for the kink prompts, how about free use and restraints with marcmarc?
personalized kink prompt list ✨
free use - restraints - bezquez
on ao3
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Marco's limp dick throbs very bravely against Marc's palm where it's being cradled for inspection. It's not getting hard again any time soon, Marc thinks. Fair enough—Marc's ridden him to hell and back enough times today that it's a miracle he's even still conscious.
Still, Marc gives him a little squeeze, his soft, sticky cock, and Marco whimpers wordlessly. He hasn't spoken in hours, but Marc likes him this way. Sprawled out, cuffed to the bed by his arms, so fuck-dumb that there's barely a light behind his eyes. His mouth is red and swollen and trembling.
He's still smiling, though. Every time Marc's come back to use him, he's been smiling, eager, even if his body is refusing to keep up with what his mind wants so badly.
Marc has never in his life met anyone who wants to be good as badly as Marco Bezzecchi does.
He squeezes Bez's dick again, pensively, running the pad of his thumb over its wet tip. Even soft, he's still blurting precome all over his belly like he's trying to make up for it. He's sweet all over like this. The vacantly adoring look on his face. The flushed-pink, sweaty expanse of his chest, the shine of the new nipple ring that Marc can't keep his mouth off of. The sticky, flaking smears of come on his belly and thighs where Marc's only perfunctorily wiped him down.
Marco whines, tentative. When Marc looks up at his face he looks a little distressed—only a little, but that could turn into more if Marc were just a bit meaner to him. Marc's not aiming for mean today.
"That's alright," Marc tells him conversationally, laying Marco's soft-but-trying cock back against his pelvis. It's just as easy to climb up on the mattress, spread Marco's shaky knees wide. Just as good to slip a couple of lubed-up fingers back behind Marco's balls, to press against and into his hole in one easy motion. Marc hasn't fucked him yet today, not here. But he's loose and relaxed like he's been railed within an inch of his life at least as many times as Marc has had him.
Marco makes this funny little sound, something that wants to be a moan or a whimper but comes out in this sweet little pah of air. Marc laughs at him.
"You're sweet, aren't you," he says absently. His dick jerks, hard and twitching in midair when Marco's insides ripple welcomingly around his fingers.
Marco says, "Mmmmmh," which Marc is going to take as agreement.
When Marc pulls his fingers out, Marco bites his lip until it turns white. He wants to ask for more—greedy thing, Marc thinks, though that's not entirely true—but he's not had the words for it for hours and hours now.
Marc laughs at him again, shushes him, only vaguely chastising. He's already nudging the tip of his dick against Marco's loose hole anyway. It's not like he's not going to give him what he wants.
Pushing inside is slow-going, only because Marc likes watching Marco's face so much. He's so expressive, with his pink mouth falling open, with his lashes fluttering and eyes rolling, with the dumb grin that creases his face like unfolded laundry. He just looks so satisfied. Like being full of cock is all he could ever need to be happy ever again.
His dick stays soft and pink and wet as Marc starts to move. Even when Marc hefts up his hips for a better angle and Marco's thighs start jerking, and he starts moaning helplessly, his dick refuses to get fully hard. It's gratifying how badly he wants it. How his whole body still accepts this even at its limit.
Say what you will about him, Marco never gives up.
how about service/pampering and sloppy seconds for permin?
personalized kink prompt list ✨
service/pampering - sloppy seconds - permin
on ao3
-------
"You're such a cuck," Pedro groans.
Fermín, from between Pedro's legs, has the audacity to laugh. Like, mouth open wide, directly into Pedro's asshole, which he is currently eating.
"It's rude to—"
Fermín does something spectacular with his tongue and two bent fingers. This shuts Pedro up quite tidily. Probably he should be more quiet about this. Making fun of Fermín for liking this runs him the risk of Fermín stopping, which Pedro decidedly does not want.
He does his very best to settle. Clutches at his own hair while Fermín fingers him, knees twitching in the air where he's struggling to hold them up. It's all very overwhelming; not that Pedro is going to admit this to anyone, up to and including God. He's fucked-out—he'd shown up fucked-out already, and now Fermín's going down on him like he wants to clamber up Pedro's asshole and live there.
Fermín slurps, like, super loudly, and when pulls back he's grinning, this psychotic little glint in his eye.
"Are you sure it was just Aleix?" he asks, and he licks his wet lips. It's not just spit all down his chin. Pedro will never, ever understand the appeal of this from Fermín's side. He will never, ever understand why he wants to eat someone else's nut out of Pedro's ass.
He will also never, ever complain that this is what he wants.
"Yes," Pedro grits out. Fermín's started to fuck him proper with his fingers, spreading his already loose hole looser. "It was just—ah—fuck!" Somehow Fermín's managed to fit a third and a fourth finger up inside Pedro all at once, and he's pushing, bearing down instead of rocking now so that all Pedro can focus on is the thick jut of four knuckles stretching his rim wide.
"Just Aleix," Fermín finishes for him. "Gotcha."
He ducks back down and for a second Pedro thinks he's going to suck his dick, or maybe pull his hand out and start tonguing his ass again. But instead he finds himself being absolutely peppered with kisses. All over his pelvis, the sensitive insides of his thighs. The jut of his hips where he's bruised from Aleix's fingers.
"Please," Pedro says, which is fucking embarrassing actually. But Fermín blinks up at him, big wide eyes, thick lashes all fluttery like the only thing he wants in the world is to give Pedro what he wants. Which he then does, by turning his hand around inside of Pedro, by pressing his knuckles up against Pedro's tender prostate and rubbing, gentle, more like petting than anything else.
He coaxes the orgasm out of Pedro's aching body with a dumb smile on his dumb face, and then when Pedro's still quaking he pulls his hand out and replaces it with his cock so smoothly it's almost impressive.
It feels... so good. Comparatively it feels like nothing after taking most of Fermín's hand, just this easy glide of lube and what's left of someone else's come easing the way, Pedro's loose hole clenching exhaustedly. He's still coming, in dimly warm aftershocks through his body. He can't even close his legs. His knees splay wide until his thighs pinch, and he's actually whining like a goddamn bitch as Fermín fucks him.
"Look at you," Fermín pants. "Took it so well. Taking it so well." Pedro reaches up with the one trembling arm he can make work, and Fermín gets the point and dips down so Pedro can lick the wet from his chin.
"You're so disgusting," Pedro slurs, tongue catching on Fermín's stubble. Fermín laughs, kind of, but he's moaning already, about to quickshot like a fucking amateur. Pedro lets himself feel smug about it, in the part of his brain that feels anything but good good good.
Fermín comes in him, groaning Pedro's name, collapses over Pedro's body like a damp weighted blanket.
For a while, his hips keep working, and Pedro feels less bad about the whining because Fermín has tucked his face into his neck and is now whimpering absolutely incessantly. He always sounds so fucking happy afterward. Like he really, honestly loves this setup they've got, where Pedro goes and gets railed and then comes back to Fermín at the end of the night.
He really is a fucking cuck.
When Fermín finally stops twitching, he rolls them over so that he can go soft and slip out slow, so that Pedro can sprawl across his chest and drool there just to make a point.
After a while; "Wish I could give you a bath," Fermín says fondly.
What the fuck. "What am I," Pedro mutters, pissed off now but too blissed out to do anything about it. "A fucking stray dog?"
"A fucked stray dog," Fermín says, and then immediately backtracks. "Wait, no, that's not what I meant—"
Pedro starts to cackle, and then finds he really can't stop cackling. "You are so disgusting," he says again, but even he can't pretend it's sincere this time.
"This is crazy," Bez is saying, won't stop saying, clammy palms everywhere. Cele would like it better, maybe, if he were putting his mouth to work elsewhere. On Celestino's body instead spouting off about how crazy this is over and over and over.
Cele says, "Sure," for about the fifth time. Because sure, yes, it's pretty crazy, tucked into a dark corner at a dark house party with Bez's dark, dark eyes just barely shining out from behind his mask. Cele had laughed at first, when he'd seen it. Lacy and sparkling to match the bralette, the panties, the garters. Laughed, because as Bez had been visibly having a heart attack, Cele had had to say, "Well one of us is going to have to change."
A coincidence, mostly, that Celestino's in a nearly identical outfit. Different patterns in the lace, more coverage across the ass because as much as Bez seems to like flossing with his underwear Cele's not that kind of experienced just yet. A coincidence and a joke, because Cele had known—always knows—what Marco is going to wear to a masquerade if he's given the opportunity.
"Celin," Bez says. His face is pressed into Celestino's neck, both hands clutching at Cele's waist. The mask is prickly against the underside of Cele's jaw. "This—you—"
"If you say this is crazy again," Cele pants, finally, "I'm going to go home."
Bez makes a noise against Cele's skin that could be a moan or a groan or maybe a laugh, because—yeah, Celestino doesn't just leave parties, not until he has to. But he's looking to mess around tonight. If Marco's version of messing around is descending into madness while he palms vaguely at all of the least interesting parts of Cele's body then Celestino is happy to look elsewhere.
"Fuck," Bez says, gasps. He finds Cele's chest with both hands, runs both thumbs over his nipples. Celestino reaches between them to pinch Bez's nipple, retaliatory, tugging on the piercing until Bez makes a noise so shrill that it's a miracle no one comes looking for them. At this point they'd deserve it, Cele thinks, if they were found.
"Go," Cele says abruptly, winding a hand into the back of Bez's hair to pull him away from where he'd just about been tonguing at Cele's collarbone. He likes licking him there, mapping out the topography of scarring.
Bez makes a noise that is not confused; he knows exactly what Celestino means, and he follows easily under the pressure of Cele's hand when he's pushed down. In kneeling, Marco's cock has made itself visible. The head pops out of the waistband of his panties—Celin has seen these ones before, a scrap of lace and ribbon definitely not made to contain a dick-and-balls—shiny and pink and rubbing against the flatness of his belly before he lurches forward, open-mouthed, to groan against the outline of Celestino's dick through a layer of lace. Cele went all in on his underwear. He hasn't told Marco yet, but he will, after. Show him the site of lingerie that looks like it's for women but is designed for exactly this. For holding Celestino's cock all the way in even as he thickens up, fully-hard under Bez's mouth.
Bez makes another noise. Frustrated, maybe, that he's only got a mouthful of silky fabric instead of Cele's dick. Cele laughs, fisting his hand in Bez's hair again to haul him away—Marco's tongue lolls out mournfully—and then fishes his dick out of his underwear.
Marco sits still enough to let Celestino rub the tip of his dick over his lips. Sits, quivering on his knees when Celestino slaps his cock against Marco's cheek and then his outstretched tongue.
"Good boy," Cele says dimly, because that seems like the right thing to say.
Bez makes a noise that sounds a little like he's just creamed himself. Cele is too busy shoving his dick down his throat to pay all that much attention.
The blindfold is stiff, because Marco's been crying into it for hours, and now that it's dry it's sticking to his face uncomfortably. Every part of him is uncomfortable, to be fair. Where his wrists are zip-tied behind his back, and his ankle is cuffed to... something. He's not sure. The blindfold came before the cuffing.
He grunts, muffled, scratchy carpet against his jaw. Whoever it is taking a turn with him now is fucking him distractedly—like they're not all that interested in it.
"Please," Marco says. He's surprised at how much volume he manages. The last guy had fucked him so hard he was screaming, wrenched his head around by the hair, told Marco to be grateful that they're finding any use out of him at all.
The in-out of being plowed absently into the ground doesn't stop. Marco whines.
He'd fought it at first, because that had seemed like the appropriate thing to do. Being kidnapped, or whatever this qualifies as, being bound naked and blindfolded with the promise that he was going to be so fucked-out by the time they were done with him he wouldn't be able to speak. The first thing you do in a situation like that is fight it.
He's learned his lesson, now. They hadn't started him with the zip-tie; that'd been punishment. The plastic is digging into his wrists. His fingers aren't numb but they're cold.
There's a grunt, a little bit startled, as the guy comes in his ass. Like he's surprised himself by coming at all. Marco squirms. He's so full, is the problem. He likes sex. Marco likes to be fucked. But he's got at minimum three loads in him now and his stomach is starting to ache.
"Could I have some water," Marco says. It's embarrassing how tiny his voice is. "Please."
Silence. The body behind him pulls away, softening cock slipping out of Marco's tender hole, and he's left alone again.
Somehow that's the worst part.
--
He must doze off, because one second he's slumped on his face, alone, cold. The next he's being hauled into someone's lap.
He makes a noise, more frustrated at being woken up than anything. A second noise as he's seated quite immediately on someone's lube-wet dick. His toes bend against the floor, knees already aching. If they're going to try to make him ride them, they've got another thing coming.
He says, "Water—" and then is pushed down, suddenly, a second set of hands in the middle of his back pressing him into a hard, warm chest. It's the most difficult thing that's been done to him so far; letting him lie against a body, where it's warm and something in the neighbourhood of comfortable. Maybe he can sleep here, he thinks. Maybe he can have a nap while he's taken, if the two of them are lazy enough with it.
He's not expecting wet fingers pressing to his rim, two of them, slipping in alongside the cock already there.
Marco says, "Nonono—" but of course, there's no stopping them. Two fingers, and then three, while the body under Marco is patient and still, while hot hands hold Marco's hips in place. He can't get the leverage to push himself up with his arms behind his back. Even if he could, where would he go?
The nudge of a fourth finger. The click of a tongue. The fingers disappear and Marco knows better than to be relieved.
There's no real way to understand the size of anything like this. No real way to measure the bodies around him, against him. All Marco knows in this moment is the inconceivable stretch of being speared patiently on a second cock, sliding in so slow that it's agony.
"Ohh my God," Marco says. "Oh my God. Nnnh—no?"
The thing is that his brain is in fact starting to crumble into tiny little pieces. There's something wrong with him; there has to be, given how he's panting against the sharp edge of a clavicle, how he's drooling and blabbering as everything slots into place and he is so fucking full. The stretch at his rim is unimaginable. The spread of his insides is... he doesn't have the words for it, the way it feels like his fucking guts are being rearranged as they start to move.
Marco thinks he's probably saying words. He can feel his mouth shaping vowels, and his throat making noises, and it's probably protesting in some way, or it should be.
--
He cries when they're done with him. He hadn't thought he'd had it left in him, so cotton-tongued and dried out everywhere but his asshole that it had seemed impossible that he'd ever be able to cry again.
He manages, though.
He can't make himself sort out all of the prickly parts that sting at his insides; which parts of him feel scared and which parts are wanting. Which parts of him want this to be over and which parts need so badly to be stuffed full of cock he might die if he's left empty much longer.
The room is very quiet for what feels like a very long time. He's been left on his side, curled up and cold and leaking come from his sore hole. The more he tries to curl in on himself the worse he feels, but somehow uncurling, he knows, would be a thousand times worse than that.
The door opens. Marco whines, body twitching abortively when it doesn't know where to go. Does he want to escape? He can't be sure.
There is one-hundred percent something very wrong with him. He's being spoken to, he thinks. Or cooed at, or shushed. If they're saying words to him he can't understand them. His brain is leaking out of his ears.
He's touched, then; big, cool hands on his overheated skin. The cooing closer now, the crinkle of something plastic. He's hefted up just enough that a bottle can be pressed to his parched lips, just enough that when he swallows down sweet mouthfuls of water he doesn't choke on it. Half of it spills down his chest, but the other half that he manages to get down is fucking blissful.
And then he's laid back down. Turned over again. Fucked again. Cooed at the whole time.
--
Hours or days or weeks later, the door opens.
He makes a sad, strange little noise. He'd been most of the way to passed out, he thinks, cheek sticky with drool against the carpet.
"Marco?"
That's his name, he's pretty sure. Fairly certain. Who can really know these things, though?
He feels the twin thuds of knees hitting the ground near him. At the beginning he might have lashed out, thrown himself bodily toward escape. Now he just lays here. What's one more, really, after all this?
He makes another noise, startled, pained, when the zip-tie is cut. His shoulders sag, so stiff that the pain is startling and sharp from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. He doesn't try to move. It could be a test.
A second pair of feet shuffled into the room, and then a third. A fourth, maybe, but he's focused in on the feeling of—oh, God, achingly gentle hands on his face. Wiping the spit from his lips, pulling his head into the softness of a lap where he sniffs and whines while the cuff around his ankle releases.
"Oh, good job," says a voice from far, far above him. "Such a good job." The warmth of the thigh against his cheek is making him melt. The praise is making him dissolve, turned to steam.
The blindfold is peeled off next. Marco—that is him, isn't it—blinks blearily. It's dim, here, in this closed off room at the back of the ranch house, but so bright against his sensitive eyes.
Valentino is smiling down at him, hands on his hips. He looks proud, like Marco's just set an absurd new track record. Celestino, whose lap he's ended up in, is pushing his sweaty hair back from his face. Marco beams, so exhausted he can't even consider speaking. He's moved around, careful, Cele's hands on him and Luca's hands and Franky's and Mig's. Pecco comes close and he's got what might be a fruit cup clutched in one hand.
"Just have a couple bites," Luca is saying. Marco has turned his face away from Pecco as best as he can; opening his mouth feels like a lot of work. "Just a little bit. And then you don't have to do anything else."
Marco hums. He opens his mouth, and he lets Pecco press a bit of melon past his lips, hums again at the burst of sweet against his dry tongue.
They're all so gentle with him. Helping him to sit up, slow, feeding him bites of fruit, tipping water into his mouth, wiping the worst of the mess off of him even as they mumble about how he'll definitely need a bath. Cele is very quiet, holding Marco the tightest. Valentino is loitering around looking incredibly pleased.
"Was it okay?" Cele asks, mouth pressed to Marco's hair. He smells nice. Marco turns his face into his chest and nods. More than okay, he could say, if he knew how to make words. Fucking spectacular, actually.
She isn’t expecting it when Marc reaches out to touch. That hadn’t been part of the agreement, but then they hadn’t really negotiated beyond you have boob ring. Show me boob ring.
Pedro doesn't know why he does it. There's nothing good that will come of it, and he knows this.
But he's still trailing after Fermín through the paddock at a far enough distance that he's got plausible deniability, still headed in the general direction of his own motorhome anyway. Who's going to call him out on it? Unless Fermín suddenly turns and spots him, smiles at him like they're anything near on smiling terms. He’s not following Fermín. He’s just headed in the same direction, but stealthily.
Fermín is distracted, anyway. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Marc, swaying together, laughing together. They're so fucking obnoxious. Pedro never had anything against Marc, not until—whatever this is. The way Fermín looks at him like he's not only hung the moon but is currently holding it up in the sky singlehandedly. With a single hand, even.
It just pisses Pedro off, is all. Like, really. Have some fucking self-respect.
Marc is doing that awful cackle he does as he turns them sharply to the left. Pedro catches the briefest glance of Fermín's open-wide laugh, the one that makes him look like the top of his head is about to fall off of its hinges. Then they disappear down an alley between motorhomes.
And Pedro follows them, of course. Again, no idea why he does it. Usually he has the sense to keep his distance.
When he peers around into the alley, they're just going around a corner at the opposite end. Fermín is giggling—giggling!—and Marc is shushing him, even though he's still laughing too. Pedro catches something like, "You promised—" and "Yes, yes, I know—" before he loses sight of them. What is this, a fucking drug deal?
Against all of his own better judgment, of which he has admittedly very little, Pedro creeps down the alley after them. Scoots along the wall of the motorhome, careful, quiet.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s like magnetism, or gravity, like he can’t stop himself now that he’s gotten so close to seeing whatever it is they’re up to. Which he is, for the record, not at all that interested in.
There’s a cataclysmic shift in his brain when he peeks around this final corner. Like a glacier calving, crashing into the ocean. Shockwaves that nearly knock him back off his feet.
Marc, on his knees. Fermín with his head tipped down and a hand in Marc’s hair and Marc grinning as he unzips Fermín’s shorts. Marc grinning as he licks—as he—
Oh God.
Pedro slithers back around the corner, presses his back to the wall, stares at the motorhome opposite. He’s hallucinating. Someone put fucking LSD in his Red Bull and he’s hallucinating. There’s no other explanation, because otherwise he’d have to believe he just saw Marc Marquez getting on his knees to suck dick.
He doesn’t slide down the wall like he wants to. His knees are shaking a bit but he keeps himself upright, palms flat against hot siding, turns his head just enough to see if the fucking illusion his brain has conjured has disintegrated back into the ether where it belongs.
It hasn’t. Naturally.
Pedro hasn’t seen Fermín’s dick in years. Not like—not like that. It’s impossible to spend the amount of time he and Fermín spent together and not see all sorts of unfortunate things. It is fortunate, kind of, that he’s only seeing a little of it now. Just the couple of inches that Marc doesn’t have in his mouth, between his lips and the tight ring of his thumb and forefinger, just—just that. Yeah.
Fuck. Jesus Christ. Pedro pinches himself, digs his nails into his wrist and decidedly does not wake up from what has to be the most creative nightmare his brain could’ve come up with. It’s awful to watch, is the thing. Like watching one of those fucked up crash compilations, highside after highside. He can’t look away.
Fermín’s head is tipped back against the wall, now, the long expanse of his neck, the twitch of his throat, the part of his lips. He’s breathing heavily. Moaning, maybe, but quietly enough that Pedro can’t quite hear it. Small blessings. The absurd thing is that what he can hear is the wet noise of Marc’s mouth. Slick and rhythmic, like it’s just so good that his mouth is watering uncontrollably. As if.
The way Fermín runs his fingers through Marc’s hair makes Pedro want to bite something, so he bites his own fist. Hard. It startles him out of the trance he has apparently been in; sharp pain like a fishhook pulling him up out of the water. It doesn’t knock any amount of sense back into him, though. Doesn’t trigger the logical part of his brain that is screaming in very small, very italic font: run the fuck away.
It does, unfortunately, force him to notice what else his body’s up to. The awareness floods into him all at once; his hand hurts, obviously. His stomach is lurching, doing cartwheels or backflips, and lower down—well.
Pedro is not going to jack off to this. He is not going to stuff his hand down his shorts and touch himself while he watches Marc sink lower and lower, take Fermín deeper and deeper until even from here Pedro can hear the gag from Marc and the tortured sigh from Fermín. He’s not even going to stay, he tells himself, biting down hard into the meat of his palm until he feels it in the tendons all up his arm. He is not going to stay and see how this finishes. How Fermín finishes.
Fermín, down the alley, suddenly bites his lip. His face scrunches up in a dumb, ugly way. Both of his hands are in Marc’s hair, and Marc’s eyes are closed, and Fermín’s eyes are suddenly—Fermín is—
Pedro runs. Turns and fucking books it out of the alley, out into a crowd of people that scatters around him like a flock of pigeons. He wants to tell somebody, like—quick, go down there, arrest them for public indecency! But he keeps running. Sprints like he’s about to miss a race start, overshoots his own motorhome and has to backtrack and then when he gets there he’s sweating so badly that he drops his key three times before he can get it open.
By the time he’s thrown himself onto his bed, under the sheets like the fucking boogeyman is after him, his body has slackened some. His stomach is still churning high-seas style, but his dick isn’t hard anymore, so he doesn’t have to touch it. He doesn’t have to think about Fermín’s eyes swinging over to where Pedro had been hiding, maybe-maybe-not spotting him before he could bolt. He doesn’t have to think about Marc’s wet mouth around Fermín’s dick. Most importantly, he doesn’t have to address or name the green thing with teeth in his chest.
free space for bike gloves… for me… bez/luca if that’s a recipe you’ve got
personalized kink prompt list ✨
free space - bike gloves - bez/luca
-
The gloves are new, so it's only natural that Luca has to work them in off track. He wears them between sessions on the ranch, curling his fingers, making and unmaking a fist over and over while he watches Vale point out where Celestino's taken a shit line, where Pecco can make up a couple thousandths. Bez, who has actually had a pretty excellent day as far as riding goes, is slumped next to Luca in the shade. He's waving his arms in the air, trying to air out his sweaty armpits, just in his undershirt.
"Marco," Luca says. Celestino revs up and rips back out onto track. Bez glances over, around his own shoulder. His face is very red. "Would you mind...?"
Luca gestures at the heap of cubed melon on the table between them, that Luca could take off his gloves to eat, but he'd prefer not to.
Bez swallows visibly. Luca is observant, and also not stupid. Bez has been looking at Luca's hands—at the gloves—since he came to sit down next to him.
"Sure," says Marco. His knuckles are twitchy and white, fingers curling anxiously around a chunk of watermelon. Luca opens his mouth expectantly. Bez leans across and presses it with surprising care on Luca's tongue.
Luca chews, and then swallows, and then smiles. "Thanks," he says.
Bez, even more red in the face, says, "Sure," and goes back to flapping his arms around.
--
Luca puts the gloves straight back on after he showers. They haven't planned to eat at the ranch tonight, but he's going to linger anyway, maybe have a glass of wine, maybe watch a few episodes of something on the big TV in the living room that usually is only used for race playback and CoD sessions. He doesn't know who is staying the night, but he has a pretty solid guess.
Sure enough, by the time the sun's started to set, everyone has already piled into cars to head home. It's just Luca, draped across the couch in his t-shirt and shorts and gloves, carefully cupping a wine glass in stiff leather fingers. Just Luca, and—well.
"Oh," Marco says, in a less than impressive approximation of surprise. "I didn't know you were still here." A lie, because Bez is a terrible liar, and Luca had already known this was the way things were going to go.
He sits up, sets the wine glass delicately aside. It's most of the way to empty, anyway. "Yes you did," he says, easily. Bez has already gone to his knees and squeezed between the couch and the coffee table.
"Yeah," Bez says.
Luca pokes him in the forehead. The glove has so little give that he pokes much harder than he'd intended to, so that when he pulls away there's a white blotch in the shape of the glove's fingertip that fills in slowly back to sheepish pink.
"You're very obvious," Luca says, spreading all of his fingers until the leather creaks, and then catching Marco's face between his thumb and index finger. His cheeks dip easily, lips puckering, lashes fluttering.
Marco says, "Uh-huh."
"All day," Luca says absently, dragging his thumb across Marco's cheek until it's tucked into the corner of Marco's lips, "You were watching. You thought I hadn't noticed." He doesn't ask it like a question, because he already knows the answer, and anyway Marco's already sucked Luca's thumb into his mouth and making him answer questions would be cruel. He presses his thumb down instead, and he doesn't feel the warmth or the wet of Bez's tongue but he feels it give, feels the vibrations of Bez groaning through thick leather.
He presses all the way in, until the join of his hand stops him. Until the rest of his hand curls into something close to a fist, and the titanium bits that look, in Luca's opinion, like brass knuckles, dig into Marco's cheek. He doesn't think he'd ever hit Marco with a closed fist—even Luca's not that mean, not that sadistic. But—well.
He pulls his hand away, and Marco whines, and Luca twists his wrist to nudge Marco's cheek with the back of his hand. Not hard, but enough to be a threat. Enough for Marco's eyes to flutter wide, roll back, and then fall shut again with crinkles of wants at the corners. They'll try it sometime, Luca thinks—start somewhere else on Marco's body, bring the solid leather of a glove down against the untanned heights of his thighs until they turn bright red.
Marco says, clumsily, "Luca," like Luca's vulnerable to begging even a little bit. Luca clicks his tongue against the backs of his teeth, and he grabs Marco around the jaw, and he gives him a little shake.
"Marco," he says back, too flat to be mocking, but Bez will get the point. Bez, who moans again, garbled around the grip of Luca's hand, the tight press of the shiny new glove.
Luca tsks again, and shoves his thumb back inside of Marco's mouth, cranking his jaw open and then holding it still while he watches Marco's tongue squirm around under the thick pressure of fresh leather.
"Careful," Luca says. Marco gags when Luca presses further back, the tip of his thumb at the back of his throat. "They're new, you know."
oooh I wish you would write a bikefucker fic! whichever motogp guy (or guys) you would like to write!
-motonon
╰┈➤read on ao3
i wish you would write…
bez/rs-gp25 | 1037 words
He rolls Alba Rosa into his living room with the sort of reverence you'd expect in carrying a wife over the threshold. Honeymoon-delicate, careful hands curled around the handlebars where Marco feels most at home. They fit there like hands around a waist; like guiding your best beloved into bed with you for the first time.
This is all a lot like that. She's his girl, after all.
When she's settled into the stand in the space he made for her, months and months and months ago, it's satisfaction close to a race win. The perfect fit, the most perfect, most beautiful bike in the world.
"You did so well this year," Marco says, leaning in close, running a soothing hand along her body. "We make a good team, no?"
She doesn't answer; nervous, maybe, every bit the blushing bride. Or the blushing fiancée, at least—she'd said yes, sure, but they're not married just yet.
"Don't worry," he tells her, even as he strips out of his clothes. He'll treat her right. She knows he will.
He slings a leg over her and settles in the seat. He's never felt more at home than here. Safe in her arms, where she cradles and carries him like she cherishes him just as much as he does her. His cock is already fat with want, balls nestled into sweet soft leather. The lube is already on the table, in arm's reach, because he's planned for this for months—planned to take his time with her, treat her tender and kind. A wildly impractical part of him had wanted so badly to make it right for her. To swap water-based lube for petrol, which certainly would not have ended well for him, but it's the sentiment that counts.
He sits back, snaps open the lube, drizzles it into the dip of the seat. When he catches a palmful of it in one hand, his cock jerks, flushed red at the tip already. He slicks himself absently, gives himself a tug. The bike gleams darkly, teasing in the lamplight.
Marco bends, settles into the bike's tender grasp. The puddle of lube in the dip of the seat is a perfect, wet divot to press his cock into.
It's better than sex with any woman. He fucks slow and shallow against the seat, where Alba Rosa isn't warm, and she doesn't have the soft give of a human body, but he loves her more than anything and that counts for everything.
He grips one handlebar tight, slings his other arm across the dash and rests his forehead there. His mouth brushes against her. It's absent when his tongue darts out, swipes over smooth metal once, and then twice, until he's licking her in earnest. The polished aluminium of her body doesn't taste like much of anything, or it wouldn't to anyone else, but Marco knows her. Knows the hot metal tang of her, the motor oil scent that lingers at the back of the throat.
He moans against her, hips rutting more sharply, all at once. It'll be a shame to have such a quick showing for their first time. But that's why she loves him, isn't it? He's fast. And anyway, there'll be plenty more times after this.
He catches himself mumbling to her—sweet nothings that alternate between romantic and deeply, profoundly filthy, things that make it out of his mouth before ever passing through his brain. How good she tastes. How good she feels. How badly he wants to be inside of her.
On its own accord his arm twitches backward, reaching blindly, groping around behind him until his fingertips catch on the exhaust. One of those impractical things he'd thought about before bringing her home; the grille over the exhaust vent stops him from pressing inside but he rubs against it anyway, fingertips catching on sharp edges. He thinks he could've had it cut out. He could fit three or four fingers inside of her, here, with nothing in the way. The team would've laughed, and joked, Oh, Bez, and maybe given him what he wanted, only because they probably wouldn't have taken it all that seriously.
He takes it very seriously. He could fit his cock inside of her, fuck her properly if he were careful enough.
Instead, he has to settle for this. For fucking his cock through the mess of lube he's made of the seat, for rubbing at her exhaust pipe and gasping against her body that he hopes it's as good for her as it is for him.
He'd considered alternatives, too. Examined her up and down for parts that would fit inside of him, rather than the reverse, because of course he wants to be inside of her but to have her inside of him—
He grits his teeth, hand fisting around her exhaust and imagining trying to take her, to rock back against her, full and fuller. Push himself to his true limit. It's what he always wants.
It catches him off guard. So caught up in the fantasy that his body forgets to hold on any longer than it needs to, and he's coming all at once with very little warning at all. His hand jerks over the exhaust pipe in a motion so unmistakable he feels the friction like a phantom over his own slick cock where it's pressed down, throbbing against the seat. The wet squelch of the lube and his own come makes his balls tight, belly pulling out an orgasm that lasts longer than any he's ever had in his life.
It's a mess, when he stops panting so roughly. Lube dribbling down the insides of his thighs and the sides of the bike, her beautiful curves slick with his spend. His hand stays white-knuckled around her exhaust. If he lets go he's going to slide right off onto the floor.
Eventually, he manages to let go. To slide a hand underneath him and spread the wet all around her perfect body while he presses open-mouthed kisses to every part of her he can reach.
"Just think of the real honeymoon," he murmurs, dreamily. He likes to think she agrees.
