Work Text:
It’s not as bad as the old days, Marco reflects gratefully. Back when Marc and Vale had been racing together, the roiling rage of Marc’s omega scent and Vale’s acrid alpha bitterness mixed together had damn near choked the air out of the paddock, to the point that even Vale himself had joked about being relieved to finally catch COVID and have that sense dampened, even if temporarily.
But today Vale was safely in the team box, looking and smelling for most of the weekend as self-assured as a king, surrounded by people bearing his name and number and colors. So Marco doesn’t blame him for what happens.
No, it’s all Marc’s fault. As most things were. Marc, climbing the fence to make out with the first alpha fan who could get up there to meet him; Marc, literally jumping for joy in parc fermé and releasing a wave of exultant and turned-on omega with every bounce; Marc, shaking that sinfully tight little waist and ass up on the podium like Vale was fucking paying him for it.
People still cracked jokes about Vale stocking his ranch with young omega and beta racers, but they were just that: jokes. Everyone up and down the racing world knew Il Dottore wouldn’t even look at his young charges wrong. So the butt of those jokes, as always, were the omegas themselves. For his own part Marco mostly put his head down and ignored his feelings, grateful merely for a place at the ranch and for the mentorship and platonic proximity that Vale did offer him. And if there was an old training shirt soaked with Vale’s sweat that Marco had pilfered on laundry day stashed below Marco’s bed, to be pulled out every heat cycle for Marco to bury his face into while he got himself off, well, Vale didn’t need to know that, and so all remained peaceful at the Ranch.
Today, Marco gets off the bike already a little hot at the crease of his leathers; just one of the perks about riding as an omega, and something he’s long learned to ignore. His interview is over with first, and then he waits for the other two, increasingly suffocated by Marc’s sweet and pungent scent. Irritatingly, he can feel his body slicking up a little in response, like this is some kind of backwards competition. Who are you trying to show off for, he thinks, not sure if his annoyance is directed at Marc or at himself.
And then he smells it on the wind. Vale’s body is responding the way any alpha’s would. There’s that scent blowing towards him: the same one Marco has been gasping in open-mouthed practically every time he’s come for the last four goddamn years.
Oh, fuck.
He looks away, desperate, and when his gaze lands on the familiarity of Pecco, his body moves before he can think about it. Pecco rode like the champion he is today, and if Marco can’t get Vale’s hands on him then Pecco feels like the next best thing. He thinks Vale is still watching, too, and maybe it’s that thought that makes him throw his legs around Pecco’s hips, squeezing his knees around Pecco when he buckles under the surprise of Marco’s full body weight.
Up close, Marco can see that Pecco’s affected, too; his face is tightly controlled but there’s a wildness in his eyes. “Later,” he promises in a whisper, and breaks away laughing at the spill, and it’s all Marco can do to pull together his simmering body, borrowing strength from that promise.
Up on the podium it’s not so bad, farther away from the scentbomb of Vale, and Marco feels normal enough to stumble through the English interviews with only the usual trips of the tongue, to take the team pictures and talk strategy. When Vale congratulates him afterwards, too, he’s back to his normal calming presence, and Marco would feel relieved if it weren’t for the way his skin practically burns for more touch when Vale claps him on the back.
As soon as he’s alone again he shakes his curls down to hide his shamefully-red ears and texts Pecco. Later, Pecco had said, and Marco thinks it’s been enough time that means now.
“Quasi-heat,” Pecco says when Marco gets into his room, immediately shoving Marco against the back of the door and nosing into his scent gland.
Marco can’t say he minds the lack of greeting; it feels good, and he shudders. “It can’t be. I got through media just fine, didn’t you see?”
Pecco rolls his eyes. “That’s why I said quasi, genius. You still need to come, or it’ll turn worse.”
“I want to come. I don’t need to—”
“Bold words from someone humping my leg already,” Pecco grins, and the infuriating thing is that he’s right. Marco’s properly slick, just on the edge of beginning to drip with it, and if he wants the walk back to his own hotel room to be any less embarrassing then he needs to get out of these joggers now.
“Fucking Vale,” Marco groans, pushing past Pecco and beginning to strip. “It’s like, I know he can’t know how I feel, but I wish he did anyway.”
Pecco’s quiet for just a beat too long, fiddling with the button of his own jeans. Marco steps closer. “Weren’t you smelling him too?”
“I was. But for me the main thing was Marc.”
Marco can’t help his nose creasing up. “I know, right? The things I’d do to have Vale looking at me like that, and then he goes and tongues some random drunk alpha. The way he was flaunting himself…”
Pecco’s naked now and interrupts him with a kiss, pushing them both down to lie together on the bed, trailing hands over Marco’s body. This is what Marco came for, so he’s a little upset when Pecco breaks it off to speak again: “I thought—For me, it wasn’t wanting to be Marc. It was wanting to have him, actually.”
Marco shakes his head, unsure he heard right. “You were hot and bothered because you wanted to fuck Marc Marquez?”
“Why not?” Pecco’s hands are still working, massaging into the meat of Marco’s little tits; Marco gasps when the tip of Pecco’s thumb brushes against his piercing. “We’re both omegas, and we fuck all the time. What’s so weird about wanting another omega?”
I thought we do this because it’s convenient springs to Marco’s tongue, but he manages to swallow it in time, and he’s grateful. Not only would it hurt Pecco to hear, but Marco is also, upon a moment’s reflection, not entirely sure that it’s true. He nudges his right thigh between Pecco’s so that Pecco’s right one goes in between his own, and thinks.
Pecco is convenient, it’s true—but he’s more than that. He’s quick, and funny. He matches Marco’s emotions with his own intensity. And—Marco moans out loud at a perfectly-timed roll of Pecco’s thigh into his clit—Pecco throws himself into fucking Marco with the same discipline and ambition that he displays everywhere else; that just won him today’s race.
“I can hear you thinking,” Pecco murmurs, nudging Marco’s hair out of the way and mouthing at his scent gland again, thereby solving the problem he was complaining about right then and there, because Marco’s head whites-out for a moment, blissfully empty of any thoughts at all.
He shudders back to reality to say: “I guess I just never thought of it that way. I like you because you’re you, not because you’re another omega.” The nicest way to say what he’d bit his tongue on earlier, he hopes. “What is it about Marc? Tell me what it’s like.”
“What, wanting to fuck him?” Pecco’s voice is practically a growl, and his face flushes a deeper red at that. Both their thighs are a mess by now, so slippery that Marco’s actually having to squeeze down harder to get any of the friction he needs.
Marco just nods, breathless, and maybe it’s the desperation in the gesture that makes Pecco switch their positions. He lays Marco back on his elbows and locks his own legs around him so that they’re cunt-to-cunt, and ohhh, there’s that friction Marco needed. Pecco’s hard clit grinds against his own and Marco practically wails.
Pecco isn’t done; that wild gleam is back in his eye. “Didn’t you see I banged him up pretty good out there?” he pants out, hips rolling like an angry sea. “I put my bike on that perfect little body and all the time I wished it was my hands instead.” He claws his fingers down Marco’s waist and thighs to demonstrate, and god, it’s not fair how fast this is hurtling Marco towards orgasm.
“That little—that dance he did,” Marco manages. “You wanted it to be for you, huh? Wanted to press your face into his ass while he’s shaking it?” God. He wants to close his eyes, but if he does, that image will tip him over before he’s ready. He digs his fingers into Pecco’s thigh to slow him down for a minute, to savor the sweet pleasure sparking hot up and down his spinal column.
“I wanted to grab him and kiss him. I wanted to pin him open and eat the slick from his cunt. Like I’ve done with you.” Pecco’s hips start to roll at speed again and Marco lets him take it, knows there’s no stopping this. Full send now. “I wanted to fucking”—his voice hitches and Marco knows he’s nearly there too—“see how much of the prosecco bottle he could take for me.”
That does it: Marco’s crying out and shaking, squirting slick into the impossible hot press of their pussies against each other. Pecco reaches down for a desperate rub of his own clit and follows right after, his hand flying fast and then stilling as he pulses out the last of it, curled over Marco like all the air has left him. Marco watches with a head still swimming in bliss, and swears his cunt pulses when Pecco comes, like he’d be ready (insanely) to go again for Pecco: maybe come on his fingers or tongue this time.
The body may be willing but the mind is not: Marco can feel sleep tugging hard at him, and pushes himself to collapse forward ungracefully, pinning down Pecco. “That was hot,” he says into Pecco’s shoulder. “You’re hot.”
“A hot mess. Let me go clean us up. You can’t fall asleep like that.”
The last thing Marco remembers that night is flipping Pecco off and mumbling: “Try me.”