#how marc looks at vale

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

everywhen you look: rosquez [g], part 1

1997-2025

“You really aren’t going to tell me anything.” Valentino flicks his leg irritably, kicks up a wave.

The man brushes the chlorine from his face and snorts. His name is Marc, he’d said, among other incredibly useless trivia facts such as, this is Madrid, it’s March of 2025—which sounds like a fake, sci fi year—and i Nerazzurri are leading Serie A by one point.

“Eh, it’s for the best.”

Valentino mutters under his breath, eh, it’s for the best, in a mockery of that Spanish accent. Marc only looks up at him bemusedly from the water, through his wet lashes. He’s being very evasive.

It would have been considerably more annoying if he weren't quite so handsome.

If he hadn’t been stuck at home, with snow coming down in buckets—too much to ride, too much to sneak out for a little while. The baby had been crying—crying, crying, crying. Luca is usually a very good kid, not fussy, but he’d been angry. Neither he nor Stefania could calm him down. Stefania said he might be colicky.

Valentino had felt a little like Graziano, sitting on the couch, watching her try to make Luca stop howling for five minutes, please baby, we’ve got you.

So here is better. No snow. The pool is nice, very rich people, perfectly warm. A little further away, the house seems odd, a sharp, gray block, but he supposes nothing there costs less than a hundred lire.

And Marc is interesting.

“But you know me,” Valentino tries again, a different approach.

Marc’s expression of vague delight doesn’t flicker. He keeps staring at him with unblinking intensity. Someone should tell him it’s kind of creepy when he does that, but also—Valentino’s hands spasm at the edge of the pool, and he has to look away first. Heat prickles under his skin. He wants to keep bullshitting to see how far he can take it, how much Marc can figure out.

“Well, obviously. I thought we had gone over that already.”

It’d been the first thing he’d said when he emerged from the deep end. Valentino? A quiet, overwrought noise, a bit like he’d been slapped, suddenly looking very young. No matter how much he tries, Marc refuses to slip like that again.

He’d guessed the year it should’ve been for him on the first try, too.

“From racing,” Valentino suggests.

“It’s 97 for you, no?” Marc raises a pointed eyebrow. Valentino runs a hand over his hair just as pointedly—dry, creaking and bleached. “You know you’re a good rider.”

“Good as in a couple of lower-class titles or good like Mick?”

Marc swallows, wastes a moment too many just staring at some point over his shoulder before sighing. Valentino might’ve found a way to twist the knife resting between them—the one Marc is studiously squirreling from naming—by accident. There’s no triumph to it, the way he imagined there’d, just that uncomfortable feeling of being wrist deep in a cadaver.

It’d have been incredibly helpful to know what is wrong, exactly, to only make it hurt if he wants to make it hurt.

“Don’t worry, you’re going to enjoy your career,” Marc says, his voice low and cryptic.

Valentino’s eyes narrow. “You’re fucking with me.”

Marc just leans back, his grin stretching wider, an edge more infuriating. What are you going to do about it? in no words at all.

He doesn’t mean to, but frustration spills out in groan. Valentino thrusts his foot out, jabbing it toward Marc. “I’m already asking vague questions,” he mutters, scrambling against himself to not sound sullen. “You could at least give me something.”

Marc opens his broad mouth and cackles. Valentino can see inside it, his large, pink tongue and the white straightness of his teeth. It’s an ugly, honking noise that comes out, quite shameless. In Tavullia, or in the lower classes, Valentino would’ve made fun of him for it. Too loud, too weird, too much, but Marc—handsome, and difficult, and probably thirty—doesn’t look like he’d care.

Might go cute, Vale, the way Norick does, sometimes.

Which—

This nameless disquiet tugs in his stomach, red-hot, unwanted. He presses his lips together, drums his fingers on the floor. Restlessness makes him fidget, a little mean with nowhere to put it.

Marc grabs Valentino’s ankle as he tries to poke him again. His hands are leather-thick, rough like sandpaper. Strong, he notes, swallowing an embarrassing, reedy hiss when he tries to haul his leg in and Marc squeezes his ankle, keeps him pinned in place. He makes it hard to stay bothered.

“You’re going to—ah, I don’t know, get in trouble. Might fuck your timeline up.”

A splutter churns in his mouth, half offended, half playing it up, right until Marc lets go of his leg and gets up, hauls himself half out of the pool to stand braced against the edge, the skin of his arm brushing against Valentino’s jeans, getting it wet.

He’s got nicer tits than a good half of the girls he’s fucked. Fat enough that he thinks he could push them together and put his dick between them, like he’s seen guys do in porn.

“Who? Me?” Valentino goes wide-eyed, puts a hand over his heart. Pretends to not have been staring.

Marc shakes his head. “See what I mean?” But the corners of his lips twitch up, stubborn. Fond, mostly despite himself—Valentino is familiar with the look.

Like this, he’s close enough to count the few moles scattered on his collar. Catch the seesawing jerkiness of his shoulder and the raised, pink lines on his arm. Either he let them scar badly, jaded, ugly edges, or they were bad injuries.

Valentino sweeps his eyes over him again—Marc, waxed smooth, meticulously posed, built like an anatomy study given life. Bad injury it is.

“Well?” Marc’s hand slides over to Valentino’s knee, fingers digging in lightly.

Valentino’s leg jerks, a reflex, but Marc’s too close now, his breath searing against his skin. The sudden proximity catches him off guard, heat rising in his chest. Annoyance slices through him, a dull, serrated cut at the chuckle Marc lets out. This squirming thing gnaws at his ribs, pries open his mouth before Valentino can plan his next move.

“You’re a racer too,” he says, clumsily, too quickly.

“Am I?” Marc tilts his head to the side, widens his eyes until he looks ridiculously coy.

A begrudging amusement tugs inside his guts like a fishhook. He’s being talked in circles, the way Uccio tells him the press likes, politely, inoffensively. If he hadn’t been paying so much attention, he would’ve been swept along, would’ve been happy with it. And Marc finds this whole dance hilarious. Easy.

Or he’s an excellent liar, which Valentino knows he is.

 “Yeah, duh,” he huffs, looks down at Marc, at the tanned, broad shape of his back glinting under the sun, flexing. “But are you a good one?”

Marc preens under his gaze, smirks—very well pleased. If he’s going to show off, Valentino is going to stare. “You could say so,” he hums, chin tilted lazily.

Valentino scowls. “What does that even mean? Are you one of those guys who thinks, hey, I got to the 500cc, it’s basically like being a world champion?”

“Are you going to be very disappointed if I am?”

His stomach churns. Yes, sort of. He hadn’t expected Marc to be boring. Had hoped, maybe—that he wouldn’t be a movie star in that gray block of a house who shows up to the track from time to time and expects to be pampered. Or one of those fancy Spanish kids that come around, sons of racers’ sons, just enjoying the ride and fucking around.

“For all I know, you’re a bad rider.” The words slip out before Valentino can stop them, soap-like, oily.

It might make him angry. Might wrangle another laugh out of him. Either way, it’s going to give him an in. He wants to crack Marc open against the ground, see if anything interesting spills out. People don’t usually give him this much trouble. As a rule, any audience is simple—fold or break, charmed or about to be.

Marc’s lashes flutter slowly, casting a shadow over his eyes. It’s a minute flicker—a tiny, tiny shift in his expression. Valentino feels sized up, dissected. Like Marc knows an important secret he doesn’t. There’s a deliberateness in that stare, an inside joke Marc’s forgotten to share.

“You would say that,” Marc mumbles.

He’s smiling, still. Valentino doesn’t trust it one bit.

[moonshynecybin]

Sorry so random and hate to asking this like you’re google search engine but what is the deal with Vale and his parents lol

big question! im not sure how much you know so i'll generally cover as many bases as i can and sort of. gather some resources that might help you form a picture.

his dad: graziano rossi. former racer (his peak was finishing third in the 250cc class the year vale was born) who had to retire after some scary injuries (crucial for maximum vale neuroses). in terms of their relationship, first go peruse this webweave from @kwisatzworld. actually i frankly think theyre a better person to answer this question wholesale but i digress. important to note that vale straight up is like yeah he was not a good father lol. ALSO notable that graziano is asked what kind of son vale is and says 'one i can brag about to friends' which. okay. graziano also will not shut the fuck UP about vale in print (he was kind of the one to break rosquez not really being close friends anymore post-assen? for some reason??) which idk if my dad was constantly talking about me to reporters i would feel weird about that. like that is not something that i would enjoy. seems a bit like they have the sort of relationship dozens of us divorced children have with our parents where we can kind of only talk to our dad about sports.

additionally, his parents had him quite young (25 for graziano and in the thick of his racing career, unsure for his mom) and you get a sense that vale thinks they should not have done that.... he doesnt super call them 'mom' or 'dad', instead using their first names, he says they have a more 'friendly' relationship than parental, and apparently his dad and him just started saying i love you to each regularly uh. recently. heres a video of him talking about it (i get the sense the divorce exacerbated these issues as well). that being said i DO also think that vale is closer with his mom in general (she lived in his house for a long time! they lived together during covid as well!) (his mom is named stefania palma and shes a civil engineer, which i think kind ties into how journalists often mention that luca and vale talk about the bike like theyre engineers. i literally dont think that is coincidence, i think they got it from their super hot and smart mom...) heres a bit about her and graziano (x):

theres also LUCA. who is obviously his half brother (he has a few other half siblings on graziano's side, but they arent famous so we dont know as much. i get the sense they arent as close just by virtue of their difference in involvement w racing but its hard to say! its clear hes close with luca, ESPECIALLY after the academy really got going and luca got a bit older.) luca is born in 1997 when vale is 18 years old and just kicking off his career, so hes kind of never known a world where vale wasnt insanely famous. luckily and ironically his father is a sports psychologist. luca's story kind of ties in with stefania's (obviously), and here's a post about how some of the stuff going on in their lives mightve effected them and of course vale. idk why this became a luca treatise but hes important okay!!!! just a family with a lot going on that informs vale's whole deal (having much younger siblings and liking to teach perhaps as a result, his marriage feelings, his REPRESSION issues, how he shows love, how he self-protects, and a lot more. idk this is hardly comprehensive but hopefully it gives a little food for thought !

[gr8ntaire]

sorry people (on this app and otherwise) r so weird about Valentino actually

[batsplat]

Pecco and Pedro are probably the people who more than anyone else want to beat Marc. Pecco because he is forced to do it for a matter of survival, his bet next year is to be able to win against Marc with the same bike. Pedro wants to win the first world championship with Marc in MotoGP, even better if he wins it against him, because of course that’s what he wants. I MotoGP your teammate is your first enemy, as surreal as it is, it would be more likely to see Pecco and Pedro helping each other (which would be unlikely anyway because they aren’t the type of people who do that) than one of them helping their teammate , especially if it's Marc. If anything Marc and Pecco have to be intelligent enough to at least not take each other out Portimao style, because in that case there will be someone behind them ready to bite

so I'm going to jump in right away by saying, I know this ask acknowledges it's unlikely but, yeah, pedro and pecco will not be helping each other in any meaningful sense - because they are both serious challengers to each other and they know it. sometimes, riders can be known to help non-team members in fairly small low-key ways (see in this post valentino accusing marc of deliberately towing ducati riders to get them ahead of his actual rivals in brno 2014). for both pecco and pedro, marc is definitely the bigger focus, but they are both perfectly aware of the danger the other poses, and will not be inclined to treat each other as anything other than an active threat

that being said! of course pecco has already nicely demonstrated this season that he does approach his marc fights differently than he does those with other riders (which is broadly the correct and smart thing to do, even if the specifics can be critiqued). portimao even gave us the direct comparison between pecco/pedro and pecco/marc! part of it, yes, will just be an element of self-preservation - marc is now back to being a major roadblock for winning any future championships, and he'll be in pecco's house so will of course require... extra attention. apart from that, it absolutely would be the most meaningful way pecco could win a championship, by beating the famous marc marquez on equal machinery... nobody has done that before, and it would instantly dispel any remaining doubts about pecco's ability and cement his legacy as one of the greats of the sport. he wants to beat marc so badly because marc is one of the two riders he's always been chasing... and marc's absence has left all the young pretenders in this odd place where they've taken the crown but don't quite believe it's theirs yet. (just to say this again, I personally don't share the view that marc's absence diminishes those titles in any way, but it is of course interesting when the riders themselves have these insecurities.) there was that interview from early-ish last year where pecco talked about some of his personal limitations and how he views his own status in the sport:

fascinating, isn't it? of course, I'm sure a second title will have helped to some extent in making him feel a little more entitled to that status in the sport - but this is not the kind of thing valentino or casey or jorge or marc ever would have said. there's a self-consciousness to pecco, an awareness of his uncertain, shaky journey to the top of the sport, how he's fully cognisant of how different he is to those names... which can be a problem at times - delusion is an athlete's life blood, and while the level headed insight pecco expresses here is arguably admirable, it is not necessarily helpful for him as a champion. on the other hand, sometimes lacking a little in the delusion department can be a good thing if it allows you to deliberately improve yourself, pushed on by the knowledge that you still have a long way to go... pecco's biggest self-inflicted wounds have tended to come when he's at his most comfortable - you can theorise about why this happens, but maybe that striver mindset is exactly what he needs to keep him going. it's still quite the admission to describe his 2022 season as more incomplete than either valentino or marc's title runs. (mind you, it's arguably even less complete a season than some of their misses - of course with valentino you have the obvious ones, but did you know that marc scored an average of 13.44 points in 2015 vs pecco's average of 13.25 in 2022? obvious caveat that in 2015 there were considerably fewer competitive bikes and barely any capable of regularly challenging for race wins.) the need to prove himself is always there with pecco... it keeps peaking through with him, and it absolutely peaks through in his approach to marc. yes, yes, acosta is the future, jorge martin has been his title rival more recently... but of course, beating marc would be special. do you think pecco ever dreamed that of it? do you think he really believed that he could before he was already premier class champion? with most champions, you would say it's likely. with pecco, I'm not quite so sure

as for pedro, yeah, obviously, that's just the cycle continuing lol. deeply curious what those two regularly competing at the sharp end of races looks like. pedro has kinda kept his distance, isn't that much of a marc fan himself... when he talks inspirations he tends to bring up schwantz, stoner, pedrosa, and of course rossi

schwantz is far from an unusual pick amongst riders, though as the years pass perhaps gradually more so - it certainly reveals an appreciation for the history of the sport. as do the other choices, in a way... let's not forget that acosta was eight years old when casey retired. of course back in the day casey and dani themselves got plenty of criticism for how 'boring' they were - that's just how these things go! nobody's ever nostalgic for the present etc etc

pedro did also talk last year about how the public wants celebrations and rivalries, critiquing how friendly riders are nowadays and saying people want battles like jorge/dani, valentino/marc, and so on (full clip here)

heartwarming: global number of people who still care about the valentino/sete rivalry is now confirmed at 2 (two)

obviously, you can't just go out and manufacture feuds because you're feeling like it, and pedro's had a pretty quiet rookie season in that sense. but once he feels like he's settled in and can challenge the infamous marc marquez in an actual title fight? on the basis of this rhetoric, you'd at least hope he's not going to be too shy in taking on the challenge. of course he too wants to beat marc more than anyone else... again, it's a question of legacy, how pedro clearly situates himself within the same lineage as both valentino and marc - even if personally he aspires to be more of a successor to the former than the latter. always better to take the crown for yourself, right? this is a kid who's clearly into the history of the sport and is already determined to make himself a big part of that story... weaving himself into that narrative by taking on a legend of the past, taking on the task of disposing with that legend himself. plus, given pedro is so aware of that history - he knows that what people remember are the rivalries. he wants some of that for himself! it'll be interesting to see how proactive he'll be in making that happen, certainly seems like an enterprising young lad

anyhow, yes, plenty of potential for both of those dynamics. and yes, they do very much want to beat marc - but if we're talking about who wants to beat him the most, jorge martin probably deserves a mention right around now. does have to be said that something dumb like the portimao thing is costing pecco and marc this year. it's kind of gone under given the sheer bucketloads of points all the title contenders are throwing away, but pecco would be eight not eighteen points behind in the standings if he had settled for sixth in portimao, and for marc it would be twenty four rather than thirty five points if he'd backed out of the move and had another go on the next lap. relatively unlikely to make a difference at the end of the season... though for mr title decider pecco bagnaia, it sure might be! I did joke about making the pecco/marc portimao thing tradition, but generally speaking two top riders crashing each other out isn't that common a thing, and it's pretty..? rare? that it's the same two riders on multiple occasions? I'm drawing a bit of a blank here, to be honest... then again, title contenders do seem to crash rather more than they used to (admittedly they also have a lot of opportunities now) - so maybe this is going to become a more regular occurrence. but what is more likely to happen is that when you have two competitive riders on the same bike, they do run the risk of taking turns stealing points from each other at the circuits where their bike is at its best. I think pecco and marc can probably minimise this given what a good all-round bike the ducati is across a range of different circuits, and also given that as individual riders they do at least seem to be reasonably distinct in what their strongest and weakest tracks are. all in all, I kind of doubt they'll cost each other like that next year... though admittedly if portimao is anything to go by I may be tempting fate

[jam-packed]

i have spent nearly $700 in the past week bc i keep going on ebay and buying model bikes and trading cards from 2003

[autumnapricot]

the more i learn about rosquez the more i want to jump of a cliff ☹️

so real. welcome to the club.

that‘s the only valid reaction to rosquez truly and it‘s like….you keep on teetering on the edge of that cliff because it‘s horrifying yet gloriously, hauntingly interesting but you‘re also screaming into the void that opens itself into an abyss below because what the fuck but also…you just have to somehow keep looking, and the funny thing is, you always find something new and there are surely so many stones still left unturned and—i want to know every single foul tiny detail about them. i want every piece of dirt. i want everything. and and and the thing is you think, okay it‘s been a decade now since their fallout in 2015–but no, because wdym in 2025 valentino‘s golden vr46 academy boy pecco is going to be his arch nemesis for all lifetime‘s teammate in ducati! the narratives!! it just keeps.writing.itself. and wdym valentino still goes on podcasts and finds new details to reenact about marc because he can‘t keep marc out of his mouth if someone‘s only willing to listen!! and marc is like idgaf about that man anymore. was my hero once but after a few months i was done with him and i will continue to be:) lies! (wdym months, you yearning lying ass!!! what abt 2016? 2017? 2018 until argentina!!)

[eovaldi]

it’s just like sometimes i think about marc and vale and i start wanting them to make up bc i need to see them joking and laughing and then i think about when vale said the wound is still as fresh as the day it happened and when marc said the years go by and i love him less and less (which i feel like could be undone in 2 seconds if vale said the right things) but they’re both too alike and too stubborn to admit they both are the reason they’re here and too that they both aren’t over it

[moonshynecybin]

Marc must have gotten some sign of defrosting from Vale istg because in his documentary he was fully prepared to go I don't give a fuck anymore. And he had full vontrol over his doc

But now in the dazn interview he goes like... well its up to him because the door of reconciliation is open

lobs a nuance grenade SORRY... so this IS kind of aligned with how he's acted/talked about valentino since the divorce with the notable exception of that doc (and misano 2019 lol) which is a setting where he had complete authorial control. like it makes sense to me that he's making an effort to avoid any potential negative soundbites to get slapped on headlines (and. well. consistently saying vale is the angry one DOES make vale seem more unreasonable here. marc's like IM not mad UR the one being crazy...), but i ALSO think he keeps it positive because rehashing it HURTS. like i think he will only let out how painful the whole thing was for him in a situation where no one can possibly ask him any follow up because it would literally feel like open heart surgery.

it is also notable to me is how vale and marc's strategies in avoiding those kinds of soundbites are SUPER different... like when he's asked about marc in interviews now, usually valentino always gives a vague compliment about marc's riding style and then immediately changes the subject. MARC on the other hand, has an entirely different game plan that tbqh i think kind of runs away from him sometimes. like he always starts with. 1. he was my hero and my idol and is so charismatic and i wanted to fuck him so bad. 2. EYE dont have any issues with him that's all in his brain. and then 3. valentino PLEASEEE call me back. and in THIS video he is NOTABLY effusive oh my god. jesus christ. like yeah keep it positive do all that PR stuff but marc my man you dontttt need to monologue for two whole minutes on how obsessed with him you are while holding a photo of you looking at him contemplating dick in silence. like whats wrong with you lol.... never has anyone begged more publicly for old man dick

[motomamithings]

(Mentally i’m totally stable and a normal human being)

I’ve been seeing all these posts about Marc being Moto Jesus but I’ll do you one better. Marc is Moto Lucifer, the favorite son who fell from grace simply for disagreeing. The most beautiful and one of the most powerful but forsaken for wanting to be equal. I think honestly it suits the whole vibe (ahem, Rosquesz’s whole Thing) better

[star-s-631]

So I'm obsessed with your way of drawing, especially Marc as a hybrid between a deer and a monster. In which you make comparisons about how others see him as an innocent deer and how Valentino sees him as a monster with the blood of his enemies in his mouth. I was wondering if you would draw something like that but with references to 2025 with Ducati and Pecco. Marc's last interview after the sepang tests reminded me a lot of your drawing. Innocent but don't be fooled by his look because he goes for your jugular in a second.

Hi anon! And thank you so much!!!Don’t be fooled by his look you are so real for this. So! Here’s 2025 Ducati Marc being pretty innocent and the opposite. I hope you like it!

innocent deer side and the monster side is both really exist in Marc. Vale only sees the monster side of Marc, Fabio saw both sides during 2019-2020 and he thinks Marc isn’t evil so he even came up to Marc when he was going to gets surgery.How about you pecco?

you know that he can do whatever he decides to do right pecco?

[fall0utmind]

Heatstroke

For the RPF summer camp, which is genuinely the most amazingly cool and sweet idea, and also has me being so competitive with myself. So there's a Fabio/Tom fic coming - hopefully tomorrow :)

Also, how cool is this badge?? I love it so much @love-leah you're so cool :)

fic under the cut!!!! Or on ao3 ~4k

I cooked it up in literally 24 hours from scratch so hope you like xx

Love you guys

They wouldn't, Valentino knew this, because he recognised the scent. Familiar in the same way his mum's detergent was, even though he hadn't smelled it for years. Heat coiled in his gut, a knee-jerk reaction to the memories of Marc writhing beneath him during the scattered heats they spent together years ago. Nausea accompanied it, rolling his stomach as he considered the situation.

The heavy scent of omega on the verge of heat hung in the air.

Valentino could smell it. He wouldn't be surprised if the whole fucking pit lane could smell it. It was burning up the air around them, had been since the starting grid formed. You could see the way that the members of the paddock - the crew, the engineers - pushed their twitching noses into the air, trying to find the source of the sweet smell.

Marc was protective of his scent, always had been. At some point between 2013 and now, he had switched to industrial-level scent blockers. In the early days, there was a hint of jasmine accompanying the young omega, the kind that made most of the riders' eyes follow Marc. Now, nothing. Never in the paddock or at events anyway, his scent always smothered entirely. Marc was the only one, as far as Vale could tell. Bez certainly never wore such extensive blockers except on race days, and even then, you could smell him, the subtle hint of sweetness. 

Pecco had brought it up to Bez one day at the ranch; Valentino had tried not to shift guiltily as he overheard, feeling much like an eavesdropper even in his own house.

"Bez. Do you ever feel like you need to wear blockers? At the races"

 Valentino heard Bez's answering frown in reply. 

"What? No. What year is it? The 80s?" 

"No, no. It's just. Well. Marc..." Pecco begun. Valentino reeled back, trying not to inhale too sharply, 

Pecco cleared his throat. "Well, he um, he never smells like anything. I know he's an omega, of course, but you couldn't tell, not unless you knew. I have only smelled him once. At the launch, late in the evening, at the end of the event. And he hasn't scheduled his heats in the calendar. I overheard him telling Gigi not to worry, that he wouldn't have one all season." Pecco told. 

"But... isn't that unhealthy? My doctor told me I shouldn't use blockers or suppressants that much. But Marc is a strange creature after all, maybe he has found a way to do it without fucking up his biology." Bez replied. 

Pecco hummed non-committedly, before changing the conversation, but Vale got the distinct impression that he wasn't convinced. Valentino wasn't either.

Something was wrong then, for Marc's scent to be so strong. For him not to be masking it. Valentino didn't remember the scent clinging to his skin earlier in the weekend. He knew that the alphas in the paddock didn't recognise it as Marc, even the Ducati crew was looking around. Confused. Honda looked like they knew, because, of course. A few pairs of eyes flitted wildly from the track to the screens, where Vale knew Marc was still lapping at the front - he had seen the flash of red cross the start finish straight from his peripheral. Valentino passed his gaze over the sea of faces, catching Santi's panicked gaze. Santi, who knew Marc's scent and certainly knew something was off.

It was only a few races away from winning his tenth title. That was probably why he was still out there. Valentino had long since made peace with it.

If it were anyone else, they wouldn't be racing. Valentino didn't even know if it was safe for Marc to be riding like this.

Trust Marc to be out there, probably on the brink, maybe a few hours away from slipping into heat, and fucking winning the race of all things.

After his ninth, he'd invited Marc to the ranch. He hadn't filmed it, it felt too precarious, risky in a way. The boys had been shocked, eyeing Marc with caution but also a hint of respect, attraction for a few of them. Valentino had rolled his eyes, played the gratuitous host, given his boys a warning look whenever he caught their heated stares, chuckling as they looked away with burning red cheeks.

It was unfortunate that he had actually enjoyed it. Even though he had to swallow down his pride when Marc crossed the line first. The sting was prominent until Marc had taken off his helmet - his hair was a mess, sweat clinging to the strands which fell into his eyes. His face was alight was joy, eyes blown wide and excited as he grinned. Valentino watched as he pulled Pecco into a warm hug, immediately launching into a debrief, his hands gesturing rapidly as he cackled.

Valentino had cornered Marc the next day, hauling himself out of bed early because he knew that Marc woke up at the crack of dawn. He had caught Marc after a run, sweaty and red in the morning light as he re-entered the boot room leading into the kitchen and froze as if caught red-handed. Valentino had ignored the scent permeating the air, rolling off Marc's sweat-covered body (too early for him to have applied his blockers), and pointedly made them both a cup of coffee whilst Marc had showered. Then they talked.

Since then, they had begun to quietly repair their bond behind the scenes. They built some of their relationship back up from the shattered remnants of before. The trust was the hardest to mend. Time and honesty were healing old wounds and rubbing soothing balm on the scars. They were acquaintances now, not much more, not much less. Civil to each other, polite to the cameras, sometimes slightly more behind the scenes. Valentino tried not to let the fondness he felt for Marc show, even as it slowly seeped back.

Valentino still thought about that scent.

He couldn't deny the spark of curiosity he had around Mark, the same curiosity which had always been present around the younger omega. From day one, he had been an enigma wrapped in a mystery, drawing Valentino in. There was a time when bitterness made Valentino sure that Marc was doing it on purpose.

Not anymore.

And yet, Valentino continued to push his interest away, unaccepting and confused. It seemed foolish to fall into the same patterns as before, the same traps. He was sure that to think so much about something (someone) that he had hated for so many years was wrong. Whether that hatred was ingrained by years of denial or not.

It didn't stop him from being there, watching in anticipation as Marc crossed the line first. It didn't prevent him from trekking across the paddock to be there when Marc pulled his bike in front of the number one spot in parc Fermé. He watched eagerly as Marc clambered off and threw himself into the waiting arms of his team. Valentino didn't miss the way the younger man staggered slightly as he climbed off his bike, nor how his eyes were dazed when he finally pulled off his helmet, Sweat clinging to him. It made something ugly and possessive rear inside him, made him want to squirrel away from all these eyes.

Valentino could pretend to everyone else that he was there for Pecco, who pulled his own Ducati into the second-place spot and beelined to Vale in the crowd. But Valentino couldn't lie to himself. It was the sweet scent of an omega in heat which drew him across the paddock. He tried to ignore the voice that told him it was his omega in heat.

He didn't have any kind of claim on Marc.

He didn't. (He used to).

And he didn't understand. Marc usually used industrial-grade scent blockers, the kind which removed his scent entirely. He knew on a first-hand basis because nobody could ever smell Marc. Not since- Well, not since quite a few years ago. Ten or eleven if he wanted to put a number to it. He didn't let the thought sit for too long, it would turn rotten quickly.

And yet here Marc was smelling like all the good things in the world. On a race weekend. It was fucking with Valentino's brain. So at odds with the Marc he now knew, the one who was careful, guarded, unwilling to share even a sliver of himself unless it was a performative façade.

(Valentino didn't think too much about that either. The number 10 or maybe 11 haunted him.)

Valentino could only assume that the man didn't know, or didn't have time to prepare, when the heat struck. Marc going into a stress heat or a surprise one on the fourth from last race weekend of the World Championship would be right on brand. Still winning the championship would be too.

(Honestly, there was little chance of anyone catching him)

Valentino wondered if Marc knew, if he cared. He hoped the younger omega would take this seriously, but he had never been one to listen to his body. He remembered, years ago, Dani scolding Marc over and over for it, for taking suppressants by the handful. It wouldn't shock him to hear that Marc had known before, had said he would race, and that was that.

It was as Marc jumped into the arms of his team that he noticed it, his omega's wide eyes and the slight edge of hysterical panic.  As if he hadn't expected the heat to hit so quickly. The team were watching Marc with concern, Pecco included, his nostrils flared in curious interest. Vale watched as Pecco pulled Marc in at the waist, scenting him curiously. It was discreet, to anyone else it wouldn't look like scenting, but Valentino knew them both too well for that. Marc didn't even bat Pecco away. Not for the first time, Valentino wondered how close the two actually were. There was the occasional time when Pecco would come back from the Ducati garage or an event smelling like Marc. Subtle, always subtle, as if Marc had put on his scent blockers and they had only worn off at the end of the evening, when he was hugging Pecco goodbye.

He heard it then, the harsh whispered conversation amid the Ducati team. He caught enough to get the gist, an unexpected heat. Marc had insisted on riding. Hitting too quickly. Scent blockers that were failing, as well as his suppressants. Valentino flinched at that, shivering at the mention of the suppressants that no one should be on long-term. 

Valentino fought off the urge to growl as hands grabbed at Marc from all direction, and their eyes crawled across his body - his tiny waist and his ass. He tried to clamp down on the possessiveness rearing its ugly head in his chest, the compulsion to push people away, although he had no right.

All Valentino could smell was Marc's scent. It was stronger now, the heat burning on. Valentino could see Pecco's nose twitching, his eyes tracking Marc across the podium, protective and hot. And suddenly Valentino wanted in the same way that he could tell the rest of the people in the pit lane did, even though there were probably all on some form of MotoGP-issued scent blockers, which prevented the pit lane from turning into a sensory nightmare. Vale could tell by the way they were gazing up at Mark, the predatory looks in their eyes. He felt a stab of jealousy, of possessiveness, because Marc was his. Marc had been his before any of these people had even met him.

Vale watched Marc, saw the way hands lingered a little too long as they guided him to the waiting car. He caught the flicker of worry in Marc's mechanic's eyes and the way Pecco placed himself between Marc and people they didn't know.

The podium was tough to watch, Marc shifting as if becoming increasingly more uncomfortable, and the sleazy men touching as if they owned him. Valentino's anger rose, his scent turning bitter even to his own nose. The heat was deepening; Valentino knew in a way that reminded him that he was intimately familiar with Marc in heat, images from before flashed through his head. Valentino couldn't tear his eyes away from Marc, glued to where he stood, covered in champagne and dripping slick down his legs. He couldn't see, of course, but he could smell it. No one else would be able to, but Vale had helped Marc through enough heats before that he was miraculously still in tune with Marc's body. A rumble caught in his chest, and the person next to him backed away.

Valentino wanted Marc. He wanted because the younger omega was dripping in champagne and slick, looking like he had fallen from heaven (or maybe been dragged up from hell). Valentino had never wanted anything more than this. Other than to gouge the eyes out of those who were staring at Marc as if they had some kind of claim on him while Marc paraded himself across the podium as if he wasn't on the brink of heat.

He hated himself for the way he almost growled when he saw Pecco grip Marc's waist, eyes fierce and hot on the older. He hated the way that he wanted to rip the arm off the mechanic next to him, who was unable to look away. It was obvious in his eyes, the way he was imagining Marc underneath him. Most of all, Valentino hated that he was no better, that he was a hypocrite.

They wrapped the podium up quickly, the organisers shifting as if unsure what to do about Marc, how to handle what must be a fairly novel conundrum.  They herded the trio away; Vale followed, curious as they made their way to the media room, where Marc continued to flit his eyes between people, guarded. As people encroached, Mark took a step away, smiling placatingly. Always ahead of the game, even as his eyes clouded more and more.

This was not the place to take Marc, not for an omega going into heat. Did this team know nothing? 

He watched from afar, feigning curiosity in Franky's interview next door, noting with amusement his young alpha's face when he smelled Marc.

Valentino stayed back and observed for as long as he could. It lasted until someone touched, reaching out in Marc's personal space, making the omega back away. Except the alpha's hand clamped around Marc's wrist. The Catalan's smile was tight and forced. Valentino was too far away to hear the words exchanged, but saw the way Marc's eyes pinched when the hand visibly tightened, he saw how Marc bit his lip to hold back a whimper, and suddenly, Vale was moving. He blinked, and he was standing between Marc and the man, chest puffed, pushing Marc behind him.

"You should learn some manners", he growled. The man clearly didn't know when to quit

"This has nothing to do with you. I was just asking a question"

"Next time, you talk like that to me or treat an omega that way. You'll be out of a job. Got it?" Vale seethed, uncaring as his scent turned stronger, bitterness seeping into the air.

Marc's own scent spiked in response, and the man leaned forward. Valentino bared his teeth.

"Now, if you excuse me, I have a team to run, and I believe Marquez has somewhere else to be, so scram", Vale hissed, fed up of allowing this to go on. He let a hint of his alpha voice slip through, just enough to remind the man of his power in this space, of his status. The alpha ran with his tail tucked between his legs. Valentino grinned at the shocked crowd of reporters, teeth bared as luca shook his head from over the way.

When he turned around, Marc was already leaving, whisked away by beta from the Duacti team with a hand on his shoulder, hopefully taking him somewhere safe. The only remnants of him were the sweet scent of citrus fruit and jasmine.

*

It was Alex who found him later, his scent wild with worry as he hammered on Valentino's hotel door. Valentino, who had been, at that very moment, desperately holding himself back from hunting Marc down and holding him close, making him feel good. He opened the door to the younger Marquez. 

Valentino only caught some of the rushed words of broken, incoherent Italian flowing out of Alex's mouth, distracted by the combination of worry rolling off of him in waves and Marc's scent, thick, heady and unmistakably distressed, which clung to Alex's skin and clothes. 

Few words filtered into Vale's brain.

Marc, stress heat, sick, pain.

He strung together enough to piece together the picture. Marc had been hit by a rare stress heat, the kind which was brought on by too much isolation, scent blockers, and biological suppression. Nothing was working, they couldn't get him to calm down.

Valentino got the distinct impression that he was the last resort. 

Before he knew it, Valentino was outside Marc's hotel door, the smell of heat burning through. He didn't remember moving and wasn't sure how he made it here. He knew that his name got him places, but was surprised how far; distantly, he hoped that Alex was somewhere near, guarding Marc and his privacy. But Valentino's world was narrowed down to Marc, to making him better.

Valentino had tried everything to stay away, to keep the distance. But now all he could smell was Marc and the scent of sweet citrus fruit, jasmine, used leathers, motor oil, and champagne. The same scent that Valentino still remembered from ten years ago, when he had Mark under him for the first time.

And Valentino couldn't help it - his obsessive want. Marc had always been addictive to Valentino. Even though he had spent many years denying it, pretending that he didn't care about Marc. It always ended the same way, with Vale being drawn back in. Now they were friends, acquaintances, ex-lovers, maybe something more, and Valentino was standing on the edge of the precipice. He knew what was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

Marc was every want that Vale had ever had wrapped into one. He was more than that. More than he was all those years ago because Marc was no longer 20 and innocent; instead, he was feral and beautiful and more impressive than he had any right to be. Valentino has never wanted an omega more than he wanted Marc.

He had never wanted anything more.

Valentino knocked on the door. Twice.

It was met with an answering whine. The smell was becoming increasingly stronger as the seconds dragged, before the door finally opened.

The chain rattled, pulling taught as the door was drawn a hand's width from the frame, blocked from going any further by the gold restrictor.

Valentino was hit by a rush of that addictive scent. Overwhelmed by Marc as the omega peered around the door, undoing the chain and inviting Vale in after a moment of deliberation. 

The room was already a mess. He could smell the slick-soaked where they were pooled at the base of the bed, a makeshift nest formed from random items of clothing and hastily found bedding. Marc was clad only in an oversized t-shirt, clearly not his, and a pair of black boxers. Valentino clung to the last remaining thread of his sanity as Marc inched closer, pressing into Vale's space as he whined, nuzzling the older man's neck. Vale tried not to inhale, to fall foul of the scent which smothered him. He choked, backed away a fraction. He eyed the bottle of water on the side, already half drunk, before he returned his gaze to Marc. 

Valentino gripped the younger man's chin between his fingers, stroking his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb as he catalogued every inch of Marc's beautiful face. 

"Marc, sweetheart. Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to be sure. 

Marc whined in response, tried to press closer, shifting his head to kiss Valentino's thumb, attempting to draw it into his mouth. Valentino resisted with great effort. 

"Word, Marc, I need words. Please baby" 

"Yes. God yes. Please Vale. I need you. Want your knot, want to feel you in me. Please." 

His eyes glinted. 

"Please. Alpha."

Valentino groaned, a pleased grumble which started in his chest. The remaining pieces of Valentino's resolve crumbled. He used a brief second of clarity to send an SOS, asking for food, water, and clean bedding, nesting material too. He knew Alex would sort the rest, their schedules and the hotel.

He threw his phone across the room, uncaring of where it landed and turned his attention to Marc. Valentino watched him for a second, two, made him wait, before finally connecting their lips in a searing kiss. 

From there, it was a blur. Valentino remembered it in flashes of heat and moments of clarity.

When he finally managed to force some sustenance and water into Marc, the haze of his heat ebbing for just a few minutes, his eyes dazed but lucid as he gazed at Valentino with an unreadable expression, and thanked him quietly for the cereal bar. The peaceful moments until Marc's eyes clouded once more, his skin burned, and the heat took him, begging to be filled again and again

Eating Marc out on the sofa, his head tilted back, completely lost in the feeling as he moaned loud enough to earn them a noise complaint. 

His fingers in Marc's mouth, opened wide, tongue lolling until Valentino tapped his jaw, told him without words to suck. Valentino groaning loudly, his teeth re-finding bitten lips.

"Cazzo, Marc, you were made for this, made to have something in your mouth. Such a good omega"

Talking rushed and dirty just to hear Marc whine around him. 

Marc cumming on his tongue, on his cock, on his knot. Clenching around Vale, the hot heat of him almost unbearable, the air heavy with their combined scents. Citrus, petrol, a hint of jasmine, and pine. 

Marc on his back under Vale, filled with his cock as Valentino fucked him for what felt like the hundredth time. Valentino whispering mine, mine, mine into Marc's skin, and Marc whining in response, writhing and agreeing without complaint. Sucking millions of hickeys over his neck, his thighs, his stomach - claiming. His omega. 

Answering a call from Alex, his voice panicked through the phone, asking what was wrong because it had been almost two days. Valentino, shaking himself out of his pheromone-induced haze long enough to reassure that all was ok. Taking the time to ask for one of Alex's jumpers to comfort Marc post-heat, and maybe some food. Letting Alex hear Marc, briefly, to know that he really was okay, still lost to his heat, but it was breaking, the omega less hot to the touch. Vale wanted to soak up every last second.

Marc, insatiable, as he always was, always had been. Begging to be fucked, constantly wanting to be filled. Valentino forcing him to stop for just a minute, to rest, even as Marc cried out for more. Valentino giving in, eventually. As he always did with Marc.

He thought that maybe he fell into its own rut at some point, too enraptured by the sight of Mark underneath him to resist.

The heat broke at some point early on the third day. It was dark, probably the early hours. Valentino felt exhausted but content, satisfied as he laid his hand on Marc's forehead. The younger man pushed into the touch, humming quietly as his eyes blinked open, still far away. Valentino kissed his cheek and coaxed him back to sleep.

Afterwards, once Marc was lucid, Valentino dragged them both into the shower, tired and satiated. He turned the water on hot, directed Marc under the spray and gently wiped him down before giving himself a quick once-over. It was soft and domestic, and Valentino wanted to stay like this forever. He wrapped Marc in a towel and gently dried him before depositing him in bed. Valentino watched as Marc drank the water he had handed him and nibbled at the cereal bar, looking worried. Valentino smiled, tried to make it as soft as possible, content when Marc's shoulder dropped on instinct. 

"Sleep", he whispered. 

"You are tired. Let me look after you, yes? And then we talk" 

Marc looked ready to protest, but he yawned sleepily and blinked up at Vale before nodding.

Valentino stayed by his side until he drifted off, stroking the brown curls which fell across the younger man's forehead. Once he was sure Marc was out, he called Luca and Alex, quietly asked them (pleaded really) to liaise with the teams, the sponsors, and to give them a few more days to work this out. After, he wrapped Marc more firmly in the blankets, curled around him and closed his eyes until sleep took him too.

The next morning, he waited by Marc's side, watching him sleep peacefully. Valentino would wake him up soon, make them both a coffee, and they could talk.

But for now, Valentino could wait. He would wait forever if it meant Marc in his bed, content and soft-looking in the mid-morning light.

The moment stretched, and Valentino wished it could be like this forever. 

[kingofthecotas]

paperweight pt. 3 | ao3

luca & marc teammate fic

----

Luca leaves Japan before Marc does.

It’s not unexpected. They all want a piece of him, their returning king. Their prodigal son. He has to shake a few hands, sign a few caps, but everyone wants Marc, and Luca is quietly released from the rest of the obligations. 

Part of him wants to stay, wants to linger, wants to play his part, but he is a poor substitute for Marc Márquez, after all.

Vale doesn’t summon them to Tavullia anymore, doesn’t carve himself into their day with the good-natured frustrations of someone who has found himself the leader of a herd of adolescent boys. A leader still, yes, but manager, mentor, team owner—not now. Now it’s more like I will be riding on Tuesday, you are welcome, or I am racing at the weekend but the house is always yours. This time, it’s it would be nice to see you all before the season starts. And it would be nice, and that normally means food, so Luca goes.

He’d—not pulled away, exactly, after he joined Honda, but he got busy all of a sudden; so it’s nice that Marc is taking the brunt of this preseason. Lets him breathe.

Pecco had warned him, sometime in October when it was all wrapped up, both the championship and the rider market, that Marc likes entering with a bang, likes his arrival to be felt, likes getting into the very nervous system of a team. And Luca’s not stupid: he knows. But he also knows that Honda is Marc’s, had been Marc’s even in his absence, will always be Marc’s, so this boat-rocking isn’t unsettling in the same way. 

Still, Pecco looks at him, wary, before they pull down goggles and tighten gloves, as if he’s wondering what the hell Luca is doing here when his team is celebrating as if they’ve already won the championship.

Maybe. Maybe not, if Pecco and Ducati have anything to say about it. But Luca doesn’t really know what the fuck he can do, because Marc can talk him up all he likes, can cushion the blow, but—

This is Marc. And this is Honda. So Luca pulls his helmet on. 

——

“How was it?” Bez asks across the table, with one of those grins that either means he knows exactly what he’s asking, or has no idea. 

“Eh, fine.” Luca shrugs. “There were more questions for Marc. He handled it well.” He holds out the bowl of salad to Pecco, who looks mildly sympathetic. “Any tips?”

“Ah.” And Pecco scoffs. “You will find out—don’t crash with Álex. He did not speak to me for a week.”

“Only a week?” 

“He is forgiving,” Pecco says.

Valentino’s features are—careful. The face he makes when he is trying not to make it obvious that he’s controlling his expression. None of the others notice, or would be able to even parse out the meaning if they did. Just Luca and his older brother: Luca, who never stopped thinking Vale was the most incredible person in the world, yet never found it slipping into hero worship. The kind of understanding that comes only from knowing someone for a lifetime. 

“He makes the social media stuff easy," Pecco continues. “Most of the time, he is just—easy.”

Luca nods.

“Still.” Pecco picks up his beer near the base of the bottle, tilts it across the table towards Luca. “He is a bastard when he needs to be. Rather you than me.”

Just like Vale, when he needs to be. A bastard, when he needs to be.

Cele collapses in pitiless laughter against Bez’s shoulder, and Luca does not feel at all conflicted about showing him a pointedly-raised middle finger.

——

Before he knows it, it’s March. Before he knows it, they’re in Sepang. 

Reality sets in quickly, clings to Luca like the heavy humidity. Marc is good; he’d known that. But this—

He can’t even be upset about it—doesn’t think he should, because it’s Marc, and if Luca is taken aback by it then that’s his failing. So he doesn’t allow himself to be. Maybe, he thinks wryly to himself, as Marc sets his sixteenth consistent lap at a frightening pace, it was the surprise of it that injured Pecco the most, more even than Marc’s bruising arrival. And—well. This is Marc. This is Honda. Or maybe Pecco really had fallen for it, had let Marc call him the reference and believed him when he did.

I need to learn how to ride it again. Bullshit.

It’s Pecco who finds him for lunch this time, pulls him away from his laptop and his telemetry with a look that’s far too knowing. Luca almost refuses, but—well, the Ducati catering team make a good carbonara, and they will give him a small portion if he asks, so he allows himself to be lured away.

“Okay?” Pecco asks once they’ve found somewhere both neutral and shaded to sit and eat.

“No worse than I was in Valencia.” Which is a little too honest, maybe. A bike roars past, echoing over the paddock building: it’s probably Marc. Lap twenty, at least.

Pecco smiles. Nods. Swallows his mouthful of pasta. “He’s so full of shit.”

“So full of shit.”

“It’s not just—ah.” Pecco breaks off. “It is a way to protect himself. You will see. Lots of things that seem like he is trying to fuck you, but—really, he is not even thinking about you. Just where he is hurt. From before.” From Valentino, is what he doesn’t say. From all the years he lost nursing a twice–broken arm and a recalcitrant bike. From the title he didn’t win in 2025.

“Is that better?” Luca says without thinking. “That he does not even think about you?”

A shrug. “It’s Marc,” Pecco says around a piece of guanciale. “If he is thinking about you, it is because he is thinking about how he can beat you.”

Luca squints at him. “You like him.”

“Of course I like him.”

“Even though he is a bastard?”

“That’s Marc.” And Pecco tilts his head. “I think Casey said that. But—look, you cannot share a space with him and not—you understand?”

Luca does. He understands. “Is that why Vale is in my garage so much already?”

“You think you are joking,” Pecco mutters.

——

Marc wins in Thailand: no surprise, after the last two years, and after dominating the test there. 

Pecco wins in Argentina: it’s not really a contest after the first lap.

Luca finishes fourth, then fifth: not bad. Not outstanding. 

He should be—he should be fucking thrilled. It’s his best start to a season in four years. He is picking up good points, for himself as well as the team. His side of the garage are happy. It’s just—Marc’s side of the garage are fucking ecstatic.

Watching Marc celebrate his second place, plastic champagne glass in hand, he understands two things with liquid clarity.

It is going to be a long year. And it is going to be a close championship.

——

Usually, Luca despises the spectacle that awaits them in Austin, but this year, he has Marc: a willing clown, an audience’s dream. Champion of the rodeo. A protective flare, after years of being the same for his own brother; just like Vale, Luca thinks, not for the first time. It’s not the first time, either, that he has to stare down the barrel of why. Why he got to have that. Why Marc found the blaze of light trained on him instead.

There isn't a good answer. 

It’s on the Thursday that the axe–blow falls; on a stage in front of hundreds, this week’s influencer turns to Marc and asks, “How is it, racing against Valentino Rossi’s brother?”

Over years, Luca has become very good at biting the inside of his cheek and smiling through it, better than even Pecco, and he manages a laugh that their American interviewer will probably find perfectly charming, or at least she will find it European. 

Marc doesn’t laugh. He pulls up his shoulders, folds his arms, almost the picture of ease in their uncomfortable stools. Almost. “I don’t think of it like this. I think of him like my teammate, and my teammate is Luca. We are working together to make the bike faster, and we are racing each other. Just this.”

Racing each other, as if Luca had been within two tenths of him for either of the opening rounds. But Marc will do this, will ride beyond the limit, while Luca will stay within it. Sometimes, it doesn’t work, but more often it does. 

Just this. Nothing else. That’s Marc, he supposes. Because Valentino is not racing, and so Marc does not need to think about how to beat him. 

He wonders what Valentino would say, if Pecco said that to him. 

Instead, Luca raises his microphone, looks the interviewer straight in the eye. “You should maybe ask me what it is like to race Álex’s brother.”

She baulks. Marc tilts his head back and laughs to the cloudless sky.

——

When Marc wins the sprint, Luca stays for the team photo. 

When Marc wins the race, Luca pulls himself to third, breathless from almost reaching the limit, and Marc pulls him into his arms on the podium, almost like he’s as happy as he is for himself. Or perhaps he just has Luca in his sights now.

A good problem to have, he supposes, and lets Marc and Pecco douse him in champagne, all of them golden and laughing.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

23+9 for Dani/Vale? Or maybe 13+14 for Rosquez?

rosquez: 13 (chastity) + 14 (inexperienced partner)

Valentino swallows convulsively, a noise caught in his throat, not unlike a giggle. Hysterical.

Marc digs the soles of his feet into the mattress. He’s sweating, mouth slack, hips twitching—humping the air. Like this, with his legs up and spread, it looks—well, it looks like Valentino is fucking a star-struck 20-year-old who would let him do anything he wanted, yes please with shining dark eyes.

Even put him in a cock cage just because.

Something churns heavy and buttery in his stomach, a little too close to shame, but Valentino can’t stop himself. Watches the movement of his own hand in this out of body delirium, from Marc’s waxed-smooth thigh to the crease of his hip. The cage is silvery and polished against Marc’s golden skin. Valentino is pretty sure he tans naked—which sounds absurd but isn’t the main issue.

His dick looks tiny tucked inside the metal. It looks like it hurts. This sudden mean want tugs in his guts like a fishhook. He rips his eyes from Marc’s cock. Valentino had put him in it when he was still mostly soft, not flushed purple and leaking and jolting when he drags his hand from his hip to his hole.

One finger goes in easily. Marc is loose, wet with come.

Two, then.

He hooks them up—mean, precise. Marc turns his head to the side and jerks, pours out a string of warbled words in a thick Catalan. Inside him, it’s fever hot. Dizzying. Seeing him fuck back against his hand is a punch to the side of his jaw.

“Valentino,” he says—pleads. His name sounds odd in his mouth, strained.

Valentino like please. He isn’t feeling very inclined to mercy, though.

Puts on a show, instead. Same old cruelty. He has to fumble for the right smirk but thinks it lands right—Marc shivers, bottom lip wobbling. Opens his mouth to pant.

“I could—” The idea lands the bike kicking him off. Red-hot. Guilty. He can barely hear himself through the pounding of blood in his ears, but his mouth ties him to that. “I could keep you like this until Valencia. An orgasm would be a nice little reward if you can beat Jorge, no?”

Marc keens. His lashes flutter madly over his cheeks, like he’s trying to not cry.

For a split-second, for this nauseous three quarters of a heartbeat, Valentino fucked up irreversibly. Goes cold to the tips of his fingers, still buried in Marc, dragging overstimulated whimpers from him. It’s too much. It’s way, way, way too much.

“No, you can’t—Valencia is in, ah, a month and a half.”

Valentino tsks. Can’t seem to shut up. “I can. You gave me the key. Told me to only let you come when I thought you’d waited enough.”

Marc is starting to look insolent. Dangerous. So Valentino fucks his fingers in hard, runs a nail over the sliver of skin showing between the little bars. “It was supposed to be tonight,” Marc cries out, tonight high-pitched with a whine.

“You should’ve said so.” He shrugs, theatrical.

But Valentino thinks back to the fumbling, uncomplicated sex he was having at twenty, back when he was starting to get really famous.

And he wasn’t Marc, who acts like he got lost on the way to a minimoto race, dragging his dad around, sleeping on a bunk bed with his brother.

It lingers in his head, the thought ricocheting and hitting every corner on the way. A month and a half to Valencia. How much would Marc cry if Valentino kept his cock locked away. If he’d get desperate in the middle of a race, the bike purring between his legs, metal digging into him all the fucking time.

Perverse, Valentino tells himself, which he’s gotten very used to ignoring.

His dick is starting to get hard again, too quick, pleasure raking over his nerves like barbed wire.

He leans forward, presses a kiss against the corner of Marc’s mouth. Shh, he says, or think he does, with Marc shaking on his fingers.

There is this sob, a pathetic, snotty noise, overwrought. Valentino reaches out for the key on the bedside table mostly on instinct, shit, sorry going through him like an electric shock. His hand, he realizes with a sick jolt, is shaking. Marc stares up at him with huge, liquid eyes, wet with tears.

Then he shakes his head. “Just a little longer.”

Valentino nods like a puppet, not quite sure if he can feel his body. “Alright,” he grits out. The word sounds foreign on his tongue, flayed open.

He’s still thinking about it—a month and a half.

[tartquez]

Time travel au ☁️

Link to previous parts

Once Vale has given himself a moment to place where — when he is, he lets himself really look at Marc and there’s no other way to put it — he’s been crying. Vale could count on one hand how many times he’s seen Marc cry.

The Marc he left back home was still curled up in bed, Shira nestled in a fluffy mound at his feet while Alex was away that weekend on sponsor duties. Marc had insisted that he wouldn’t let the dogs sleep on the bed, one night was all it took for his resolve to crumble. Guilty smiles pressed sleepily into Vale’s collarbone, a mumbled, we can’t say no to her, can we? And if Vale was a crueler man, a little less in love, he might have corrected Marc then and informed him that the one Vale can’t say no to is not the dog.

Vale blinks slowly.

This Marc standing in front of him is noticeably older, a head of grey hair peppered with streaks of brown. There’s a heavy looking book open in his hands — a photo album, one he swiftly flips shut when he notices the direction of Vale’s gaze.

He offers Vale a watery smile before swiping the back of his hand under his eyes. As always, his smile erases a decade off his face.

“Vale,” Marc hiccups, smile broadening, his eyes are still wet.

Vale opens his mouth but doesn’t know what to say, the air is thick with something he can’t name, a wrongness. He closes his mouth. Every inhale and exhale is laboured, like something is caught in his windpipe and blocking the oxygen from reaching his lungs, he takes an instinctive step back.

And in spite of all of this, the pervasive wrongness, Marc beams like Vale’s unexpected presence is a precious gift. Vale feels sick to his stomach and doesn’t know why. The house is silent, no echo of footsteps or voice calling out faintly from another room, there isn’t even any background chatter from a television. Vale wants to ask where he is, his older self, but can’t find the words all of a sudden. The sick feeling rolls like a ball of clay in his stomach, changing shape but not nature.

“Am I out right now?” Vale swallows uneasily, throat suddenly dry. He glances around the room, searching, then clarifies, “your Vale, has he stepped outside?”

Something flashes across Marc’s face. For a split second, just before Marc wrestles his features under control, he looks unbearably young again.

“Yes.”

Marc runs a hand through his hair, a gold ring catches the light, Vale’s eyes zero in on it.

They’ve been talking a lot recently about the next few years, about Marc retiring one day, about what comes next. Vale takes in this Marc, silvery hair and tears tracking down his tanned cheeks, and the thought slams into him unbidden. Maybe this is what comes next.

A big empty house and Marc weeping over an old photo album.

Marc, his Marc, has only just started discovering the odd greys in his hair. Time moves in straight lines, even if he doesn’t, Vale knows this. Even if Vale has been hopping back and forth over time like a skipping rope that swings over his head one second before sweeping beneath his feet the next, the basic principle itself — before, now, after — remains immutable.

Each time he’s he’s jumped and that invisible skipping rope has flipped from beneath his feet to above his head, it’s always felt like that split second at the front of the pack when he turns his head to look over his shoulder, in one single glimpse, knowing what is behind him and what is coming.

Standing face to face with this Marc, for the first time in a long time, Vale doesn’t want to know what is coming.

He should ask but he’s too scared to, afraid of the answer he might get, because this is the moment to ask Marc if he regrets any of it. Marc has hated him before, Vale thinks he could survive it a second time if he had to, what he might not survive is being something Marc regretted.

Without any warning, Marc reaches out and cradles Vale’s cheeks in his weathered hands. “You have no idea how good it is to see you again,” Marc admits and Vale exhales shakily.

It’s selfish, Vale is under no illusions about that, he would take any future with Marc that he can get, but Vale is not the one who gets to make that call.

“I’m going to propose to you,” Vale says plainly.

It won’t be news to this Marc. Up until now, they’ve been taking turns moving chess pieces, swapping position at the front of the pack but now the music has stopped and Marc is the one at the front looking back over his shoulder, seeing what is behind him and knowing what is coming.

Before, now, after.

This exact moment in time, if Marc wants it — this is his out. Vale will honour and obey his choice even as reality sets in and bile rises in his throat.

But Marc is still grinning, is still crying a little but is still smiling too. His palms are still warm against Vale’s cheeks. There’s a gold band on Marc’s ring finger and it is pressing into Vale’s cheek. It might leave a mark.

“You better make it good,” Marc warns, mock-solemn, wipes the back of his hand under his eyes again, “I’ve been fantasising about it since I was eleven,” he jokes.

It’s easy then, with the sharp pressure easing in Vale’s chest, to promise, “of course.”

Marc inclines his head. His thumb sweeps featherlight under Vale’s eyes, Vale blinks in surprise at the wetness that Marc’s thumb comes away with.

Marc stares down at his hand, lips twisting in a faint smile, as if he hasn’t seen Vale’s tears in a long time either.

[star-s-631]

Okay here’s my thoughts of Marc and Luca as absolute fiction(which is I wanna draw or wanna someone to write it).

Where In 2010, 2025 Luca time traveled. And he’s like 7 or 8y/o(he’s 13y/o in 2010 but like it’d be fun for ff so he’s under 10 here). In 2010, Marc is 17y/o. He found a little boy who seems like he got lost. But there’s no people around. So he takes him to his garage.

Luca, who looks like a little boy follows Marc. Never leave his side because he couldn’t understand what happened to him actually. He remembers everything clearly. But when he tries to tell Marc that he came from the future and he is vale’s brother so he just could found vale, so he won’t be bothered Marc and Honda’s crews, but words doesn’t drop off from his mouth. So he just gave up to telling the truth and just let it be as Marc chooses. Not any of angsty things. There’s just seventeen y/o Marc taking care of little boy Luca as he takes care of his dear younger brother.

Marc takes Luca to the motoGP races and then said “Look, that’s Valentino. Your country hero!” with full of joy and smile. Luca just thinks how tragic that things gonna happen to him in less than 5 years is. He felt sorry for this young Marc (because he’s still 27 y/o inside).

Marc let Luca sleep with him in his motorhome. Because he can handle the situation perfectly. He’s older brother, he can speak Italian, he loves children. They nap together, eat together, rides together. And the at stormy night, Luca felt fear. His body afraid the darkness and lightning. He climbed into Marc and he can’t stop crying. He feels bit embarrassed but like there’s nothing that he can do so he just let it happen (again).

And the suddenly Luca back to 2025. And then Luca remembers everything again. But he didn’t check if Marc remembers it too. Because it doesn’t matter to him. Marc is still friendly with him and he’s okay with that. They don’t have to be so close. But some other stormy day at the GP , they bumped into each other at the hallway and then Marc said “Well, it seems like you cope your biggest fear. I’m proud.” And Luca goes “DO YOU REMEMBER!!?!” Because he needs to eliminate Marc’s memory of young boy Luca. It’s bit embarrassing when a colleague knows your childhood days isn’t it?

[fall0utmind]

After Pecco has the realisation of Marc's self depreciating thoughts being there because of Vale, does he confront Vale about it at anytime or maybe the academy boys are at the ranch one day training and maybe Vale is talking to someone about Marc in a not so nice way and pecco just loses it.

Hello, I am so incredibly absolutely here for pecco being protective af.

(This ask for prev)

I feel like at first he really keeps it on the down low. He just grits his teeth and bares if when the others make nasty comments. Most of the boys click on pretty quickly, but Vale doesn't notice how pecco tenses and how agitated he gets.

When pecco realises quite how low marcs self-esteem is sometimes, all because of Vale and his hate campaign, he can barely keep his anger in check. Pecco finds himself leaving the room the minute the topic steers towards Marc.

It all comes to a head when vale makes a comment to the media, (classic) about marc being a bad teammate for pecco. Then he brings it up ay the ranch and pecco just explodes.

No one has ever seen mild mannered pecco so angry. Ever.

"Where fhe fuck are you getting this from vale. Because i know I haven't said this about marc. Did you stop amd think for one second that it's not just marc who it's affecting. It affects the whole of ducati, all the people who have to scramble to assure the world that marc isn't a bad guy. It affects me, how i fit into the team. The mechanics are beginning to get pissed at me because they assume I'm the reason you won't shut up.

Youre fucking lucky that Marc is mature about it and just brushes it off. Most people wouldn't. He tells them team not to take it out on me. Shrugs off your horrible comments. Agrees to do more media with me to smooth things over.

To make it all worse. He's a fucking great teammate. Sure. He's a bastard on the track and sure he's been an idiot before. But he shares his data, he contributes his ideas, he congratulates me. He has done nothing wrong.

Not for a decade. And even then, it's debatable.

Because newsflash Vale, he's a nice guy, and you're not always right."

Pecco is seething by the time he finishes. Breath coming out in short, sharp pants

When he looks up, he sees the shocked faces around him. He can't bear to look at Bez, nor Franky. He just catches Luca's gaze, the only one who knows.

He chances a look at Vale's shocked face, his jaw slack, and his eyes wide. And then pecco realises what he's said, and fuck, that was probably stupid.

Really stupid.

So, pecco turns and runs. Straight out the back door, through the yard. Thankfully, he had the foresight to keep his keys in his coat and his bags in the car. So he doesn't even look back once as he climbs into the car and guns it out of the ranch. He only sees Luca in his rear view mirror, staring forlornly after him.

Embarrassingly, that's when the tears start, his eyes welling up. There's a hatred building inside of him that Valentino is such a PRICK sometimes. That Marc has to deal with it. And he's caught in between. He sobs.

With one hand on the wheel, he scrambles to find his phone, somewhere in the depths of his pocket.

Before he can even register what he's doing, marc is picking up the phone.

Pecco can't stop crying.

"Pecco, amore, what's wrong?" He asks, panic lacing his tone.

"How do you do it. Put up with all the shit they say about you. When you know it's all lies."

"Time, carino. Lots and lots of time and self-acceptance. You learn to brush it off."

"But all the stuff you say about yourself. All the stuff he's said to you over the years that you now believe."

Marc laughs, soft and indulgent.

"Francesco, I have therapy for a reason.

Its a work in progress. I promise

Now tell me what happened. I will hurt anyone who hurt you."

------

Just some thoughts some thoughts