marknotmarc

i do not know how to use this app properly. and English is not my first language. I'm sorry for everything?

[rhincodonsmith]

[bikefuckersoftheworldunite]

“Valentino is Valentino, and if you kill that off, you may kill off the goose that lays the golden egg”

(from 2001 issue of cycle news)

[anitalianfrie]

Guys since famous motogp journo has decided to put his nose into our ao3 business I kindly remind you to PRIVATE YOUR FICS for your privacy

[ray935sworld]

Cat Dani... You see the vision?

[eobsinj]

2026 - 00 | motoGP - 22 fast riders | figma poster series ( inspo | twt | ig | fb )

hey yall my bez poster series (2026) is gonna be trying to recreate movie posters in figma themed. this is the intro post!

[kuaiyaosile]

Of course, he is the champion.🏆

[lanbugblue]

my demon doctor

[chilipook]

insert ducati arranged marriage joke here?

New victim muse!!!

saw a picture on Pinterest really wanted to draw somebody and poor guy pecco catched a stray

Really should spend this energy in studying huh

[feketeribizli]

my them #mythem

[fignyart]

Here too

[takemetotherave]

93+73

[maxandrist]

the álex x hawkers collab that I lie awake at night thinking about

[calia23]

We used to be a proper family, will we ever be again? Where are my P1 and P2 Marquez?

[takemetotherave]

Valentino rossi world champion t-shirt

[catwarrr]

🧀🧀🧀!

[marknotmarc]

So, a made another collage, as a sign of gratitude, this one for the biggest Morbidelli lover - @valentin1k

There is, again, quite a few references and i would love to see someone try to find them :) Feel free to comment literally any thoughts!!

And there's a couple of versions with filters

[maxandrist]

muscle and machine / a couple quick thoughts on rossi's bikes and sensuality

The power dynamic between premier-class motorcycle and rider is inherently imbalanced. Although the moto literally pulls all the weight and skirts so much risk, the rider remains the face. The star. No matter how pretty the machine, the rider will always hog the spotlight. Sometimes pictures of the motors show up and only further cement this point. Photographs that feel too intimate, shot too low and framed just a little too well to be innocent. Fogged-up plastic windshields freckled with specks of condensation. A trail of rainwater-slick left on a freshly-used tyre. The rider orchestrates a celebration whilst dressed in unsanitary scrubs and listens for a so-called proof of life housed in an entirely inhospitable place. The celebration feels more like a mockery than worship. He checks the machine for any sign of a heartbeat stuck thrumming away somewhere inside, and all the stethoscope can pick up is the unceasing hum of a purring engine. The exhaust pipe huffs out hot, toxic vapour from the exertion Rossi puts his darling through. She's beautiful, and so frightening.

It’s a self-congratulatory exercise — or, perhaps, a ritual of ownership — when soft lips press against the cold, unfeeling signature number plastered across the bike's crest. Forty-six. It feels like just a symbol now. Or a leashing. Something passed down from the rider’s father. And the rider, he now bends close and whispers something quiet, only the bike can hear.

But it's not a one-way affair, no. The machine leers right back. Drools over the loyal rider. Draws him in. Bucks him clean off when he gets too cocky. Leaves him stranded in the gravel. Daring him to venture and mount again and again and again. And he will. God-willing.

Muscle and metal tango, and break, then reform and cord together, as they always have. This union of two alternating fleshes strengthens both the machine and the rider. They enmesh into one being of twin appetites, ever-hungrier for the win. There's something almost carnal about holding a large rumbling hunk of metal between two thighs and hoping for its mercy over the course of a Sunday race. Nothing can satiate a chimaera beast of flesh and metal. Not even winning. It is neither human nor motorcycle. It is something else entirely.