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le-chevalier-au-lion · 17 days ago

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255, 0, 0: rosquez [e], part 1

It’s a joke, Valentino will say if anybody asks.

And see? Marc laughs, open-mouthed and clumsy, a little uncertain, his cheeks red—red like the silk crunched in his hands.

“Valentino?” He does ask.

The smirk is mostly reflex, a trained instinct. So is the way he tips his head to the side, challenging. Marc’s eyes flicker from his mouth to the clothes he’s holding and to the pale strips of Valentino’s fingers.

“Well? Aren’t you going to put it on?”

Marc’s breath hitches. “Uh—”

Valentino crowds into him, walks straight into the suckerpunch cloud of sweat and some girlish, cloying perfume. “It’s a very nice gift, no?”

For a sick, suspended moment, he thinks he’s taken it too far, read things wrong. But Marc nods, a sharp, jerky move, and wets his gloss-stained mouth. The ugly rattle-drum inside his chest eases off, softens into lazy contentment. Valentino feels the knife he’s pressed against Marc’s back—even though he doesn’t realize, or worse, doesn’t care—and relaxes.

Marc nods again, dazed, and takes a step back. Times goes slack. He’s probably going to go to the bathroom change, and—

Alright, Valentino thinks hysterically, sweat beading on his throat, alright, then.

By the time he crashes back into his own body, Marc has already toed off his sneakers and his socks, is pulling off his ratty gray hoodie. There’s nothing under it. Valentino stares—at his chest, at the soft swell of his pecs, at his small brown nipples. There’s a hickey bitten low on his collarbones. Purple, fresh.

Three beers and half a bottle of prosecco go sour in his stomach. Valentino tugs him in by the front of his jeans, right where he’s fumbling with the zipper, one hand shaking, the other squeezed tight around the bunched silk.

He presses down lightly against the bruise, just the edge of his nails. Marc jolts into him, wide-eyed.

“I won,” comes the babbling—ringed with a laugh, his wobbly smile turned shameless. “And you told me to have fun when I win—in Assen, remember?”

No, he doesn’t. Had been a little too busy screaming himself raw in Assen, delirious, this golden, giddy relief gnawing at his ribcage. Still got it. Busier in a club in Amsterdam with Uccio and the rest of his friends, so drunk and high that the whole night goes by him in jerky flashes of molten colors.

Valentino makes a show of it, though. “Hmm, I know.” Marc’s chest is wax-smooth under his fingers, and he trembles like a live wire once he touches him. That unkind knot in his mouth lingers, feels like it’s going to fill him with blood. “But it wasn’t what you wanted.”

“Valentino,” Marc says slowly, “are you going to kiss me tonight or do I need to go out again?”

It’s like being forced to the side by his Honda, or watching him slip by, taking that one piece of legacy for himself too. Valentino makes himself click his tongue reproachfully, raise his eyebrows. “That’s not very polite.”

Marc’s lashes flutter low, coy. “Can you kiss me? Please?”

He’s being mocked.

He knows he’s being mocked. It doesn’t mean it’s any less effective, mostly because Marc is staring up at him, flushed, shivering, half-dressed, emotions pouring out of him despite the porcelain front of his flirting. This whole weekend is already a joke anyway, and Valentino is the butt of it—of fucking course Casey’s retirement gift would be a bigger headache.

Might as well lean into it.

His killer eyes have turned liquid and beseeching. Valentino hooks two fingers on the soft underside of his jaw, splays his hand low on the small of his back.

“How beautiful,” he mutters.

Che bella. Marc gets that look again, clumsy, shocked, hungry—like he’s been slapped on the face and discovered that he enjoyed it. “Valentino,” he mutters, all letters of his name clumped together in his rural bumfuck Catalan accent.

That tastes better than please. Valentino is feeling generous now. Fizzling like a champagne high. It’s a chaste kiss, close-mouthed, brief. Marc tries to go for more, messily, his tongue insistent on the seam of his lips, but Valentino only needs to make a soft, chiding noise and tap against his jaw for him to relax.

“You should go get ready, now.” He points to the bathroom with his head. “Give me a proper show, hm?”

Marc walks on unsteady legs. Valentino watches, catches a couple of raised, pink lines on the back of his neck, five perfect marks. The generosity turns nasty and thick, churning—I’ve got you. He doesn’t think that Marc will give much attention to girls anymore.

On his own, Valentino gets rid of his shoes, his shirt, his jeans, his underwear, and sits on the bed. He doesn’t have an explanation for this— any of this—which means he should start working on one.

It’d have made perfect sense in Assen, is the thing, Marc one step below him on the podium, as sweet as he gets after a race he didn’t win, I’m so happy for you bubbling in his mouth.

Sachsenring, too—or the club after it, in that tense-but-pretending-it-isn’t mix of Honda and Yamaha personnel. Marc fucking loves Germany or something like that, had laughed that ugly, honking laugh of his the whole night. But he’d been tucked under Santi’s arm every time Valentino so much as looked at him, and Santi—well, a crew chief has to know you.

There’d been that look, steady, faintly disapproving. He hasn’t been on a Honda for something like a decade, and yet.

The door opens. Valentino still doesn’t have an explanation.

“You got it too small.”

And he’s fidgeting too, but isn’t tugging the hem down, so Valentino gets the front row seat to his thighs, hairless like a girl’s, corded with muscle.

To his everything else, once he drags his eyes up—his chest straining against the red fabric when he breathes, one of the straps falling low on his shoulder, the budge tenting up the skirt.

“Did I?” Valentino grins through the sizzling heat needling under his skin.

Marc glares at him—tries to, that is. He can’t quite make it stick through the shuddery awe in his eyes when he catches Valentino sitting languid and lazy like a cat on the bed, his legs spread, or the way he fidgets, standing awkward in the middle of the room. This is probably the mindfuck of his life. Valentino can’t help but let his grin twist in his lips, a little too mean.

If Valentino even thinks about it, Marc would crumble to his knees, pray the Padre Nostro drooling around his cock.

He swallows through the dryness pooling on his tongue, then again through the sharpness of the memory of the Corkscrew dust. “C’mere, baby,” he says crookedly, in obnoxious English, “or are you too shy for it?”

The challenge works. Marc’s face hardens into a suit of armor, and he stalks towards him, settles on his lap so fast that Valentino can’t brace for it and stop his own punched out breath. Because of course Marc sits straight on top of his dick, naked under the little dress.

His hands are clammy, though, when he reaches for Valentino’s collar. Shaking. “I really can’t bel—,” he starts, with this guts-on-the-floor kind of earnestness.

Valentino shushes him, runs just the tips of his fingers over his back. From his scratched nape to his Venus dimples, his nose stuck at the hinge of Marc’s carved jaw. There’s no illusion, this close. The second-hand perfume, the smear of gloss from some random woman’s mouth, the cheap polyester-making-as-silk, nothing works.

He was wrong at that club. Marc is pretty, but he doesn’t really pass as a girl.

“Look at you, princess,” he croons anyway, sleazy, annoying.

Marc jerks against him, grinds his heavy cock against his thigh, mouth slack. He’s shivering, and grinding, and shivering some more. Valentino barely hears whatever string of bullshit he’s spewing—bella, amorina, principessa, everything sticky sweet—through the pound of blood in his ears.

Crashing feels easier than this, Marc a line of sweltering heat on his lap. Valentino hasn’t done anything with a guy since 2000-and-whatever, very early, when Uccio pulled him to the side. You’re getting too famous for that, and Valentino had agreed, hadn’t said it was just some handjobs or whatever. Which means he really needs an excuse, now.

But there’s only Marc, pretty and masculine and pretty all over again. His balls feel heavy pressed against his leg, and the head of his cock keeps bumping his stomach through the silk when he grinds hungry and shameless.

It’s something like morbid curiosity that gets Valentino to lift the dress up—call it an unwilling familiarity with dicks after years of jerking off to porn magazines in groups, someone stuck on lookout duty, or getting sucked off in Ibiza by fucking Sete or Uccio or God, who cares, he was so high all the time there.

Marc is heavy on his hand, and tan there too. Thick. There’s a pearly drop of pre-come on his tip—a little more when he runs his thumb over it.

Big.

Really fucking big.

Valentino’s smirk feels like a rusty razor between his lips. Cruel, dull, a little clumsy in what it’s supposed to be doing. “Pity you won’t use it, I bet those girls you go out with are all starstruck. Ah, Marc, you’re so big, will it fit?”

Marc bucks into his grip, but his mouth is wobbling, and his eyes are huge, liquid—insistent on his face. “Do you like it?”

He doesn’t have to. It’s not like he’s going to get fucked by it or anything.

“It’s very cute.”

Valentino wonders, maybe, if that will piss him off. Doesn’t want to bother with it—nuzzles at the crook of Marc’s jaw and makes his fist nice and tight. He mouths at the flesh of his throat until Marc goes slack against him, spilling those soft, wretched little noises, the fake silk sliding smoothly against his skin.

He doesn’t think he ever liked a rookie that much—especially one that’s so dangerous. Dangerous like Casey, like Jorge.

But then, they wouldn’t have been quite so sweet, so eager, groaning a bitten off Valentino against the shell of his ear.

Valentino nuzzles against his cheek, smooth and hairless. The second-hand gloss smears on his own face, gross and tacky. “You should get on the bed. Make it really pretty, and I might even fuck you again.”

Marc laughs, wild with it, his mouth bent in a smug grin. Starstruck rookies aren’t usually this insolent to him. “I think you’re going to want to, anyway.”

He can’t quite flip them like this, with his full weight on his legs, so Valentino does the second best thing and lands a slap against Marc’s ass. It’s more noise than bite, but he still goes boneless against him, wide-eyed, beseeching.

Valentino’s cock is nestled under him, on the sweaty crease of skin between his dick and his hole. It’s—fucking sweltering, and Marc doesn’t stop moving right on top of him. He can’t quite think like this either, a noise ripping its way out of his throat. At that, Marc nods, mostly to himself, something too calculating and attentive and sharp about his face.

Watching him. Taking notes.

Which—no.

Valentino shoves at his shoulder. Marc finally, finally moves off him and gets on the bed properly. He doesn’t need to chide him, or make him move—Marc goes all on fours, back arched. The hem of his little dress doesn’t cover anything.

In this disjointed tug of heat, Valentino sort of regrets not getting it in blue or yellow. He’d seen red and clocked it as Marc’s color, but now—

Marc looks at him over his shoulder, his smile broad and sharp no matter that he’s fidgeting a bit, shifting his weight on his knees. “You can do it,” he jokes, very generously, “you promised me it was going to be crazy.”

“I don’t think I have to do much with you,” he shrugs, casually cruel.

Marc laughs, blushes. He’s worn his admiration on his sleeve the whole time, it figures it wouldn’t bother him much. It’s fine. Valentino can take things from there—he’s fucked plenty of women like this before.

The crack of the lube bottle sounds ominous, though.

Marc is tight around his fingers—Valentino works in one a little too fast, and he hisses, something pained to it, tense around the edges. Two only go in with what feels like half a bottle of lube, the wet of it dripping over his smooth, shaved balls and Valentino’s wrist, going tacky on the bedsheets.

He mewls and babbles, a flurry of words in a Catalan so thick that Valentino has decided to ignore him. But Christ—he’s loud, shameless. Keens when he tries to scissor his fingers, even though he can barely move. Moans when he fucks them in, his thumb rubbing idle circles on the stretch of thin skin behind his balls.

The next ten minutes are probably going to be incredibly embarrassing for one of them.

Still—

His voice has gone up a pitch. The person in the other room bangs against the wall hard.

Valentino presses his face against the mattress, mean, an arm braced on Marc’s shoulder blades, right where his sweat is turning the silk dark.

“It’s probably going to be in the newspapers tomorrow,” Valentino manages to speak. The words come out slowly, one by one, pried from his dry throat. “Rossi with a whore in Laguna Seca. Keep it down, eh?”

Marc doesn’t. Makes this wretched noise instead, but at least he’s biting the pillow, so it isn’t as bad as it could be. Not so loud. Valentino decides that he really doesn’t care, because Marc twitches, tightens up on his fingers, his cock leaking and heavy between his thighs. He will have someone in his team pay off whoever is in there.

Can’t have Rossi screws a guy being the headline, really.

That sudden meanness fizzles out before it can grow thorns. Marc twists and fidgets to look at him over his shoulder, eyes gone glassy, all pupils. Valentino wishes that he’d got him in some make-up too, so it’d smear, but then he’s talking—

“I thought about it.” The words pour from his mouth in a rush, Ithoughtaboutit. Valentino is this close to purring about fucking me? Yeah, I noticed when he blurts out the rest, “at the club in Austin, when you—when you called me a whore. Can you—”

He says it like Valentino would, puttana, and grinds back against him. There’s static in his ears, and his entire body lurches forward like his guts are being tugged with hooks to bite at Marc’s shoulder, the imprints of his teeth red and sore. Valentino gets his fingers out, replaces them with the head of his cock bumping against Marc’s hole before he starts whining.

“Should’ve known you’d want me to call you a slut.”

He wishes that it’d sound like a show, silver-bright, cruel in the same measure that it is slick. It doesn’t. There’s only Valentino, panting like a dog.

And Marc whimpering, rushing to nod. He sees things happen in jerks, like a kaleidoscope, his hand on the back of Marc’s head, keeping him down, making him arch up, the tip of his dick catching on his hole and then slipping inside it.

Valentino needs to move his hips in those tiny rolls, barely anything. Marc is an inferno around him, tight and tense like he’s pressing his nails over his nerve endings, his shoulders hitching with every breath.

It takes ages until his hips are pressed against the swell of his ass, fake silk brushing against the hair on his crotch, and Valentino can feel each agonizing millisecond of friction, has to start counting backwards, think about the circuit and how punishing and miserable it is, anything, hot like fever.

He can’t tell which one of them this humiliates more. Can’t tell if Marc’s still being loud, either, through the staticky hiss in his ears.

His mouth damns him like it tends to do—nonsense pours out of him like a punch, whore and my groupie and choking for dick, aren’t you and princess and pretty. All of it against the crook of Marc’s neck, where he still smells like some girl, so he won’t look at his cock splitting him open, or at the dress draped over his ass.

It’s a mess from there, Valentino rutting against him like he’s twenty too, zero finesse to it, just the wet, loud slide and this thorny coil in his throat that’s been there since COTA, unswallowed, driving him insane when he caught the tail end of Marc slipping out of a party and the click of heels behind him.

“I’m really lucky,” he pants through grit teeth, digging his fingers into his ass, his thighs, his hips—hopes all of those touches will bruise. “Got the prettiest girl at that party all for me.”

Marc shudders, this tiny ah catching in his throat. “For you,” he says, urgently.

Reaches out behind him for his hand, to wrap it around his cock, the wet, obscene weight of it. Valentino runs a finger over the weeping slit.

“Want me to play with your clit, baby?”

Valentino makes it obnoxious, plans to laugh, but Marc makes a noise between a giggle and a whine, a bit like he’s dying, and goes tight around him. It’s like he’s slipping a knife inside him, prying tendon from flesh from bone. Valentino grunts, then lets out something reedier once he feels the wet heat of Marc’s come on his fingers, how his body trembles.

Christ—alright. His own body seizes, skin a couple sizes too small.

He presses his forehead against Marc’s muscled back, the silk, relief unspooling his limbs. It’s barely three more thrusts until he’s coming too, buried all the way in, his heart drumming somewhere high, his hands numb and shuddering, vision whited out.

Next time, he thinks, head fuzzy, Valentino is getting something small and lacy to replace Marc’s race day red underwear.

#rosquez #chev fics #marc marquez #valentino rossi #motogp #motogp rpf #rpf #THE FEMINIZATION LAGUNA SECA PIECE I PROMISED #and alright hear me out i've tried to write this since i don't know ages ago #i'm very insecure about this piece but who cares it's finally finally done #tw internalized homophobia and undernegotiated stuff #way too many layers if you squint #a little too intense for the timeline i've established but who cares at this point anything goes #anyway many thanks to astirian who dmed me to check if this one existed #it didn't at the time but i couldn't rest easy until it did #crimson carmine scarlet

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