#the vale writes

[forbidden-vale]

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jayce/Viktor (League of Legends) Characters: Jayce (League of Legends), Viktor (League of Legends), Sky (Arcane: League of Legends), Heimerdinger (League of Legends), Benzo (Arcane: League of Legends), Ekko (League of Legends), Caitlyn (League of Legends) Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Love at First Sight, Pining, Temporarily Unrequited Love, au where they are academy students but its slightly different, questioning sexuality but only a little, Getting Together, Partners to Lovers, Canon-Typical Violence, a lot of fake science Chapter Summary:

Jayce was handsome and extremely intelligent even if he was incredibly impulsive. And it was getting harder and harder for Viktor to tell himself that he wasn’t interested in Jayce like that, even if it was just a physical interest. Every time Jayce laid a broad hand on his shoulder or invaded his personal space, Viktor couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he were to reciprocate.

[aevyndzn]

I miss them a lot, listening to “we’ll never change” and “shadow in the sun” reminds me of Victor and Eli every time. My Roman Empire I fear, I think about them too much.

[proto-language]

You don't think about something for long enough, you think you've forgotten. Then one day, something comes along.

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Bruce Wayne Says ‘Never Too Old For Uppies’

Darling billionaire and former Gotham heartthrob turn DILF Bruce Wayne was spotted at his latest Gala wearing the latest season’s top designer suit.

This is of its self wasn’t surprising but the scene that unfolded sure was!

Now it isn’t a surprise for anyone who has been keeping track of the posts and polls about the most attractive men in America that Mr. Winner of 3 years in a row is quite ripped under all those layers he usually wears and when asked why he exercises to such a degree that it could rival the big bat, Mr. Wayne seemed to fumble for a bit before responding with a dazzling smile that he does so that he could carry all of his children.

Another reporter made comment about how all of his children were well past the age of being picked up.

Mr. Wayne proceed to state quite seriously to the reporter,

“They’re never too old for uppies.”

Apparently Mr. Wayne’s two eldest sons had heard their father’s statement as they shared a look before taking a running leap towards their dad with Dick Grayson Wayne bellowing “uppies!” In response.

Mr. Wayne, despite his well known clumsiness, caught both of his sons with a spin before calmly stating to the reporters that he had guests to talk to and then walked away with one boy sitting on each hip.

And let us remind our readers that neither men Mr. Wayne caught weigh less than an estimated 170 lbs!

The rest of the gala had our reporters spotting Mr. Wayne carrying his various children in various ways.

Message was well received, Kids are never too old for uppies, just too heavy!

But nothing less can be expected from the dad of the year.

Though, he may have competition here in Gotham, as eye witnesses have stated that they had seen our own Big Bat taking after our resident rich man.

But who can say? Maybe the two have a closer relationship than we know.

It had been stated that both Bruce Wayne and Batman have a similar physique to each-other with Batman being just slightly larger in size.

Maybe they share a workout routine?

We can only speculate.

What we can be sure of, is that Bruce loves his kids and would be willing to do anything to make them smile.

As always I am Vicky Vale.

*there are two photos shown along with the article. One of Bruce Wayne carting a staggering number of his children. With Cassandra and Damian Wayne on his shoulders, Dick Grayson Wayne and Jason Todd under each arm and Tim Drake Wayne clinging onto his front like a koala. It is noted that Duke Thomas is to the side seemingly recording the entire scene.

The second photo is of Batman with an annoyed Red Hood slung over his shoulder, trying to get loose.”

[moonshynecybin]

U can’t just drop a banger like “Marc Marquez cryptic pregnancy” and disappear.. I need to to know more

i was thinking about ways to babytrap him where he doesnt just mabort that thang for career reasons, and i think this could get the job done. i also think if its vale's (WHO ELSEEEE) that theres no way he believes that marc didnt know the entire time AND he is. as many other scholars have discussed borderline insane about marc presumably racing pregnant. i mean lbr the offseason is NOT long so he had to have been, and this is in many ways one of the keenest sharpest daggers you could drive into the soft wound of vale's injury issues wrt to marc's particular brand of psycho recklessness. like what if you had TRAUMA and you were ESTRANGED from the love of your life and he was RACING while PREGNANT with your BABY for MONTHS without TELLING YOU... okay saying that. i do realize that this is somewhat the plot of one those f1 heterosexual romance fiction novels but i stand by it!!!!!!! these guys are that level of insane anyways!!!! IDK! maybe marc gets knocked up like halfway through 2015 and has the baby at testing in february. truly maximum drama maximum soap opera marc has NO idea what is happening. its the first time loitering around the same hotel since sepang 2015, and it IS the trauma track, and marc truly thinks it is indigestion (at no point does begging off bike time happen however lol) until UH OH and the baby is there. and alex walks in on marc like on the bathroom floor with a BABY wrapped in a towel and baby goo truly more freaked out than hes ever been in his life its very soap opera. and honda is very smoke and mirrors about everything until genuinely six months later a pic of the baby leaks and its a tiny valentino rossi clone with brown intelligent eyes lol. and then vale puts the (confusing i think) dots together and the shit hits the fan

[pineconnie]

trying to figure out how human cecil looks/is(?) in canon bc i’m a very normal person who can be normal about queer audio dramas

[djangari]

I have to deal with this and all I get is a headache and a silver medal

~ 1616 words

“Third place? Hmm, do you remember who finished third in 2018?”, Marc jokes to the reporter and laughs as she answers that she doesn’t. “Me neither! So that's it.”

Pecco freezes, while the reporter joins in, and the video eventually restarts. He won’t like that. Hopefully, he will never see this or at least when he is not present- “What are you watching?”

A familiar figure leans over his shoulder and slowly he turns his head to look at his mentor, who suddenly appeared behind him. Whose smug grin got wiped out of his face, as he watches the video. How stupid he was to assume the other would need longer to join him in the trailer, of course he will visit him first to see how he handles the championship fight stress.

Vale laughs too. However, it's more of a pressed, dry, forced sound that is coming out of his mouth. So different from Marquez cheerful, honest sounding laugh.  In this moment, Pecco doesn’t dare to mirror it. Instead, he observes Valentinos mimic, how his eyebrows are pulled together, the wrinkles around his mouth disappeared, his eyes don’t agree with the act he is trying to play.

He taps on the screen, pauses the loop. Silence spreads in the room, while Pecco is waiting for Vale to do something. To speak, to react.

A few seconds go by and Vale hums. “He isn’t wrong. Do you remember who was third in 2008?” Pecco knows that the factually correct answer would be Pedrosa, but in this situation he would never speak it out loud. He rather shakes his head.

“See? Nothing to speak about. Let’s get Bez and eat pasta or something. We need to calm your nerves before your great weekend.” Vale straightens up again, already turning towards the door. “Come on, come on, I’ll pay.” Impatient as always, he already left the room before Pecco could protest.

Pecco quickly gets up from the couch and follows the older man. From behind he can still see the tension in his otherwise relaxed and flowing movements, can see the firm grip he has on his phone.

________

Later, when they finally found Bez and Vale nearly dragged him with them, they are half finished with their meals as Vales phone, which lies next to him on the table, screen clearly visible to everyone nearby, buzzes and lights up with a pop up notice. Vale unlocks it easily with the hand that isn’t holding the fork loaded with pasta and clicks on the message. Another video starts playing, just as Vale puts the fork into his mouth, and Marc’s voice is audible.

“The third place doesn’t matter at all!’

Vale instantly chokes on the noodles and begins coughing. Pecco exchanges a look with Bez and leans over to his left to slap Vale on the back so their mentor maybe would not die because of a meal when he has lived through over twenty years of riding a death machine for fun. Bez reaches him a glass of water, although he mirrors Pecco’s expression of desperation and can absolutely relate to being fed up with his behavior.

Who can blame him? The two of them should be cheering him up, motivating him and giving him the extra power to win. Now he is robbing him of his nerves instead of helping him to concentrate.

 “Who remembers who finished third in 2022 or 2015? I finished third, but no one remembers.”

And it gets worse again… Why did he have to mention 2015 again? Sometimes it seems like he is doing this on purpose- wait no he does. Sadly Pecco, besides to Luca of course, is the one who is mostly present to see Vale‘s reaction. Not Marc. Maybe he would stop if he sees the impact he has on the old man.

… Who is he trying to fool. He would do it even more. Pecco has been around for too long to still denial the painful obvious existence of their weird exhibition kink.

With a small sigh, Pecco reaches over the table and again pauses the video, pauses the sound of Marc’s laughter. Slowly Vale recovers and is able to breathe like a normal human being again. “Nothing to worry about!”, is the first thing he gets out of his mouth.

 Sure. Pecco suppresses the urge to bang his head on the table until he falls into a coma. This would look weird, especially in public. Rumors spread fast in this paddock. The press he would have to face, the mocking he would have to endure from his engineers, it ruins the whole experience. They would eat him alive if he did that, even more if he did it on this particular weekend. So, all he does is to roll his eyes and beg some higher power that this moment would soon be over.

The door falls shut and the whole cafeteria goes silent for a second. Pecco throws a small look over his shoulder, only to freeze in fear.

Anyhow someone heard him up there and decided he needed to feel even more miserable. Loosing the title apparently isn‘t enough. Please, please, please, let him at least not-

„You‘re okay?“ No. No. No. Keep your head up, keep your head up.

„Ah. Of course, of course!“ Suddenly, the relaxed Vale is back again. He can hear the chair scraping on the floor as he leans back. „No need to worry about a guy like me.“ Ok, this has gone surprisingly well- „If you couldn‘t kill me, pasta will never make it.“

Pecco‘s head falls towards the table. God damn it.

A kick against his shin saves him. He tries to kick back, but Bez already caught his glare. With another deep breath, he turns around to face the situation like an adult.

„Ciao“, he greets his future teammate, who is standing on the right side behind his chair. Never in the existence of the universe would he ask how the fuck he got into the cafeteria of the VR46 team, so instead he stays silent and waits for Marc to speak again.

The Spaniard looks relatively comfortable in this situation, or so it seems for outstanders.  For them his bright smile blends them enough to not see the signs. Only if you get close enough you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds his head high up and the inconspicuous foot tapping. Yet something… something in his eyes displays the same kind of hunger he often sees in Vales eyes after an especially good race. His smile just looks a little bit too sharp and too pleased.

„I wanted to come over and wish you luck for the weekend. You will need it.“, he says sweetish and blatantly ignores the indignant glare Vale shoots him. Pecco swallows what lies on his tongue and tries to put on a similar act. „Thanks. Good luck to you too, Enea won‘t give up that third place easily.“ Marc just laughs. „Don‘t know if you already heard it, I don‘t really care about that. Next week we will try out the bike together and that is what matters in the end.“ Pecco hears the threat that lies in those words, fights for his small smile to stay on his face. „Ah right, I am also curious how they have improved the machine for next year.“

He couldn’t have said clearer ˋThis bike was build for me and you need to look how you get along with her.´ A small twitch in his smile indicates Marc understood. „Ah I trust the engineers, I‘m sure it will be a great bike.“  They just stare at each other, playing the act of a friendly talk between soon to be coworkers. It's like time froze.

Someone somewhere in the cafeteria laughs loudly and the tension breaks. “Well, I should go and find Nadia, we need to meet up with Gigi.” Shortly he bowes down to mutter something over Valentinos shoulder, who flinces at the slight touch. “You wouldn’t dare to die before I get my ninth, would you?”

Pecco sees Bez's mouth falling open and how Valentino stiffens up. Marc also notices that and his smile gets even sharper. Lightly his fingertips run over the edges of Vale‘s collarbone, centimeters away from the soft skin of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Pecco observes the way Vale now holds the fork, knuckles bright red, fearing he will do something drastic. The question is, would he be able to stop him? Thankfully Marc leaves Vales personal space before something like that could happen.

With a tap on Pecco's shoulder, Marc signals his exit and turns around to walk away. None of them wants to torture themselves so they surely won’t stare after him, watching how he nearly hops out of the cafeteria. Instead, they stare at the table, everyone trying to recover in their own way. Bez continues eating, hoping to forget everything what he just witnessed. Vale damages the cutlery and mumbles some curses under his breath. Pecco, finally, gives in and slowly bangs his head against the table before resting it on the cold surface. Why can’t this weekend just end?

______

Sunday night, when Marc's speech is almost over, Pecco feels his phone vibrating. Quickly, he checks his messages and sees a new one from Bez.

ˋWe need to replace the tv downstairs. He threw a bottle against it and now he doesn’t talk ´

Pecco grabs Domi‘s hand and tries to relax. Someone has to remember him that he needs a soundproof room next year for the case Vale decides to visit Ducati.

[lysscomplicated]

Guys I'm not beating the autism allegations this year 😭

[forbidden-vale]

The next chapter of Between Foolhardy and Brave is coming in the next week, I just needed a little break

[red-pearl-white-flower]

I've barely finished writing "Notes on the changing of a narrative" and I'm already 5k words deep into another Bingqiu fic.

This one's set during the five years of Shen Qingqiu's death, except he lingers on as a soul and gets to witness Binghe's descent into despair as he tries to get enough power to be perceived by his disciple.

Here they are, pretending to have a conversation (Luo Binghe is talking to a corpse; Shen Qingqiu answers but cannot be heard):

“Shizun, do you think you might like to visit my Palace in the Demonic realm?” Luo Binghe asked a few days later, unwinding his master’s long ink-black braid so he could wash his hair with a cloth. “I’ve built a little house like the one on Qing Jing Peak for you. The bamboo isn’t taking well, but I’ll try again soon with new seeds…” “This master would love to visit,” Shen Qingqiu replied out loud. “It’s fine if there’s no bamboo.”

[aevyndzn]

Had to write a sonnet for a creative writing class so why not make it vicious themed <3

[flying-fangirls]

Somehow managed to get 2 different free-write essays this year, so I of course took it as an excuse to gush about podcasts to my poor professor (it's totally cool, she encouraged me to indulge on these haha)

First was about Welcome to Night Vale, and the satire and allegory in the angels' story: "'They only tell lies, and do not exist': Finding Reality Through Fiction in Welcome to Night Vale"

And second was about Malevolent, and the innovative path it's taking in audio literature: "Heightening Hearing and Horror: Innovative Possibilities of Storytelling in Harlan Guthrie’s Malevolent"

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

meaning upon motion: rosquez [e]

Marc catalogues those things that keep showing up.

The rosé wine he likes—God, Valentino used to give him so much shit for that, him and his girly drinks. Sugar next to the coffee pot. A room for himself, but Valentino’s door is always open. The towels are 100% cotton, silken soft to the touch.

It says—something, maybe, or it’s the heavy roll of all that fucking wine in his stomach.

Marc doesn’t want to look too closely into it, so he doesn’t. Everything is still there.

Valentino makes a noise, that cross between kissing his teeth and clicking his tongue. “Tomorrow, eh?” He says, pointing his chin to the window, to the track outside.

Rain had turned it into a slippery hellslide, all brackish puddles and mud banks. He’d been thinking about that track for ten years now, give or take. Dreading it, picturing it, loving it. If they go to shit tomorrow, if racing does to them what it likes to do, he’ll have gone up on a dirt bike there anyway.

It helps. A little.

��Yeah,” Marc mutters. He goes for another sip, finds his glass empty.

Valentino is right there, though. Their calves are touching. Their knees. He lets out a soft ah, let me and fills it again for him, just a couple of fingers, almost like a fancy restaurant. It’s funny, because a couple of minutes—hours—ago, they were pretty far from each other on this ratty couch.

Marc snorts. Doesn’t want to linger on this either. “Who else is coming?”

“I tell you, no? Just the two of us.”

Valentino’s expression stutters, his baby-fine eyebrows twitching and his mouth pursing. Marc wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t so close.

“Did you? Sorry, I forgot.” It comes out easy, that harmless little lie.

Problem is, Valentino is bright like a knife between the ribs. “You are alone,” he points out. Then, less sharply: “I think, allora, for sure he brings Álex this time.”

Marc pulls a face, and Valentino breaks into a chuckle. He’d considered it, for a brief, panicky half second, right before he boarded on the plane to Bologna.

But Álex is already unhappy enough with this whole thing.

So Valentino is right—he is here alone. No Ducati mechanics, which he could’ve demanded, back to their usual tune; no Álex, which was expected; none of his branded bikes.

And the Ranch is empty.

“He wouldn’t leave the dogs,” is what Marc settles on saying rather than why don’t you have any of your staff here? Where are your Academy boys? Why are you doing this? Am I being stupid again? Is it funny? Another little harmless lie.

“All the better for me.”

Marc smiles. “Isn’t it usually?”

And that’s how the night goes, the two of them not quite talking, brushing against the heat of each other, edges dulled on rosé wine. Marc allows himself to wonder if tonight, maybe, but nothing happens.

The disappointment only softens the next morning, when Valentino shows up at his door at an insensate hour and drags him to the garage. He shepherds Marc along, a hand splayed on his back, between his shoulder blades, to show him—

“So?”

Valentino is basically bouncing. Trying to play it cool, with another impatient tsch sound, but his eyes are too keen, and there’s something jittery about the sway of his long, spindly arms.

Marc swallows past the tangle in his throat. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

It is an MX Honda, a red and orange 93 emblazoned on the front, two stroke engine. Not his model, but close enough. Everything about it is smooth and new and polished. If he tried, he thinks he would be able to smell the leather, the freshness of undented metal. His stomach rolls, light and airy like a frizz of champagne.

What an odd, expensive thing to do for a one-off guest when you have dozens of bikes around. Marc would’ve ridden any of them.

“It is,” he fishes for a word. Any word. Everything he feels is the hook of affection tangled in his guts, tugging. His mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton. “Good. Tell me the specs?”

“Always the hunt with you,” Valentino says.

It sounds mean—a little. In that way of Valentino’s of prodding bruises. Fond too, with him squeezing his arm, fingers lingering on the crook of his elbow. Marc wants to get on it already. Wants to race. Wants to freeze this instant, Valentino golden in the morning sun, just the two of them, talking about a dirt bike’s innards.

Leathers, gloves, boots, helmets. They hop in, and the track unfurls ahead of him. Dejavu threatens to kick Marc off the first five or so laps, where they aren’t exactly racing yet. It’s not that different—except the angle of a few corners. Too narrow here, too wide there, places where it’s either his memory fumbling or Valentino, shockingly, making changes.

“Still remember it?” Valentino prods, shouting over the engines rumbling. Marc can picture it, the slanted curve of his grin.

He scoffs. “Of course.”

Then they are racing, reckless with it. Valentino slides on a half-dried mud patch when he gets off the usual line to try and overtake him. Marc goes down too low on a corner and loses the front. They kick up dust and dirt, laughing uproariously, and Marc allows himself to think, just once, that Valentino has to be up to something.

It is easy anyway, to have fun, even if he knows that Valentino is shrewd, no stitch without a knot, even if he’s prickling, restless, unkissed. They didn’t come up with rules, so the excuse of racing becomes a graceless overtake fest, round and round and round, until their bikes start to splutter without fuel.

Valentino leads them through a final show, a victory lap on the colosseum, bathed by the infernal midday sun. Leads them to the kitchen after that—chipped plates, an atrocity of a tablecloth, horrendous yellow flowers on a green field. Another world from the track, it looks like.

There’s escabetx. The fish is soggy—reheated—but it tastes good. Familiar. Way, way, way above Valentino’s cooking skills.

Dishes left on the sink for later or tomorrow or whenever, they circle back to the couch. It throws Marc off more than the changes to the track, more than his growing catalogue of things that don’t quite add up. Last time he was here, there wasn’t a moment to think. The Ranch was full of cameras, and events, and eager-hungry Academy kids, and personnel, and PR stuff.

Valentino brandishes a small chocolate bar like a parrying knife. Breaks off a piece for himself, shoves the rest in his hands. Marc can’t pretend to not want it. He’s always liked sweetness.

He can’t pretend to not have something on his mind either. It lingers, red-hot.

Might as well do it. Make it real.

“Valentino,” he starts, gets cut off.

“Are you having fun?”

Marc’s mouth clicks shut. He prods his tongue against his teeth, the chocolate sticking there, to not laugh. The weave of them sitting so close feels like crystal in his grip. Fragile glass. It’s very Valentino. A bit myopic. He’s immortalized moments less gentle than this. Cradled them close and kept them with him forever.

And really, fun.

Was fun ever the issue?

“Of course,” he answers, smiles. The corners of his eyes are crinkling, he knows, but so are Valentino’s.

There’s a suspended beat, Valentino inching closer, about as subtle as his neon merch. “But is it fantastic—the best you’ve ever had?”

Marc does laugh this time. Valentino aims for smug, hits it pretty well.

“Almost.”

And it’s a mindfuck, that he sees the way Valentino straightens up in real time. Now that he isn’t so young anymore, buzzing with the chance of touching a streak of the divine. Now that he can recognize the man in him—which is no less devastating, truth be told. The little frown on his forehead, deepening the wrinkles there.

Tell me, he says without saying, spreading his hand on Marc’s ankle. “You used to be pushier when I was twenty.”

Valentino’s breathing does something funny. A convulsive little wheeze.

“You,” he starts, has to try again. “In Argentina.”

Marc looks off to the side.

Argentina, right. His arm had been hurting, chainsaw teeth to the old wound. Álex had been watching, a worried, unhappy tilt to his lips—one in a sea of pinched-tight faces, going from the jerky seesaw of his shoulder to Valentino standing there, close. Too many cameras, too many eyes, too many points he could win. Did win.

And Marc is as superstitious as he can afford to be.

Nothing good can come out of Termas, of Sepang—like nothing good can come out of Galilee.

Marc doesn’t remember what he said, exactly. Only that he’d been clenching down on a razor blade for the whole weekend and very, very tired of being in pain. If Valentino touched him then, it’d have hurt too. But now he has Marc’s ankle, and a bike for him, and Catalan food, and chocolate, and soft towels, and everything rattling in his mind for the past thirty-something hours is—

Kiss me.

“But it’s fine, now.” It isn’t.

It categorically isn’t, but it’s stupid to worry about that. Why tempt this into breaking? Marc licks chocolate off his fingers, Valentino’s eyes burning on his hands, his mouth. He clambers into his lap with the sugar sharp on his tongue, their knees knocking together.

Careful, mild, it never lasts, not between them. Valentino gets both hands on his waist, thumbs digging on the sliver of skin where his undershirt has ridden up.

The small bite of pain is exquisite. Barely anything, but still.

“Cannot be easy, hm?” Valentino hums, lilting, bemused, closer than they’d been since that odd week between Sepang and Valencia.

“Like you want it easy.”

He spits out the word, and Valentino laughs. Runs his fingers over the jut of his hipbones. “Allora, we can say we try, it is boring.”

It’s that small sway of movement that gets him. His head is spinning. He surges into the kiss he’s been hungry for a humiliating stretch of time, catches the noise Valentino makes ravenously. Marc likes it more than he thought he would, making out like teenagers—nipping at Valentino’s lower lip to make him hiss, licking into his mouth.

The kisses start melting together, one after the other after the other. They’re greedy, unashamed. Marc only realizes they’re grinding against each other when Valentino breaks off, groans, sweat beading on the edge of his thinning hair.

“Do you want—” Valentino skims his hand over the knobs of his spine. Marc wedges them closer together, leaning in to suck a bruise on the hollow of his throat.

“Not yet,” he mumbles there, hidden, safe as it gets. “No. Sorry. I am not—I do not know what—”

“Alright,” Valentino tells him, brusque but not unkind. “Alright.”

Is it, Marc wants to ask, but instead he takes his time pressing his teeth to Valentino’s jaw, leaving a red imprint there. Marc can feel him hard against him, pressing against his belly. There’s a gasping noise, but Valentino shakes his head at his inquisitive look.

It’s exactly as ungainly as the past thirty minutes and thirty hours were, Valentino pulling their cocks out. Takes some shuffling. Marc ends up with his hand on the half-melted candy bar, stumbles over half a dozen curses, and Valentino tugs at wrist to lick it clean before managing to get his underwear down and spitting on his own palm.

His hand is still dry around them both. The callouses there scrape. Marc chokes on a whine, closes his eyes, then forces them open again because he has to watch this.

“Vale,” Marc moans, hips hitching. Valentino’s other hand surges up, grabs his chin tight to force his head back. There’re teeth, his tongue soothing their sting.

Marc jolts, their cocks rubbing together—and God, it’s only everything he wants. After that, they don’t settle into a rhythm as much as they crumble into one. Valentino’s hand hot and tight around them, and his mouth insistent against Marc’s for a kiss, two, ten. The slide gets easier, wetter. There’s the fucking noise it makes, damp, obscene.

And there’s Valentino, looking at him. Softer, maybe, than either of them should risk.

“Are you—wooing me?” Marc asks, halfway to a laugh. He doesn’t stammer. Much.

It’s there, behind his teeth—were you wooing me this whole time? Are you being gentle?

Valentino has the gall to grin, makes his grip a little firmer when Marc tries to pretend to be annoyed. “I am a romantic,” he says, all showmanship that shatters when Marc bucks against him, grinds them together. “Stop that, Christ.”

He doesn’t.

So Valentino clamps down on his nape, wound tight, biting on his throat. There’s zero fucking finesse to any of it, Marc fumbling for air, for the string of his sanity, digging into Valentino’s skinny, sharp shoulders. It’s ugly, too fast. Valentino jerks at the bite of his nails. Marc is so hard his vision that starts to wobble.

Next time, they can get on a bed, they can be sweet—maybe.

Right now, Marc wants to come so much he’s unraveling, drool pooling inside his mouth.

“Good?” Valentino asks, strained. He could make it sound cruel—there was a time when it was the only way he spoke. But it’s plaintive instead. Small.

“Fantastic. Best I’ve ever had.”

God, he tries for a joke, for wryness—it comes out too honest, instead. Marc vows to be ashamed about it later.

Or not at all. Valentino buries whatever he was going to say next in a bite, hard and mean on the swell of his chest. Marc catches a fraction of what his face looks like, shocked, hungry, mouth tight. He comes over his hand, his stomach, shaking with a keening groan.

It’s—Christ. Marc ruts against Valentino and his lax, sloppy grip until he’s twitching and whining with oversensitivity, cock fully soft against his thigh. But those flashes of pain get Valentino back online, have him wrapping his come-streaked fingers properly around Marc.

He doesn’t take that easy, either. Fucks Valentino’s fist, pants heavily. It’s burnt with hot iron in his mind, how Valentino’s expression had turned raw like a bruised nerve ending. Marc chases his own orgasm wildly, babbling—Spanish, Catalan, Italian, whatever. He comes in a kaleidoscopic fritz of color, everything narrowed down to the slack line of Valentino’s mouth.

His bones are loose, liquid. If he tried walking, he thinks his feet would sink in clouds. The minutes tick by around them, a string of flowing, round pearls slipping from his fingers.

Marc blinks—once he feels marginally more human again—and stretches his neck. Smooths his hand over Valentino’s crooked collar, his skinny chest. There’s come on his stomach, drying on a viscous patch over dark gray fabric.

“Your shirt is dirty,” he says, feeling clumsy, feeling golden.

Valentino clicks his tongue. “Ah, who cares.”

“Uhm, okay.” Marc decides against safety, tucks his face into the crook of Valentino’s throat. “It is an ugly shirt anyway.”

There’s laughing, the sound punched out and disbelieving. A hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck. Outside, it’s raining, a soft, gray security blanket over the everything else that they’ll one day be able to say.

[lovesick-x-prince]

Ooh, Scarian WTNV thing? Tell me more? :D

Haha, I just answered an ask about this WIP for someone else, but I'll provide some additional details. So in the podcast Welcome to Night Vale, 'station management' is the management for Cecil's (Scar's) radio station. They're basically an eldritch entity that never leaves its office, and no one has ever come face to face with it. In my Scarian AU, station management would basically become the Watchers... and even though station management would be tied to Scar through his position, Grian will be the first person to ever come face to face with station management, and it will change him. Scar... will have a hard time not blaming himself.

[moonshynecybin]

crucial rosquez character detail is that they both think of the other person as the one that ended it