#poor marc

[topnotchquark]

Going back and listening to Vale talk at the Sepang 2015 presscon.

[nooripoori]

Aleix Espargaro visiting Marc Marquez after he announced his break

[cheapbourbon]

The moon requires a sacrifice 🌙

[lxndonorris]

At first i thought they included a pic of his doctor for...some reason??

IM ENDING IT ALL GOODBYE

[seizethegay420]

Why did no one tell me that Moon Knight (2016) was funny as fuck

Edit: I actually read the rest of the page

[pedripics]

when you’re already freezing and then they turn the sprinklers on, so you make everyone give you a hug 😭😭

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

miss doris thalassia waters: dovquez [e]

@dovquezdecember + at the edge of the abyss

Marc’s eyes are black as pitch—glossy, pearlescent, edge of the abyss. An appropriate metaphor, considering that Andrea is doing, generally, something very stupid by being there.

He breathes out, the water of Marc’s new pool icy all the way to his knees. Tomorrow, they’ll have Marc’s first open sea swim in God knows how many years—Valentino doesn’t want to talk about it and Marc hasn’t grasped the Gregorian calendar yet so he can’t tell.

Tomorrow, Marc will either stay like Andrea asked, because it’s better for him, because he isn’t strong enough to swim back to Spain yet, but soon, soon, or he won’t.

“Dovi,” he says clumsily, in his lure voice, mimicry gone from foreign language to comfortable, almost natural. “Dovi.”

Andrea catches a blur of white and orange. He freezes, flinches, blood drumming wetly in his temples, on his throat. But Marc’s tail stays there, brushing against his legs—coarse scales on fine, animal fur. It doesn’t wrap, doesn’t tug. Andrea lets out a funny noise, taut.

He can feel his pulse on the tips of his fingers.

“Are you excited?” He asks—fills the silence. His voice sounds strained.

Marc mouths along the words, stares at him unblinkingly. It can be difficult, trying to talk with him. Easier to shoot every question he can come up with, make them yes or no, than watch Marc get frustrated with himself, with language, with humans. He gets impatient fast, having to untangle what he feels.

Andrea is fishing for a new word, another question—

“Yes.” Marc nods, exaggerated, an even clumsier mimicry. Andrea shouldn’t—he absolutely shouldn’t—but he laughs, and he forgets to be afraid for half a heartbeat, this golden giddiness bubbling in his chest.

“Yeah. Me too.”

And it’s the mindfuck of Andrea’s life, same as it was a couple months ago when they met—that he gets to watch the human jolt of Marc’s expression. His twitching eyebrows, the hunch in his shoulders. He’s never gotten around discovering what it means—what he’s thinking when Andrea says home and I’ll help you and you won’t have to stay.

Sometimes—

Andrea stops dead on his tracks. For a marine biologist, he’s always been practical. Prides himself on little, but certainly that.

Marc blinks, finally. Extends his clawed hand to him. The tail petting his legs halts.

I’m going to get killed. He’s had that exact same thought every day since the carabinieri called him—sure, it was the CUFAA; he got fucking spooked anyway—and said they had a problem. Since he looked at Marc in a shitty, cramped tank and got drenched for his troubles of being civil. It rattles in his head, the stuff on Marc’s file, the stuff that he put on Marc’s file.

Mesocarnivore Hypercarnivore with a cultural preference for human flesh glares at him in stark black letters. Ambush hunter. Strict do not approach warnings through all of Spain, and twice as many since he tried to kill every single one of his handlers in Italy.

Andrea shrugs off his shirts, shimmies out of his rolled-up jeans, the cuffs damp. When he grabs Marc’s hand, the claws wrap gently around his wrist’s fragile skin. He gets a final lungful before he’s pushed down.

It’s dark, really dark, only flashes of Marc’s bright tail—the whole fucking nine-or-so feet of it—in the corners of his vision, tightening around them both, bracketing him in. The animal part of Andrea’s brain, the one that knows that it shouldn’t be underwater, is certain that he’s going to die here and now if he doesn’t break loose.

He makes himself stay in place. Even—especially—when Marc crowds against him, right there, his abyss black eyes and the wild flop of dark curls all he can see.

Then—the teeth.

Andrea hisses, precious air spilling from him. Except Marc doesn’t bite or tear him apart limb by limb. He’s smiling, Andrea realizes, with a crooning, self-satisfied relief that almost pulls a manic laugh of his dry, constricting throat. It’s smaller and more careful than what he does when he’s trying to scare people, remind them that animals show teeth for a reason.

His teeth are still very white and very sharp, of course.

Whiter and sharper the closer he gets. They’d be breathing the same air if Andrea were breathing, Marc’s nose brushing against his own, the knife-sharpness of his claws pressed against the tenderness of his nape. One slip, accident or not—

Marc is smiling.

Marc is kissing him.

Andrea stamps on the urge to make a noise, keening and thin—can’t waste the oxygen it’d take. His entire body prickles. Might be fear, might be a fishhook of sheer, red-hot want pulling on his guts. His head is spinning, feels light already.

It’s chaste—cautious, no tongue, Marc’s mouth oddly soft and docile against his own. Andrea’s chest aches, a slow-building twinge, but less than knowing he doesn’t get to keep this. Tomorrow, Marc—reckless, kept in place for too long, so fucking reckless—will probably swim off, and Andrea will understand why sailors go mad for a sea they can’t have in that many stories.

They kiss once, twice, thrice. Marc’s tail has pulled his legs together, rough-edged, unyielding like a steel band. His claws hold his jaw in place, and he’s an earnest, cruel, beautiful thing—pulling Andrea in again and again and again. He laughs, and the sound carries perfectly. Loud, honking, shameless. Mundane and ugly, rather than his usual silversweet voice.

The hurt in his chest grows teeth, bites deep. It’s a razor-edged pressure that goes nowhere, builds and builds and builds. Becomes his entire self.

Andrea tries to swim up. Marc doesn’t move an inch, lures him in for another kiss. Hungry, with the threat of teeth on his bottom lip. He can’t tell the darkness of the water from the dark spots glaring in his vision, Marc’s face smudged to a tanned blur. His eyes sting with salt.

When he insists on it, though, Marc takes them both to the surface. Faster than he could’ve done, in a single stroke.

It keeps hurting, even when he sucks in air greedily, one time, ten, more. The pain dulls like it came in—lazy waves. Marc watches him through his flailing, the artful boredom that he yielded against people shattered in the wicked gleam of his grin. Through the pound of blood in Andrea’s ears, in his half breathless delirium, he thinks pretty and doesn’t regret it.

“Dovi,” he giggles.

DoviDoviDovi, like his name is precious, a pearl.

Andrea chuckles, then can’t stop laughing. He feels scraped raw, golden, invincible, pissed off. It’s tangled, knotted in his throat. He keeps realizing those things that don’t add up. One, that Marc’s pool is deep—has to be, he’s a big, bad apex predator, needs his space, and Andrea hadn’t cared about that when he got in. Two, he isn’t swimming, not anymore, and it’s Marc keeping him above water.

Three, he’s hard, filling up against the heavy, scratchy fabric of his wet underwear.

Which—it’s funny. He laughs a lot more, until he stops. Embarrassment coils around his insides, because he shouldn’t. You don’t get hard over something that is a protected species in over 150 countries. Or—and it’s not any better, it just sounds less like Andrea is getting freaky with the aquarium sharks—you don’t get hard over someone you have total control over.

Marc is staring at him, dead-eyed, intense.

“Dovi.” He’d told Marc he didn’t need to use his name that often. He likes saying it, apparently. Andrea’s cock twitches. “I am very nice.”

He scoffs. There’s a smile twisting his lips, which is unfortunate, but he still scoffs.

“No, you aren’t.”

Marc beams at him, crashes them together. Andrea is balanced on the edge of his tail, on his silky soft fins. He flails once, manages to right himself. His raised eyebrows are pointed, serious.

“I am,” he insists, “I do not drown you.”

Andrea is halfway to really? when it crashes over him, a new, clammy wave of fear—this is Marc being uncharacteristically nice. Gentle. Hypercarnivore with a cultural preference for human flesh echoes, gunshot loud in his thoughts.

He chokes on a short cry. His legs fall open, a little, and Marc wedges himself between them. Plasters them together torso to torso. He’s hot—Andrea knows that, always knew. The sudden, actual heat makes him jolt into Marc anyway. Drags his clothed cock against the fine, soft scales of his waist, and it’s not even good, but—Christ.

“Can still eat me,” he pants. It sounds stupid, awkward.

“No, not that either.”

Andrea isn’t sure if Marc knows what being hard means—he can go without digging into the odd stretch of years he spent with Valentino, then trying his best to kill Valentino. There’s this intensity to him, though. Acute, pitiless when he fidgets against him, watching Andrea’s mouth open and close dizzily.

Also, at some point, being scared should kick in—should stop making him feel hot, and sweaty, and starved. It doesn’t.

God, alright.

This is happening. In real time. To him.

“I am nice to you.” After a beat, with Andrea shaking like he has water in his ears: “Now.”

He waits, strange, focused—the unflinching gaze of the flesh-eating monster that Andrea for some fucking reason vowed to help. Only dives under when he nods.

There are claws running along his sides, nowhere near as mean as they could be. The pain comes in flash—settles below his skin, warm, good, actually. Unfortunate for his sanity. Andrea shudders, blooms with goosebumps, freezes from the waist up. Marc flattens his palms against his stomach, his arms, everywhere he can reach to feel the raised hair, the layer of clammy sweat.

Andrea is wrong in the head, fear of death tangled with the fear of Marc stopping—his wires crossed somewhere low in his stomach, in his cock. He closes his mouth with a click of teeth, harsh, or he’ll start drooling.

He catches the glint of Marc’s eyes when he looks up—having a little too much fun with this. With him.

Marc takes his claws off his body. There’s a groan building in his throat, impatient, frustrated—it peters off to a disbelieving, dry scoff when he catches torn pieces of fabric floating in the water.

Andrea can’t tell what expression he’s making, has to reach down to feel it by hand. Marc’s eyebrows waggle over-dramatically under his touch, a face that’s no less ridiculous just because he can’t see it.

“You think you are funny,” he deadpans.

 “Yep,” Marc pops the p obnoxiously—Andrea hears it crystal-clear.

Maybe it’s in his head. Maybe it’s not. The one time Marc tried to explain the finer points of mermaid luring to him, he’d ended up pinned to the floor by a couple of interns—had been trying to drown himself, and Marc went flat against the corner of his tank, wild-eyed, snarling. Andrea knew with the certainty of a miracle he’d been a bit scared under that bristle.

By hand again he watches the serious, flat line of Marc’s lips, the frown on his forehead. He’s scheming—could be as harmless as getting his research notes wet, as gory as tearing his femoral artery open. Andrea has sweat on his hairline, his back, his chest.

He tugs on Marc’s insistently until he comes up, scowling.

“You have to be careful with me.”

Marc tilts his head to the side—like he doesn’t understand. He does. Has to. Andrea can’t describe vulnerability and fragility to a creature who has neither with his cock pulsing heavily between his legs, the urgency of dangerdangerdanger making him shake.

So he taps two fingers against the corner of Marc’s worrisome, deceptive lips. He opens sweetly, on command, and Andrea needs to breathe—needs to not linger on that. Stares at the ceiling above to calm down, the white lights burning bright outlines into his retina.

He traces the sharpness of Marc’s front teeth, the canines. He keeps the pressure light—skimming, really. The skin breaks anyway, floods Marc’s mouth with a trickle of his blood. The moment it happens skews revelatory. Marc makes this noise, inhuman, melodic. Doesn’t bother with the pretense of speech.

His hand clutches at Andrea’s wrist, keeps it in place.

“Careful,” he gasps—reminding, pleading, no difference.

Marc nods once, lets his fingers slip out. His scowl softened, but his jaw is locked in place under the pad of his thumb. Tense. Calculating. He dives again with a croon that he guesses is meant to sound comforting.

Andrea wonders—idly—if he should start praying.

And chokes on the spit overflowing inside his mouth.

It’s rougher than a human tongue. Hot—he keeps expecting for Marc to be cold for some reason, and the shock of his warmth keeps socking him on the jaw, has Andrea reeling. Rounded tip. Funny way to discover that the warnings of him having a devil’s tricks are bitter, make-believe stories.

Andrea can’t swallow a high-pitched moan.

Or how it dissolves into a whine, a flinch. It’s—freaky. Too long. Way too long. And it’s wrapping around the head of his cock, all of it, then another inch or two. Andrea keeps catching those flashes, dusky-pink. Has to stop looking, or—or—

“Uhg.” The noise is punched out of him. Eloquent as always.

He wants—absurdly—to laugh. Can’t make his body quit spasming long enough for that.

Marc starts moving his head, petting Andrea’s length. It’s slow, awkward—the pump of a fist on an odd angle. Except it’s his tongue. His fucked up, too long, animal tongue.

There are noises. Shrill, strangled—suspiciously close to evisceration instead of bliss. Andrea realizes they’re coming from him but can’t wrangle his body back into his control. His ears ring. He clings to Marc’s tail, buries his nails on the knobs of stiff scales. Solid, harsh, more real than whatever the fuck is happening to him.

He shouldn’t be hard, is the thing. The water hasn’t warmed up one bit, and Marc’s tongue is—too much, coarse like sandpaper. More pain than pleasure. But Andrea is, of course he is. Can feel his pulse on his cock. Drool drips down his chin.

Marc strokes him. It’s sluggish, unhurried—Andrea trembles to not move, thighs shaking where they’re bracketing the creature between them.

He stays there, on the head, again-again-again with short jerks of his head, scraping his tongue on the vein running on the underside of his cock until Andrea could swear that every single one of his nerve endings are there, being scraped raw.

“Marc,” he hisses. His feet twitch uselessly, kick tiny waves.

Marc hums—must be that. The vibrations have him jittery like an addict, moaning. Andrea’s arms quiver to keep him still and upright. An urgent, wordless sound froths in his mouth, but Marc’s tail surges, more of it, pressed against the small of his back and around it, keeping him straight.

In place. Pinned. If they go under—

They don’t. There’s only Marc, everywhere. Andrea goes boneless against him, needs to be held. His hands scramble hopelessly against the blur of white and orange around him, settle.

Andre lets himself sink into all of that. It’s too much, a legit out of body experience, and it hurts—the kind of pain that dulls him, halfway to meditation. His punch-drunk desperation narrows the whole world to the wet, rough, hot drag of Marc’s tongue, mean on his tip until he starts rocking into it, those tortured, helpless twitches of his hips. He becomes lax against the feeling.

Time grows liquid around him. Meaningless.

It’s—fucking intense.

He shoulders his way closer, spreads Andrea’s thighs he can fit right between them, plastered against his front, the coil on hair on his groin. And his claws—

Andrea jolts, snaps back into his head with a full-body spasm. Marc’s claws are there, right fucking there, on his balls, playing with them. He freezes, strains to not move again. When he looks, a pathetic huff knocked out of him, he meets the pitiless glint of Marc’s eyes spearing him through.

Marc keeps toying with him. Rolls his balls together, curious, and runs the tip of his black claws over the paper-thin skin there. His other hand digs into Andrea’s knee—stops him from closing his legs. He chokes on a whimper, reedy, warbled, the pounding of blood in his ears closer to hammer blows.

“Wait,” he says—tries to. “Wait, wait, wait, wait.”

There’s no waiting. Marc—apex predator, cruel to his bones—smells weakness, an opening for his ambush. He tightens his tongue right around the tip, oversensitive, sore, and pain hits him like a knife to the guts. Andrea’s vision sparks white, ears ringing, chokes on a moan that tastes an awful lot please and brine.

It's the worst orgasm of his life. The best. Agony and bliss wiping his thoughts away.

Marc put him on the edge of his pool, Andrea finds out, once the adrenaline dwindles to a dull thrum. His feet are inside, swaying to the current of his swishing tail.

He swallows. Has to do it again. His limbs are stiff, uncooperative—leaden weights, more than he can handle. Like this, Andrea isn’t sure if he’s in pain anymore. His nerves might as well be in overdrive, overheating. Sensations come back to him one by one with a delay, in the quiet of the aquarium after dark.

“You’re the worst,” he says without bite. Can’t muster any.

Marc chuckles—it takes Andrea a while to hit him on the side with a trembling leg for that smugness. It’s a weak blow, though. Only makes Marc chuckle a little more—braying, brazen.

“Dovi,” he sing-songs, the syllables familiar in their oddness.

Tomorrow, but it barely aches.

[moonknightblog]

In Marvel Rivals (apparently) Hela said her and Khonshu were nearly lovers once

Marc doesn’t need to hear about his “father’s” love life….

[redrobinsrobbingrobin]

Rewatching moon knight and tbh if I was Steven I’d be crying too. Bro is losing days of his life, he’s missing out on everything, he’s being shoved into all these situations with no way out

I love Steven and Marc so much

Also the moon knight suit goes SO HARD

[age-of-moonknight]

“Three Moments,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #8.

Writer: Jed Mackay; Penciler and Inker: Devmalya Pramanik; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[oyeixcher]

PondSand Scenes because I love them (7 ¦ ??) 

S: "It's late so not many places are open. Can you eat this?" P: "Sure." S: "If you can, then eat. What?" P: *gibberish* S: "Huh?" P: *gibberish* S: "Oh, it's hot. Drink some water." ... S: "Oh. Ahem. Where have you been? Your friends were worried sick." A: "That's my business. Stay out of it. Hey, P'Pond. What are you doing here?" S: "Don't you want to talk to Arc?" P: "Oh, not anymore. I'll just call him later. See you around." S: "P'Pond, then why did you..."

[books4ever03]

It's Oh So Sweet (18+ Rosquez)

Tags: 18+, public blowjob, Marc is a menace, protective Marc, revenge sex

Minors do not interact!

Wordcount: 2.6k

After 1.043 days Marc finally wins a race again. At home in Spain no less. But what happens when he finds out that his brother got taken out by one of Rossi's pupils?

Put that together with some old resentment and anger towards the Italian and mix in Marc winning in Italy the week after as well as a meeting and you get this. Whatever this is.

English isn't my first language.

Find me on ao3: Booklover03

@eternalsams

________________________________________________

He did it. He fucking did it. After two years, ten months, one week and six days Marc has won a race again. And it feels absolutely fantastic. As he crosses the finish line he doesn’t hide his pride. His excitement. So much hard work, so much pain and errors he had to endure. But it was all worth it. Every damn second. Marc feels unstoppable as he pulls into parc ferme. His team and family are already waiting for him with big smiles and cheers. Jumping off the bike as soon as he can he sprints towards them, falling into their arms and letting the pats and punches wash over him. He looks around for Alex, last time he saw his baby brother was third and Marc can’t wait to share another podium with him. To share his joy. His brows furrow in confusion when he spots Jorge and Pedro pull in behind him. Turning back to his team he sees a familiar figure out of his leathers and disappointment in his eyes, even though he tries to hide it with a big smile. But Marc knows his brother better than that. Pulling him into a tight hug he demands, “Tell me what happened.” Because he knows that Alex didn’t crash on his own. Not with the way his entire body is tense and the entire team goes silent as they watch their exchange. Something happened and they don’t want to tell him. Wrong decision.

Marc takes his brother’s face and gives him that look where the younger man knows there’s no way for him to escape before he answers. “It was Bagnaia. Rossi’s perfect little soldier.” But it’s not Alex who says it, even though the younger man’s eyes flash dangerously at the mention of a certain Italian. Marc slowly turns to look at their mother whose expression can only be described as thunderous as he processes what she just said. Ever since 2015 his mother has disliked the man who had hurt her boy. And that dislike had only grown with every instance that happened after that. When 2019 happened she had refused to speak his name or even acknowledge his existence. Marc has no doubt that if she were to run across him, they’d have to bail her out of the local police station holding cell. He’d take her out to one of her favourite restaurants right after and spoil her rotten for days but that’s a completely different story. Right now he’s looking at Alex whose jaw is clenched so hard he worries the younger’s teeth will shatter any minute. There is a fury in his eyes that awakens something deep inside of Marc. A similar feeling though much older. It had been years since he had last waisted any drop of emotion on the Italian, finally deciding that the man was not worthy of his thoughts. But here he was again. Wesleying his way back into Marc’s head and using not only his protege to do it but also Alex. The person Marc loves more than anyone else in the world.

He’d go to war for his brother who had to endure far too much already from the Italian and his people with his only crime being that he’s Marc’s little brother. “I will not stand for this. He’s taken things too far once again,” Marc says in a low voice and while his mother gives him a small but feral smile, his father just looks at him with tired eyes. It makes him look older, that look of disappointment and disapproval and it doesn’t sit right with Marc. But he can’t stand by while his baby brother gets caught in the crossfire. With a silent plea to understand directed at his father Marc squeezes Alex’s neck one last time before he’s being pulled away by an official for his interview. Before he knows it he’s up on the top step of the podium, the masses screaming his name while he’s being sprayed by Jorge and Pedro. He lets himself enjoy it while he can. He’ll deal with Pecco and the Italian later. Now he’ll let himself be celebrated like a hero who has just returned home after years of absence. And it is glorious.

As soon as he’s off the podium and manages to persuade his team to let him go take a shower he makes a b-line for the motorhome of his future teammate. He doesn’t bother changing out of his leathers. That can wait. First he needs to have a little chat with Bagnaia. He’s seen the footage of the crash and yes, while it could have been avoided, it was a racing incident. Both riders saw a line, an opportunity and went for it, neither of them baking down. That’s racing. Even if some people will never look at it like that. Marc knows this better than anyone. He doesn’t have to wait long after knocking for the door to open and a very exhausted looking Bagnaia standing in front of him. The younger man’s shoulders drop as soon as he sees just who’s come knocking and Marc can see that he’s bracing himself for a verbal lashing. Well, he’ll have to disappoint him.

“Are you okay?” He asks instead and watches with amusement as confusion takes over the rider’s face. “Some bruising. All okay. Alex?” Marc gives him a small smile, hoping that it will distract from the way he knows his eyes are burning. “He is the same. Maybe wait until next weekend to talk to him. You are going to talk to him, yes?” It feels more like an accusation than he means to but it does the job. The young Italian stands up taller and determination so similar to someone else fills his eyes. “Of course,” Bagnaia replies before nervously scratching the back of his neck when Marc stays silent. “I am sorry that it happened, of course. I hope we are okay?” It comes out hesitant and for a split second Marc sees the real Pecco. Not the golden boy protege persona he puts on for the media. For him. Marc looks him up and down, deciding the best way to approach this. “We are,” he says and watches the other rider visibly relax. “Counter to someone’s beliefs I am not looking for trouble. Especially not with a future teammate.”

The younger man doesn’t show it but Marc knows they both know who he means. Taking a step closer he smiles when the other doesn’t retreat. It’s going to be fun to see just how far the two of them will push each other next season, he thinks. “I want you to give him a message for me, yes? Tell him,” he says, breaking off for a moment just to see the younger man squirm a bit at the proximity. “Tell him that he can say about me whatever he wants. That he can even put his little lap dog and pupils on me on and off track. But-,” Another pause. “Keep Alex out of it. My brother has done nothing to him and still suffered for my - no, for our - mistakes. He has lost more than enough because of it all And I will not stand for it a single moment longer.” With a slightly feral smile Marc pulls back, letting the poor boy breathe again. “You will tell him, yes? Please? I would really appreciate it.” And with a pat on the younger man’s shoulder, he turns around and goes back to his own motorhome for a long awaited shower before he heads out to the club to celebrate some more. He did just win a race at home after all.

Even a week later the euphoria is still there and there’s a kick in his step as he walks through the paddock. He’s in enemy territory which always gives him that extra thrill. But today is special. Not only is he on pole - again - with Bagnaia starting a few positions behind him - again - but today is special. Because a certain curly haired Italian is in the paddock, only two garages down from his. And if that knowledge doesn’t send a tingle down Marc’s spine. He can hardly keep his grin in check as he makes his way onto the grid where his team is already waiting with the bike.

Part of him really hopes that Bagnaia passed on his message. It would be such a shame if he didn’t. But judging from the glares Bezzecchi keeps sending him all weekend, Marc has a pretty strong feeling that his message was passed on to someone. Speaking of the devil, the younger rider glares at him as he passes and Marc can’t help but mess with him, sending him a wink with a cheeky grin. If he does a questionable motion with his hand and tongue too no one needs to know. But he does throw his head back with a laugh at the deep red blush creeping up Bezzecchi’s neck as he remembers their encounter in the club’s bathroom the week before. Oh yeah, Marc’s going to enjoy teasing him about that. But first, he has a race to win.

There’s a comfortable gap between him and Bagnaia and Bezzecchi so after one last look over his shoulder he leans back on the bike, crossing his arms in front of his chest. No one can see it but he’s grinning under his helmet. And he knows if he looks into a mirror right now his gaze would be predatory. Because he already knows that he’ll be getting a visit later. And if that isn’t exciting. Once again he celebrates with the team, does the interview and makes his way up to the podium. But this time he’s flanked by two Italians in front of their home crowd. You could cut the tension with a knife. As soon as the last note of the Spanish anthem ends he’s sprayed with Prosecco from both sides before he gets even. Marc takes his time with Bezzecchi, making sure to aim right at his face and mouth, daring him to open it and swallow. But the younger man is stubborn as ever causing Marc to grin at him cheekily, sending him a wink before he turns his attention to his team.

He’s still on the high of his win when he walks back to his motorhome, still in his leathers that are now drenched in sweat and Prosecco. When he walks up to it, he sees a familiar figure leaning against the side of it in the shadows. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss him completely. But Marc knows him. He knows it every time that the other man is in his vicinity. A smug expression settles on Marc’s face but he quickly scolds it as he gets closer. Let the man think he’s the one with all the control. Let him believe that he still has power of Marc. For a moment he acts like he doesn’t see the man and just keeps walking when a hand shoots out from the shadows and wraps itself around his wrist in a tight grip. The Spaniard suppresses a smug grin. The game has officially begun. And he doesn’t plan on losing. He’s on a winning streak after all. It’s showtime. Feigning surprise he lets himself be pulled into the shadows and caged against the wall of his motorhome. He lets out a small curse that sounds like he just got scared. “Marc.” Taking a shuddering breath he swallows hard before replying. “Rossi."

Because he’s no longer Vale - not even Valentino - to him. No, that was a long time ago. And he won’t give in just yet. Make the Italian work for it a little bit. “It was a good race.” Marc wets his lips and a thrill shoots up his spine when he sees the older man’s eyes tracking the movement. So he does it again just to feel the way the hand around his wrist tightens just the tiniest bit. “It was,” he says, playing up the breathiness of his voice. “Why are you here, Vale? Why are you doing this? Why now?” He asks, breathless and makes a show of flickering his attention from the Italian’s lips to his eyes and back. Marc doesn’t miss the way the older man’s breath catches at the use of his nickname, his piercing eyes trained on the Spaniard’s lips as they form each letter. “Vale?” It comes out a bit whiny, just the way Marc knows he likes it.

He watches with satisfaction as the Italian’s control seems to waver with every passing second. Rossi curses under his breath. “I wanted to talk to you,” the older rider says while simultaneously leaning closer. Now their bodies are touching from head to toe and Marc can feel the way it’s affecting the Italian. Marc isn’t unaffected about this either, his leathers growing tighter. “Pecco told me your message.” The Spaniard hums, tipping his head back to look up at the man with heavy lidded eyes. “Is that all?” He asks and sneaks his hands down until they rest on the Italian’s waist. “I also wanted to congratulate you. For the win in Spain,” Rossi says, though his voice is rough and no louder than a whisper. Feeling daring, Marc brings his face closer, so close that their lips are slightly brushing against each other as he says, “Then congratulate me. Show me what I deserve for winning again.” It’s a dare, a dangerous one and for a moment he’s not sure if he just pushed too far and ruined everything.

But those worries disappear as quickly as Rossi sinks to his knees, opening Marc’s leathers as he goes down. The Spaniard watches him like a hawk, not wanting to miss even a single second, not even taking his eyes off the man when his cock is suddenly enveloped in wet heat. Letting out a slight hiss, he quickly buries his hand in the familiar curls, just resting there. Because he knows as soon as he pushes or tries to set a pace this game is over. Because as much as Rossi loves a dick in his mouth, he doesn’t like being told how to do it. So Marc just watches, groaning and moaning as the other man sinks down deeper on his cock, his throat fluttering around it. It’s nearly embarrassing how fast Rossi can still get him to the edge but right now Marc doesn’t care. All he cares about is that he has the Valentino Rossi on his knees for him, with his dick in his mouth and hungry for his cum. And who is Marc to deny him that?

Without a warning he thrusts his hips forward while simultaneously pushing the Italian’s head down, forcing himself as deep as possible as he crashes over the edge. Both of them are panting when Rossi slowly pulls off Marc’s spent cock, a string of cum breaking only when the older man flicks out his tongue. The Spaniard regards him for a moment, taking in the picture he makes with his hair all messy and face flushed. Not waiting for Rossi to get back up from his knees, Marc tugs himself away and zips his leathers back up just enough to be deemed decent. Looking down at the man who was once his idol, his hero, his friend and even his lover, he tilts his head and hums. “You should talk to little Marco. You could learn a thing or two from him.” And off he goes, leaving the Italian on his knees, stunned and confused, still hard in his trousers and cum dribbling down his chin.

[nooripoori]

i just know 5 to 6 years after marc retires he’s gonna release the most gut wrenching documentary which timelines from 2015 till the end of his career telling us about all the shit he went though.

u better be prepared valentino rossi.

[ikram1909]

https://x.com/lifcb4/status/1849359316848975908

casado had enough 😭😭😭

It was about time, they bully him to hell and back 😭😭

[uwabbittuwabbit]

Passenger princess

(this also resolves I guess the question of whether or not the tall or the short backpacks when Marc is involved)

[rockshrimp1989]

A very rare Entertainment Tonight segment from 2000 with Trey and Marc Shaiman regarding the Blame Canada Oscars performance!🤩🇨🇦

Credit goes to fartoons_productions on Instagram.