pout at him, denial on his lips. Before he can begin his argument, though, Alex speaks up, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Tell me about it; you should have seen them earlier. Dovi was practically eating Marc alive with his eyes; it was fucking ridiculous.”

Marc goes bright red at this comment, spluttering out an excuse. Dovi just looks unabashedly smug, meeting Alex’s eyes.

“Hey, when there’s an attractive shirtless man on the sofa when you enter the room, what else are you meant to do?”

Marc directs his glare towards Dovi, an unimpressed frown on his face at the betrayal, but frankly, with the medication softening him, he just looks cute. Dani and Jorge are cracking up at the thought, which only causes Marc to get more annoyed, his cheeks flaming hot.

“Ah, I did not know that you two-”

Both Dovi and Marc jump to correct that assumption. Stumbling over each other to assure Pecco that they are not dating, despite what it looks like. Dani has been suspiciously quiet for most of the conversation, only now turning towards Marc with an insolent smile, meaning that he’s about to say something that Marc won’t like.

“Didn’t stop you from fucking in the past.”

You could hear a pin drop. Alex is whipping his head between his brother and Dovi, his jaw dropped in shock. Marc somehow goes even redder before shoving his face into his hands and groaning, confirming Dani’s statement and prompting the entire group to lose it. Dovi just looks proud and completely unashamed, turning back to Jorge and Dani with a raised eyebrow.

“Like you two can talk.”

“Touché.” replies Jorge with a shrug, hand on Dani’s knee.

Alex feels like he’s losing grip on reality,

“When? When the hell did you two hook up?”

“Ah, 2017, 2018, on and off” answers Dovi.

The others are laughing hard now, even Bez and Pecco giggling at the horrified expression on the youngest Marquez’s face.

Alex speaks once more, recovering quickly as though he is clearly used to his brother’s antics. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice,

“Jesus Marc, what is it with you and shagging older men?”

Pecco chokes at that comment, wheezing a breath through the shock. The others are basically in tears and even Bez is grinning. Marc just looks at his brother’s smirking face and promptly lobs a pillow in his direction - it hits him in the face, causing Marc to crack up. When they all catch their breath, Pecco broaches something that has played on his mind all day.

“Valentino had mentioned something earlier, about you and Dovi-”

Pecco immediately realises his mistake in bringing up Vale. The room pauses awkwardly, and all eyes turn to Marc, whose eyes are still foggy, his limbs lose. It causes him to speak without thinking.

“Ah, he is being a dick; he saw me in Dovi’s jumper and jumped to conclusions. Lord knows why he cares.”

“When the fuck did you see Valentino?”

“Ah, just before the sprint race, he cornered me, spilling some bullshit about ruining the race and being attention-seeking. You know what he is like. He always has loved to make sure I feel small.”

He turns his doe eyes towards Alex,

“It still hurts to hear him say those things about me. It hurts to look into his eyes and see fury and hatred. Not as much as it did then, but still”

Pecco realises then just how out of it Marc must be to let that slip. He gulps, uncomfortable with the pain in his voice, pain that he would usually hide away from the world. Bez looks away. Watching tonight’s interactions brings some new perspective to the academy riders- the quiet beginnings of doubt about their unquestioned deity. It’s difficult to reconcile Vale, their selfless teacher and friend, to Valentino Rossi, who had a rivalry with Marc so fierce the younger had been left picking up the pieces. The Marc in front of them is not the dangerous, deceiving rider they were taught about. This Marc looks at his brother and friends like they hold the universe; he is strong but soft around the edges. He is funny and unabashed in his affection. He loves fiercely and is loved unconditionally in return, a true sign of his character.

Alex is looking at his brother with such sadness in his eyes, reflecting his pain. He does not respond to Marc; he just holds out his hand. It is Jorge who speaks instead.

“I was so angry at Valentino in 2015. So angry at myself for not warning you. I saw it coming from miles away because Rossi could never deal with threats to his success.”

Bez begins to open his mouth, but Pecco elbows him, hard, well aware that now is not the time to stick up for their mentor, no matter how difficult it is to hear. Jorge goes to continue but is interrupted by another forceful knock on the door; it’s Alex who yet again opens it, finding himself face to face with an uncomfortable-looking Luca. The night is getting weirder and weirder.

“Is Pecco here? Or Bez? Nobody knows where they’ve gone.”

Alex opens the door wider, letting Luca see the two Italians on the sofas.

Luca steps inside, shutting the door softly behind him after glances outside worriedly. He gives the boys a pointed looks as he urges them up.

“Come on, we need to go!”

“What why?”

Bez was just starting to feel comfortable in this company; he doesn’t particularly want to leave right now. Luca looks away,

“Look, we just really need to go.”

There is another harsh knock on the door before it flies open. Valentino is standing at the threshold, staring blankly at the spectacle before him.

“What the fuck is going on?”

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