came for the bikes, stayed for the boys

Marc drawls the word, all sex and insinuation, and if Dovi's making a face at him for daring to bring up what he'd said in his press duties, Marc doesn't seem to care. Just lowers his lashes the way he does for the camera and saunters to Dovi reclined on the sofa.

He looks dangerous likes this, raw and unpredictable with his delicate eyelashes and cutting cheekbones. He sways his hips when he walks, as though Dovi's living room were a catwalk, his stockinged feet padding across the wood floor.

"I hear—" Marc has pitched his voice lower, until it's all gravel and smoke, and Dovi shivers with excitement, can feel the way his body instinctively knows he's half prey, half ringmaster in Marc's little game. Then Marc drops to his knees, the soft material of his sweats just a hair’s breadth away from Dovi's feet. "Mr. Dovizioso, I hear we have a very professional relationship."

He’d known, as soon as he’d heard himself say it, that Marc was going to be a bit of a brat about that line, but there’d been nothing to do about it then. Not until the upcoming show is finished, at least. He wants them talking about Marc, couldn’t stomach the thought that his first season back would be entangled in Dovi when so many triumphs had been tarnished by the scandal of Rossi already.

Not now that he’s back. And he is really truly this time, floating with his own brilliance and the adrenaline of the lights rather than the pain meds and physio and “if you’re careful, you can.” It makes Dovi lightheaded to see him like this.

Glowing. Not twenty-two anymore, but not the shell of a man Dovi had taken into his bed. Something better than just young and beautiful now.

The feeling of Marc’s hand around his ankle brings him back to his flat, where Marc is real and solid, fingers hot and dry gripping the bone.

Marc looks beatific on his knees; serene, as though all the light a person could ever need is already bottled up within this one man. He should sit like this for a shoot, Dovi thinks, tucking the thought away then letting it go entirely. For this moment, Marc can just be Marc. Self-satisfied, infuriating, alive.

He cups Marc's jaw in his hand, then kisses him. His eyelids; his cheekbones; his lips last, a soft press.

"Not very professional," Marc tuts at him, tugging at Dovi's waistband, pulling it down to see him already half hard.

Dovi can feel the shallow breaths as Marc swallows him in one fluid motion, an echo of his fall to his knees. It's too much, too fast, but he just rests his hand against Marc's cheek to steady him. Allows himself one hiss when Marc presses his nose into Dovi's coarse hair.

It's always like this with Marc, intense, fast: too much and everything Dovi's ever wanted. There are moments now though, when it feels like the too-muchness is just Marc. Like Marc is offering himself, rather than clutching at Dovi, running from what might've been.

The sofa creaks when Dovi ruts up into Marc's mouth, once, and he strokes Marc's hair in apology. Then, delicately, as though every hair were priceless, Dovi pulls Marc off.

His eyes are watering, his lips swollen, a line of drool running down his chin as he looks up at Dovi. He still looks delicate, but strong now. Like Dovi can handle him as though he's precious and he won't break apart.

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